Male Misery is Merely Justice
Jed feared Mistress Larkin. Never once had she used his name. But he knew to respond to ‘scum’ and ‘slave.’
He never feared her more than when she stood looking at him in a certain way. The faint half-smile, excitement in her eyes, the soft feral growl, all were harbingers of agony.
The mood might pass. He waited anxiously, muscles knotted, stomach churning. It was a long half hour. Anticipation of torment left him as exhausted as relieved.
But if Mistress Larkin returned wearing black thigh-high boots, her breasts exposed, he shuddered. If he was standing, he dropped to his knees.
Her whip struck, cutting his skin. There was no warm-up. She lashed his body with all her strength.
Passion made her stronger and swifter. She never gagged him. His shrieks delighted her.
Mistress Larkin had full control of her whip. The lash landed exactly where she aimed. But Jed habitually protected his face.
The tip of the whip struck his armpit. Tender, vulnerable flesh, more sensitive than nipples. He always screamed. She invariably laughed.
His armpit would hurt for days. Ordinary motions would bring pain. His Mistress Owner enjoyed watching him suffer while he served. His moans cheered her.
A female supremacist, to her men were tools and pain toys.
No man merited affection, kindness or mercy. To be a man was to be an ‘it.’
She made men miserable for pleasure. It seemed also a form of justice. Unhappiness and suffering were proper penalties for the sin of maleness.
To Jed, Mistress Larkin was more than human. Rather a superhuman force. An implacable Goddess.
She whipped her slave man until he passed out.
On reviving, Jed cleaned himself. Then continued with his chores. Suffering at a woman’s hand, an ordinary, natural part of his life.