She followed him back to the big clearing and he rummanged through the piles of gear that he had slavaged. He found some sashcord and he used his knife and a long round limb from a tree to make a cat o'nine tails. Valerie sat on the ground, watching him, hating him. He taped the strands tightly to the two foot piece of branch and when he snapped the two foot strands of rope through the air they whistled with an ominous, frightening sound.
"Take your clothes off, Valerie," he said quietly.
She shook her head. "You aren't going to use that thing on me," she said, "I'll die first."
"Maybe you will die, Valerie," he said. "Who knows? But, for now, you get out of those rags and hurry. If yoiu don't hurry, I'll tie a knot in the end of each rope and you can imagine what they will do to your lily white body. Now, hurry up, because I am going to give you the whipping of your life."
She stood, her face stiff with fury, her eyes glassy with hate, but she finally began taking her clothing off. She stood naked then and he could see the faint five o'clock shadow on her pubis and the streaks of dirt on her thighs and legs only served to excite him further. They stood, facing each other, he with the vicious whips in his hands, she alone, defenseless, beautiful, weak and filled with hatred because of her helplessness.
He raised his hand and then he brought the whips down in a vicious cut and the ropes splattered harshly against her plump hip and she yelped in quick pain. She sobbed and hte tears began. She rubbed her hip and then she spat at him.
"You rotten, sick bastard," she said sobbing. "Oh, you are sick." ...
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