Scourged

Perplexed at the unusual offer, Rhutani returned the scourge to its nail, and I had him sitting on the edge of the bed before he could recover and take charge. I slowly disrobed him, being careful to examine his clothes from every angle while I was doing so in search of that seven-digit number. And then, when he was naked, I covered every inch of his body with my hands and lips and tongue—and more significantly, with my eyes—looking for a number while his breathing got choppier and his panting became heavier. And then I climbed into his lap and lowered my channel on his cock and fucked myself on him while he groaned and moaned and I sighed and let tears fill my eyes—tears of frustration at not finding the number.

As the haze cleared from my eyes, though, I found myself staring at his scourge as it hung on the bunk post next to where we were fucking. The more I looked at the scourge, the more interested I became in it.

I could hardly hold my curiosity—and hope—until we had finished fucking and a surprised, but fully satisfied Mir Rhutani turned his face toward the wall on the lower bunk and began to snore.

Quietly, ever so quietly, I lifted the scourge off its hook. I counted the strands of leather. There were seven of them. I began examining the knots on each strand. They were of varied number and position. The first strand on the right, the longest one, had three knots in it, as did the next one. But the third strand had only one.