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Stretched out before him, prostrate in humility, her squirming body flattens into the fibres of the carpet, from the soft waves of her mane he catches her barely breathed response as if born to him on a summer breeze. His answer is swift, the crop sings it's tune briefly in mid-air before the stinging contact with the bare flesh of her derriere is made. This time her flesh is without the luxury of the robe to dull the pain, instinctively her hips jerk into the soft compliant pile of the carpet as a thin deep pink line raises out of the milky white surface of her moons. He waits for the final echo of her tiny gasp to vanish to the four corners of the room before speaking again.
"you assume much : 'worthless' is without worth, you may have some, as yet unknown, worth to me but that is for me to decide : 'slut' implies a sexual role, that also is for me to decide. For now you are nothing"
All the while He has been speaking, he has circled her horizontal form, a predator circling it's prey, the black boots virtually silent on the carpet, the occasional rustle of denim breaking the tempo of her shallow breathing.
"Kneel" the command is short and low, yet flows across her with the totality of an avalanche, her knees draw up to her chest as the final vibration of sound hits her ear, her bronzed arms push away from the floor as she urges herself into the position He desires. Like a cobra striking she comes to the vertical, legs tucked under, feet crossed, her rump hovering a fraction above her feet, her back is straight thrusting the fullness of her breasts forward, straining the fabric of her robe. She holds her chin high, her long hair falling in dark rivulets over her shoulders, yet keeps her gaze downcast, finally her hands are brought up onto her slightly parted thighs resting palm up. The movements are fluid and slick, like a well oiled machine, her balance and poise practically flawless. Standing behind her He allows a small smile to play at the corners of His mouth, she is good but He needs to find out how good. Bringing the crop forward He presses it into the small of her back, making her adjust and straighten, drawing her shoulder blades together. Moving past her shoulder he appears once more in her range of sight, His green eyes gaze down at the statue like pose she has struck, the rise and fall of her chest almost imperceptible as she struggles to control her breathing. He lowers Himself into the large wooden chair in front oh her, leaning back into one corner He drapes a leg over an ornately carved arm and rests the crop across His knee.
"Stand up and remove your robe" the tone and timbre of His voice doesn't alter as the instruction crosses the distance between T/them. He watches the reaction that his words have on her, searching for the merest glimmer of hesitation……..