The whip was traveling over her back end, and where it dragged over her tender, recently-spanked skin, it ignited the heat that had been cooling beneath the surface. She twisted in discomfort, emitting a sound that she hoped the Ryvokia would not interpret according to human standards, because it sounded like a pornographic moan of pleasure.
And there was the dark secret, surfacing, just enough to lurk and make its presence known in the dark places of her mind. It was lonely on the spaceship sometimes, and because they were deep-space explorers who had more time on their hands than anything else, they all had fully stocked virtual reality pods that they could viewanythingin. She had perused the porn like anyone else, and she had stopped on scenes like this one.
She had enjoyed them. Even if she didn’t want to admit that, even to herself. It was all sowrong.
The first stroke of the whip came out of nowhere, and her eyes went wide, the sting of the impact traveling from her bottom to her eyes faster than the pain signal. Her eyes stung immediately and water filled her lids and threatened to spill over before she gasped.
The familiar flare of heat rode on the heels of the sting, spreading out across her whole bottom. Where Rychor’s hand had slapped her ass, the skin grew hotter faster.
But it was hardly the sort of pain that would set her to begging for mercy. Hardly the pain she had anticipated, and definitely not the level of pain Rychor was capable of inflicting.
She did some quick calculating in her mind and decided that, even if it was foolish to anthropomorphize Rychor, it went against her training, for sure, and even if she was wrong, Rychor seemed to be sending her a message: she would be whipped until she begged for mercy. And he wasn’t whipping her veryhard. So maybe he was throwing her a bone of some kind.
What did he want her to do?
Another crack came down on her already raging skin. It caused tears to spring from her eyes and a hefty gasp of air to be forced from her open mouth. It was followed immediately by another, then another, then another, the heat never getting a chance to recede. All the while she was still trying to make the decision: pretend to need mercy? Or pretend not to?
She glanced at the audience watching her and burned with shame as the image of her prostrate position, the helplessness the bondage placed her in, and the fact that her pussy was dripping with a very dirty, very sensual lust, blew through her head. Their faces were arranged in expressions of interest, maybe hunger, maybe desire. She caught the eye of one Ryvokia, whose lip was curled up in a snarl that still carried with it the air of obvious pleasure, and she shuddered.
“Okay, okay!” she shouted, as another whip landed on her stinging skin. She twisted in her bonds, hoping to move herself away from the next lash, but it landed and made her cry out in surprise. This last one was much fiercer, perhaps a prelude to what was to come.
“Rychor, I’m sorry!” she shrieked, and a sob escaped her throat. But the whip landed again on her ass. “I beg for mercy!” she shrieked.
Her plea had no effect on Rychor, who lay into her skin at a steady, relentless pace. “Please!” she shrieked, after the next, and then the next. She tried all kinds of pleas with what air she could muster, but none had any effect.
Rychor tugged on her hair, and she felt a few, languid pulls as he seemed to be winding it around his fist. He pulled her head back so that she had no choice but to face the audience, but as he did so, she was granted a reprieve from the stinging bite of the whip.
He leaned close to her ear. “You must beg the public who is watching your humiliation.”
She understood, then, the intentions behind the exercise. Begging Rychor for mercy was humiliating, but not excruciatingly so. Being whipped by him had its pleasures.
But begging the crowd before her?
Tears of shame poured from her eyes, and her face instantly grew hot. “Please,” she begged, tears running down her face. “I beg, I’m begging… for mercy…”
She looked imploringly to the crowd, wondering how they would react to her pleas and how she would even know if they did. The unsettling gaze of the one with the snarl was unchanged, and she found him hard to look at. The intensity of his stare, and the primal desire behind it, heaped humiliation upon humiliation upon her.
Rychor began whipping her again. She cried and sobbed and twisted, and began to beg in earnest. But he continued, until her skin felt numb. She gave a final glance to the front-row Ryvokia, and then hung her head with a final “please,” before collapsing her weight into her bonds and resigning to her humiliation for however long they decided to mete it out to her.
She heard a voice from the auditorium, speaking the Ryvokia language, and then detected motion. She hung limply, her eyes squeezed shut for the next blow, but it didn’t come, and her skin began to itch hotly. She craved Rychor’s delicate, soothing touch, for him to release her and fold her into his arms. She watched her tears drip to the surface of the platform, disappearing quickly—something she might have been interested in even fifteen minutes ago. But now all she wanted was an end to her humiliation.
The Ryvokia were moving around her. She sensed a shift in the energy on the platform, and the cold feeling that had crept into her blood when Rychor first approached her on the planet’s surface began to creep up from the base of her spine and into her nervous system.
It wasn’t exactly the same, though. It was colder, more dangerous. She looked up and saw that the Ryvokia from the front row was on the stage with her, moving quickly, passing her on her left side.
A tug on her head and pressure on her lower back. Her body had no choice but to bend and contort itself in the position of an animal about to be bred or inspected. Her ass was turned up, and her eyes had nowhere to hide.
“Oh, please,” she begged. “Please, no more. I’ll be good. I’m sorry.”
The answer to her plea was an unfamiliar touch—she couldn’t say how she knew that the fingers were not Rychor’s, but she did—between her wet pussy and the puckered eyelet of her bottom. She heard a growl, but couldn’t be certain what it portended.
The fingers moved down, pressing the delicate flesh of her innermost lips gently together between two of them and gently rolling it between the strong appendages. The pressure he applied wasn’t painful, but the possibility of violence hummed beneath the surface of his skin. She thought of her delicate, sensitive skin, and of the many, easy ways the creature could rend it or bruise it.
Her actions suddenly seemed much dumber than they had even a minute ago. As did all of her plans of escape and inquisition. She was totally at the mercy of these creatures. They were bigger, stronger, outnumbered her, had superior technology, and were acting on instincts of self-preservation.
The alien explored her most intimate parts with his fingers, touching her like she was an object he intended to purchase. He felt inside her, then lifted his fingers to taste her juices before running his fingers over the welted skin that had puffed up where Rychor’s whip had landed.
“She is aroused by humiliation,” the creature said, in her language, so clearly for her benefit. “She is submissive like the others. She smells like she is fertile now, Rychor.”
