Chapter 52

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Another erotic story from the FLOGMASTER!

Copyright 1995-2009 by the Flogmaster. All Rights Reserved. Free distribution via electronic medium (i.e. the internet or electronic BBS) is permitted as long as the text is _not_ modified and this copyright is included, but _no_ other form of publication is allowed without written permission. This document _may_ contain explicit material of an ADULT nature. ***READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!*** Anything offensive is your own problem. This story is for **entertainment** purposes only, and it does _not_ necessarily represent the viewpoint of the author or the electronic source where this was obtained. All characters are *fictional* -- any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental.

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Erin's Adventures
Chapter 52
More is Better

(****, M/F, Intense, Whipping)

Erin gets painted again. (Approximately 714 words. Originally published 1998-02.)

"You're fucking shitting me!"

Domingo grinned a smirky smile. "It's true. Fifty thousand pounds. The buyer loved it. He's an American, a very wealthy collector."

"Fifty thousand!" I cried, shaking my head.

"This is for you." Domingo slid a check to me across the table. I stared at the amount. "Five thousand?"

"Ten percent is standard," he said. "Unless there's a sitting fee paid up front. I'd prefer the percentage, myself."

"But I didn't expect to get paid."

"You deserve it. I could never have done it without you."

"I still can't believe I did it," I said, shaking my head. The thought of a distant American growing horny at my erotic painting was both amusing and frightening.

"There's more," said Domingo.


"Yes, more. He wants more. The client said he'll pay the same for more in the series."

My breath caught. "A series?"

"Yes. I have several ideas, if you are game."

My mouth was dry and I couldn't breathe very well.

"Have you ever been chained to a whipping post?"

* * * * *

Friday night was a full moon. At midnight, the trapdoor flung up to receive the moonrays, I stood on the stage bathed in the pale, eerie glow. I was naked, my wrists wrapped together with a strip of leather and pulled over my head. They were attached to a ring at the top of a thick wooden post and I dangled helplessly. The rough wood felt intoxicating against my aching nipples. My legs were wrapped around the pole as I humped it awkwardly, too lustful and excited to even care that people would see me this way.

Once every hour, Domingo would halt his work and take up a cat-o-nine tails and whip me. He whipped with the same vigor and passion with which he painted and made love. Only when my back, my buttocks, and my legs were well-striped and hot would he allow me to return to humping the pole, which I did eagerly and with great frustration. My only relief was the whippings, which I relished and cherished, loving the way he beat me so cruelly and without any hope of reprieve.

The finished painting was a dangerously erotic marvel. The post was set against a rolling landscape nearly black in a night setting. The moon shown down on me like a spooky spotlight, illuminating my naked body with a midnight glow.

Again Domingo had taken some license, painting me with delightfully large breasts that bulged against the coarse post. Thin lines of cruel whip marks decorated my breasts, back, buttocks, and legs. The whip lay curled up at my feet, a long single-strand bullwhip, wickedly heavy, with blotches of red blood at various points. A number of the cuts on my back and artfully curved voluptuous buttocks oozed dark blood. It was a chilling scene, counterbalanced by the delicate look of forbidden orgasm plastered on my guilty face.

"It's beautiful," I whispered, my voice weak with pain and lust. Domingo stood before the painting, his thick cock dripping eagerly. A faint smile crept onto his face. Without speaking, he pointed at the painting.

I gasped.

A glint of steel glistened between my legs. I stared in disbelief at the razor-sharp edge of a blade protruding from the wooden post scant inches beneath the jutting globes of my buttocks. Even worse, the blade gleamed with dampness, as though splashed from above. I shuddered, slipping a hand down to my sex almost as if to protect myself. I saw that my reflection in the painting was on tiptoe, straining to keep above that fearful knife.

"You're evil," I whispered.

"Of course."

"A terrible sadist."


"Fuck me now!"

And right there, on the hard wooden floor, amidst the wet paint and discarded canvases and old paintbrushes, we rolled and made fantastic, unbelievable love. Every touch sent agonizing shivers through me as the hot lashes covering my body revived, but I didn't care for nothing but the massive hard post thrusting inside me.

An hour later, panting and bodies dripping sweat, Domingo's limp and exhausted cock in my mouth, I sighed deeply.

"Domingo," I hissed, careful not to bite him, "we've _got_ to paint another one."

More to come next week!

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