The Storyteller by D. P. Adamov Page A

the belt fly again, recoiling as he heard the loud whipping sound and thinking that one had been too hard, even from him.
    “Fourteen,” Angela again cried out as she moved her butt back and forth in the midst of this devious discipline.
    She hoped by fanning the air, she would relieve some of the agony, or at least cool her tortured buns.
    “And?”
    “I will run the hand! I will run the hand!”
    By the time the fifteenth blow came, she was teary like never before and broken in will.
    Mariano had kept her waiting, deliberately antagonizing her, and again, there was no mistaking the added feeling on the other side of her busted backside. She was ready to orgasm.
    “Fifteen,” she gasped. “That’s fifteen. I will run the hand!”
    She said the words so fast, they all ran together.
    “Owwwwwwwwwwww!”
    The sixteenth blow was landed on her upper right leg again, in the same spot as before, which increased the pain.
    “I will run the hand!”
    She nearly forgot herself and announced she was coming, which she was about to. It made no sense at all. Her ass was whipped red, and somehow this was turning her on.
    “Owwwwwwwwwwww. I will run the hand! That was sixteen!”
    Angela was gasping for breath as this unfamiliar mixing of deep pain within pleasure came about. There was a volcano between her legs that was about to erupt.
    “Seventeen,” she cried in unison with the next cruel strike. “I will run the hand. Oh, let it end!”
    The plea was for dramatic purposes only, for somehow she did not want this to cease. She was about to climax without fucking or even fingering. Her ass was hurting beyond description, and yet this sensation was overruled. Her hairy brown pussy was now a keg of dynamite about to blast off with a very short fuse affixed.
    The eighteenth blow came and Angela screamed again, jerking with the force of the belt, which coiled over her ass like a live thing.
    “Owwww! My God! Owwww!”
    Rather than place her hands over her wounded rear, she now longed to shove her fingers deep into her front end instead, but she dared not do so.
    “Eighteen! I will run the hand!”
    “You aren’t going to be able to sit down for a long time,” the matador told her, as if this was news. “I am sure I can bet you are going to run your hand right from now on though.”
    “Yes,” she cried. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”
    The tone was like what she emitted during sexual intercourse.
    “Yes! Yes! Owwwwwwwwwwww!”
    Blow nineteen seemed lighter, but her ass was so streaked and striped it didn’t matter.
    “Nineteen! Oh, God! I will run the hand! I will run my hand! I’ll run it like Joselito!”
    The last of the whipping was coming. Relief at last? But did she really want relief?
    “Mmmmmmmm,” was the only noise she made, as she tensed for the last blow.
    “The climax,” Mariano scolded, which was perhaps a poor word choice. “The climax of your lesson.”
    Angela was certain he’d brought it from a mile away. Pain burned not just through her ass, but her entire body, and as it did, she cried triumphantly.
    “Twenty! I will run my hand!”
    Her insides overflowed with a flooding, rushing torrent. Falling to the warm sand, she groped with one hand between her legs and the other over her naked bottom, feeling the heat from both places.
    Cringing, she sprawled in the dirt, overcome with emotion. She was grateful the punishment was over, but what was with the sexual pleasure this had evoked? Had Mariano seen? Did he know?
    “Stop whimpering,” the matador ordered. “Pull up your pants, quit crawling on the sand like a crab and run your hand.”
    A variety of emotions were soaring through Angela as she tried to regain her dignity. She was ashamed she had let herself be placed in such a situation and actually allowed her trainer to abuse her in such a way. She was even more confused by her bodily functions, which went against common sense. She should have slapped Mariano straight in the face and left, but