Shadow Girl by Mael d'Armor Page B

the cup of knowledge.’
    There is a long silence, broken by Sandra’s gasps as the finger continues its dogged tease.
    â€˜You know what “labia” means, I suppose,’ resumes the voice. ‘It is Latin for “lips”. This is no coincidence, for the labia hold the key to your linguistic prowess. They are the mouth of your inner self.’
    The finger has begun to stray over her clit. Light, subtle touches, almost a hover. She purses her lips and the first moans spill from her throat.
    â€˜Oooh . . . Oooh . . .’
    She cannot help herself. She is bursting with pent-up need.
    â€˜Oooh . . . Oooh . . . Oooooh . . .’
    A sudden sting on her arse and she catches her breath in shock. The hand has chastised her again, though there is no more skirt to soften the bite. No, not a hand , she thinks as the smarting subsides. She’s been whipped — by a pony’s tail she could swear.
    â€˜This is not the perfect O,’ scolds the voice. ‘I expect the best from you. Isn’t that also what you want to give me? The best?’
    The finger keeps playing its tormenting games, fanning the flames in her pussy.
    â€˜Yes, yes,’ she breathes, swallowing hard, biting back another moan. ‘The best.’
    â€˜Then you will taste of my tail till I get my wish. My spicy palomino whisk. Don’t you agree this is a fitting punishment?’
    â€˜Yes,’ she says hoarsely, writhing on the finger. On the teasing, vicious finger. On the finger driving her nuts. She shakes her head, her lips ajar, her clit flushed and desperate.
    â€˜Oaaah . . . Oaaah . . .’ she begs again.
    Another snap of the horsetail. Perversely, the twinge heightens her enjoyment. She waits for the next one, pleading without words. She does not understand this. Doesn’t understand how she can derive such pleasure from her prostration. From this honeyed misery.
    But she is past caring.
    All she knows is she must please him, she must. Offer herself. Open herself to his demands. She must purse her lips, make a perfect circle, that’s what he said. She repeats this like a mantra. Make a perfect circle. She must purse her lips. Oh God, oh God, she needs that finger to go harder. Why can’t it go harder, why can’t it?
    Another sound escapes her lips. Warped. Less than ideal. She shudders in bitter delight when the flogger bites her.
    The finger has drifted on and worms its way into her. She tilts her hips to the full, welcoming the probe. The intruder slides in slowly, then out slowly, with exasperating gentleness. It is so light, so soft. Like a shadow. Like a ghost, feeding her need drop by drop. Oh God, she is going insane. Two fingers now, then three. Mere phantoms. Spreading her, probing her. Priming her for the next throaty moan.
    Purse her lips, she must purse her lips. She must please him.
    â€˜Oooaw . . . Oooaw . . .’ she groans. And lets out a little cry as the whisk electrifies her.
    The fingers reach deeper. Curving, stroking without haste.
    Oh God, she must purse her lips, purse her lips.
    The horsetail smacks again, and again.
    â€˜Not good,’ chides the voice. ‘I want no diphthong. I want a clear sound.’
    She tries to fight back the tears but cannot.
    A clear sound. She must give a clear sound. She must purse her lips. She must please him. But it is so hard to focus, so hard, for those ghosts keep working her like slow devils.
    She is gasping, gagging.
    Please him, please the voice.
    The horsetail returns, spreading its flames. There is the taste of wet salt on her lips.
    â€˜I hope you are grateful for this,’ he says in deep, mellow tones. ‘Grateful I have your best interests at heart.’
    â€˜Yes,’ she rasps, her cheeks burning like her arse. ‘Grateful, I’m grateful.’
    The fingers withdraw like satiated snakes and something hard and plump brushes against her. For a while, the cock taunts her on. Fuels her