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| The
Via Crucis of Camille - Crux 2 - Page 10 |
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One
more pull of the rope and Camille was up and
on the thin, sharp, wooden footing, her feet
resting on the edge, her body rocking to the
sides as she tried to keep herself in place.
I saw her face, her grimace of pain.
The lights, the two lights, were well positioned
and shaped Camille's body, outlining her generous
features..
After making sure she was in a good position,
I tied the rope to the hook at the back of
the post. Experience helps, of course. With
every new session a new improvement came about
and this time it was the quick way in which
I could tie the rope to the hook. I was turning
my bedroom into a nice playroom-dugeon-movie
set.
Not a fancy Hollywood style movie set, of
course, only a home made movie set for home
made movies for personal use.
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Lyvia
was taken to the barraks, where the commander
ordered she was placed in his quarters. "I'll
question the woman and learn who's her master".
The soldiers obeyed.
The young woman was
pushed into the room that was the commanders
personal quarters, where he slept when in duty.
He probably had a home someplace, a wife, children.
That's what the young woman thought. The commander's
quarters were sparce. A bed, an oil lamp, his
sheilds and swords, some other weapons.
The commander went in right behind her and took
off his belt, his sword and knife, placing them
near his bed. He grabbed the young woman by
her wrists and dragged her to him. "You'll
please me, right? And I just might let you go."
Lyvia was trembling
in fear, knowing that he was going to force
himself on her, that he was going to do with
her what he wanted.
The commander pushed
Lyvia to the bed and threw her over the mattress,
stripping her of the remaining of her garments.
He turned her around, to make her face the bed.
Her back showing the fresh welts, the bloddy
lashes and old scars.
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I
walked away from Camille leaving her to wonder
what I was going to do next. Of course she
knew well, she knew I was going to whip her.
She confided once, when we were in France
that sometimes she doesn't like the constant
whipping. That confession took me by surprise.
It's not that I thought
she liked the whipping, I asssumed she didn't,
so I didn't expect her to tell me that SOMETIMES
she doesn't like the whipping, implying that
sometimes she does.
I often wonder if my
playmates, the lovers I played games with
since I was 15, liked the whipping. The frist
I ever played with told me once that she cried
after it when I wasn't in the room. She was
apologetic. That was a surprise, because I
she often cried in front of me, in fact she
always did.
The very first time
we played my games she was very much into
it, still, she cried at the end but she was
also very turned on. We talked after it and
she told me she was fine with it, that it
was a bit scary and it was painful, but she
insisted that she could take it.
Camille was ready,
she was looking at me with the intensity I
expected. She was my rebel Mistress, she was
a rebel slave, a martyr, a warrior, all rolled
into one.
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I
raised the whip so she could see how I was preparing
to hit her, so she could anticipate the lash.
She made an expression that mixed her anticipation
to the pain, her defiance and a bit of fear.
I sent the whip flying over my shoulder and
to the side. To hit her on her waist.
She lash brushed her skin, she let out a faint
cry without taking her eyes of me. She was looking
at me as if she was daring me to do more.
I hadn't done this so often and with so many
variations with anyone before Camille. My early
games were short, to the point, a bit of whipping
as part of the foreplay before making love.
Then came the one relationship that broke new
ground.
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