There was that sad sound in the air of suddenly riven fabric, then the shock of white-hot coals searing the most tender skin of her bum. She grunted, lunging. The brute. He had cut low down. School experience had taught her that the worse pain came ten seconds later and she clenched her teeth to fight it, bitterly. It was rending, furious agony.
The second was very much worse; the lash wound around her and the weighted tip seemed to pause, and then flip in with venom. He was cutting so damned skillfully, she knew.
"You might at least," she gasped, "please...come up a little higher." Her cunt seemed to be quaking in her center.
From Algiers Tomorrow by P.N. Dedeaux