indeed, the Whipping Post is an object of cruel fascination to this girl - the sight of its sturdy erection has obvious, erotic hints from the moment I set eyes on it. Brought close up to it, I see its harsh surface has been polished by the writhing bodies, oiled with sweat, splashed with the blood of so many girls before me. I strip as commanded, stand close to the post, my shackled wrists raised to be linked irrevocably to the cleats, so high i'm forced up on my toes. I look up, the post towers above me, I feel I'm made small. My hands grip where the wood's been scratched soft by fingernails fighting the agony, I scent the sweat-seasoned wood now, the hint of blood even fills my mouth, my breasts are warm and trembling, pressed against the wood, instinctively I open my thighs to hold the upright pole between them, embracing my hard lover in a mockery of love-making. Soon I'll be dancing ... heart pounding, lips panting, the clink of my chains and the cawing of crows ... the Flagellator's footsteps as he takes up his position, I glance back ... massive, almost as naked as I am, the scent of the freshly oiled whip wafts in my nostrils, he flicks it a few times to loosen the thongs, I turn to the wood and kiss it, every sinew taut and ready to spring as the whish of weltering whipthong sweeps through the silent air, ready to be broken by my scream ...
