The hood was padded cloth, and went over his head, lacing up tight so that light was blocked out and he was warmed by his own breath. Muffled claustrophobia made him struggle.
“Why are you doing this!?” Masculine panic, with the tinge of a whine , tainted his voice as the ropes bit into his wrists. “My lady, what did I do?”
Annette had him rigged between two posts, arms over his head and stretched so he had to lift his heels off the ground. He was naked, his clothes thrown over a low tree branch. As she’d spoken of, they’d gone for daily walks for the past two weeks. Sometimes she’d spend the full time with him making small talk, and sometimes she gave him twenty minutes before a bodyguard produced a hood and he completed the rest of his daily exercise, blind and helpless.
Sometimes he had a weird sixth sense feeling she was watching him during these periods. Once he’d very clearly heard her give him a direction: “A little to the left!”
Unfortunately he hadn’t listened to her, especially since her voice had come from his right side; instead, he’d gotten to his feet and plowed into a sapling. But otherwise it was a routine of isolation, except in the presence of Annette, with daily walks and long periods of boredom and solitude in his Spartan room.
But today instead of small talk of the hood, they’d walked into an overgrown English garden to where two thick, tall posts had been driven deep into the turf. At her order he’d stripped and let himself be rigged up, and now she was coming after him with a length of bamboo switch, thick enough to give visceral, gorge rising thuds.
“I will tell you when you fail me, Adam.” She took aim a second time, striping his bare, pale buttocks.
Phillip shifted again, grunting.
Big hot welts, with double pain, all falling in a diagonal pattern of his ass. He tried not to vomit, afraid he’d splash up inside his hood and smother himself. This was a new sort of pain. The picana on flesh left horrible muscle cramps, but a cane gave abrupt instant pain followed by a hot ache.
Annette was hitting as hard as she could, admiring the way the marks rose up after impact. It was hard on her hands, but much harder on his skin. Fifteen hits and he was sagging in the rope, and she was behind him, arms around his torso, breathing heavily.
Phillip felt her press against him, her hands wandering and lightly pinching a nipple and then reaching down to cup his flaccid crotch. She thrust with her hips, groaning and making small noises of pleasure. Pulling the hood off, she walked around him and stood on the very tips of her toes to kiss his mouth.
She bit his lip, savouring his bare chest against her breasts, even if they were separated by fabric. Phillip watched her, pain drunk and confused by her flushed face and bold smile as she pulled the knots free from his wrists. He sagged and clutched the cheeks of his injured ass, Annette helping him collapse onto his side in the grass. On the ground she carried on her fierce assault of kisses, a barrage of light pecks on the face and neck followed by long lingering licks with her lips pressed to his.
“Good boy, sweet boy.” She crooned “Lovely boy. Yes, Adam, yes.”
Sweet nonsense soothed him . Presently Annette regained her composure and fixed her hair, smoothing out her skirts and resuming her customary blank expression. Only half dressed, out of charity for his bruised state, Annette helped him back to the house and into his room. Only after seeing he had a cool compress for his buttocks did she leave for her room so she could masturbate in privacy, three orgasms one after the other, mouth muffled by the back of her hand.