Small Penis Punishment
“You are a pathetic little man.”
Domme Rachel’s mockery is a part of the kneeling man’s daily life.
“A pathetic little man with a pathetic little penis.”
He winces. The words hurt as much today as they had the first time a woman laughed at his tiny prick.
“Wimp. Worm. My slave. You are lucky to have found a woman who can make use of you.”
He senses Mistress’ arousal. Familiar fears rise.
“Don’t pout. Worship me lest I replace you.”
Nothing Domme Rachel does to him is worse than dismissal. He needs her power. Her cruelty. He never wants her to hurt him. But an inner voice begs for pain.
“Please, I am your thing. I beg you to use me. Your will is my purpose. My body, mind and heart are yours.”
“‘Thing.’ Maybe Thing will become your name. Yes, you are only an object. My plaything. Let’s play a game.”
She beats him with her riding crop. She neither aims, plans or pauses.
He flinches as the crop’s tip bruises and tears flesh. Begins whimpering. Red spots and aches cover his body.
Domme Rachel stops.
“A good warm-up. Are those tears? Save them for later. I’ve only just started.”
She pummels his upper arm, striking his biceps. Tomorrow is mopping day. Bruised muscles will make his task agonizing.
She strikes his right nipple. Whips it steadily for five minutes. Pain on pain. The nipple bleeds. She moves to the left nipple.
His penis hardens at the first blow. She giggles as it flops around.
“At least I can use it as a target.”
The crop repeatedly slams the tip, the hole. Urination will hurt.
Testicle whipping is unbearable. Vulnerable and sensitive, no torment compares with the anguish and nausea. She restrains herself to prevent him from fainting.
The man babbles incoherently. She grabs his hair and yanks. Then shoves him away.
Mistress Rachel drops the crop. Leaves the man alone with his pain.
She feels warm and satisfied. Fulfilled. He is miserable. But he needs misery.