Literature had betrayed her, and it wasn’t for the first time. A ‘lick&rsquo

Literature had betrayed her, and it wasn’t for the first time. A ‘lick’ they’d called it, like it was some sort of caress, like it was nothing more than an unwanted bit of saliva and the bristles of overactive tastebuds. Like it would cool with the breeze, dry off, and it’d be like nothing happened. 

A lick. A fucking lick. Whoever had penned that word, with that association, was the sadist behind the whip, not the tormented on the receiving end. They were probably happy with their quip, enjoying a moment of almost rhyme, so close to poetry. But poetry wasn’t even close to reality, especially not here. Pain was reality. Searing, hot, firey pain. 

Pain that was coursing through her like an angry lover, setting fire to all the right bits, making her squirm in all the right ways. She was a beacon-torch, and she was lit up in the darkest of nights, at that lick. That crack. That stab. The lanced pain of a line, snapped against her rear, that soft flesh. If that was a tongue it belonged to Satan, and it pleased just as much as it punished. That didn’t make it better. It just made it worse. It just made her body the masochistic little slut she so protested not to be. The one that he saw every time he looked at her. 

The one she couldn’t help but enjoy him paying attention. Licks or no. That fucking whip, and its fucking words. Lick indeed.