Each stroke causes you to press against the frame, trying to pass through the frame to get it between yourself and my toy. I pause, then start whipping up the backs of your thighs and the bottom curve of your ass. Again you rise on your toes, not screaming now... just sobbing and whimpering. I alternately stop and start this whipping, letting you relax a moment before I drive you up on your toes again. Occasionally, I let the tails fall on your back, causing even more purple-and-red speckling to counterpoint the mottling on your ass. Somewhere in the house, a grandfather clock strikes the hour. The time has passed. I pause a moment, letting my arm recover for the final stroke. You are slumped on the frame now, panting, mewling, shaking. I shake my muscles out, and give a couple lazy wind-up strokes that just brush the insides of your thighs, before I snap the flogger up, sending the tails between your legs to assault your pubes. As you gasp and prepare to scream, I finish the stroke. I don’t now remember what alerted me to Dad’s piqued interest. I suppose between my pride in my developing body, and his increased attentiveness and generosity, my intuition was that one might have been the genesis of the other. This all came to a head shortly after my sixteenth birthday. Mom was called away on business. By this time I had figured out the purpose of Mom’s cache of toys and had begun to accumulate toys of my own and to experiment with them. I masturbated regularly. That is to say when I woke up in the morning, in the afternoon after school, and in the evening when I retired. Perhaps, somehow, Dad had become aware of this propensity. One evening while Mom was gone, Dad fixed a particularly nice dinner and presented it more elegantly than usual. It was ordinary for me to have a bit of wine with dinner, usually cut with an equal part of water. On this evening, Dad omitted the water and refilled my glass when it was emptied. I had a sense of being particularly special,.
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