“Well, you’ve soiled the stage, Julie. For shame.”
I know beneath the hood is a very embarrassed girl. Even areas of her flesh not kissed by crop or cane are flushed to a bright pink. And tears stream from the eye openings. There is more than mere physical grief to be endured.
I bend at the waist and lower my hand, cupping the girl’s well shaven mons. She is hot and wet, and the moisture is more than just from the surrender of her bladder. My fingers toy with the loose strips of labial flesh then slip within to explore and further humiliate. Yes, with Julie we have chosen well. My crop and cane have served to arouse and we know from experience that for the budding masochist the initial realization in learning that pure
