Chuck watched his friend run off."Damn!" he said to himself but out loud. Tenth street. He knew which houseit was. He also knew that the edge of the park bordered on that house andthe rest.It was nearly eight by the time he'd made his way across Stutters creekand onto that small concrete edge that kept the creek from eroding thosedozen or so properties. It was hard enough walking this in daylight. Oneof those tops was all he wanted as he climbed the chain link fence.He sat there in the bushes for nearly two hours. Thirty minutes past whenthe last light went off. His pocket knife was enough to jimmy the garagewindow and get him inside. It wasn't a full moon but it was a clear nightand saw the shadowy forms of those boxes Sam had mentioned.It took a moment more to adjust enough so he could at least see the boxesindividually. The first opened with a light slice over the tape. It tookanother moment to take his shirt of and a second past that to slip thejersey on. His logic was to wear it. At the beginning.She is at that place, the place where need and fantasy split. We all get there. Where fantasy and desire split and go separate ways. Giving way to a need for a physical connection. She craves the sharp, unyielding sting of the paddle as it compresses the curve of her ass. The whistle of a whip as it carves though the air and the crack as it reaches its terminus of her lush hind quarters. An all powerful urgency to hear a cane hiss its way to savage her form, incising those delectable lines that will remind her for days of the punishment she endured. Experiencing the agony of the cloverleafs pulling, encircling her nipples. The torment of them constricting more and more. Fear and anticipation of the ache that will come after they are removed as the blood rushes back to the apex of her breasts.That thuddy massage of a heavy flogger as it beats a steady cadence while her body gets pushed rhythmically onto the cross with each swing. The feeling of a Wartenburg pinwheel.
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