She shook her head emphatically. "No," she said, sounding as if she were on the verge of tears. "No," she repeated and shook her head again, and this time sweat dropped from her nose and chin. "Whip me," she said. "Harder! Beat me till I bleed!"

They laid into her once more.

"I deserve to be hurt!"

More lashes.

"I deserve the pain!"

Strokes to her pussy, inner thighs, armpits.

"More! Give me more! You can't hurt-" whips fell on her, breaking her voice for a moment "-me too much! Never enough!"

One of the men stopped to grab a whip that had only a long, single tail, and he began to work with it while the other man switched as well. It was difficult to use the bullwhip on her while she hung in the frame, but both of the men had great skill and soon they were wrapping it around her, laying it across tits and into her pussy, popping her nipples with startling accuracy.

She was sobbing, screaming at each stroke, tears pouring down her cheeks. She could no longer thank them for the pain; her sentences were not that coherent.

Jack realized that they were almost done and he was torn between wanting it to be over and wanting it to go on forever. Her eyes were still locked on his, his on hers, and he could read the deepest desires of her soul through written in the depths of those sparkling blue pools-she felt exactly the same, torn between wishing the torment to end and a need for it to continue.

Each inhalation was torture, each breath out was a word broadcast for everyone to hear: "More. more. more. more. more." She said it over and over, faster and faster.

"Hurt-me-hurt-me-hurt-me-hurt-me," the girl panted, her head drooping. The other woman in the band pulled her head back by the hair and she screamed as the whips touched her again.

"Stay awake," they heard over the microphone. "There's more pain to be felt."

"More pain," the girl repeated blankly.

Whips continued to fall and she continued to speak. "Hurts," she said, and again, "feels so good-hurts so good. Hurts soooo good."

Blood dripped from tiny cuts on her nipples, red welts decorated her body, and people in the crowd wondered at the special effects and how such a small-time band could afford them.

Jack said ninety, but they kept beating her, she kept begging for more. "One hundred and ten," he said, and they made no sign of stopping. "One hundred and fifteen." Would they never quit?

She could make no more sound, merely hung there limp in her bonds. Could she feel the pain any longer? Did she know they were still hurting her?

Jack didn't know when it happened, but he climbed onto the stage. "One hundred and twenty five," he said firmly. "That's enough."

The girl's eyes were misty, distant, but they still seemed focused solely on him. He looked very intently back at her, into her eyes, and told her, "That is enough."

She shook her head. "Never enough," she breathed, too quiet for the microphone.

"More than enough."

She could not accept it, shook her head again. "One more. Please, master, one more."

One of the men smiled at him and gave him a whip. What the hell? How stupid could they be? He had no experience at this! Or at least he had not in a very long time, not since high school.

"Do it!" they ordered.

It was a lucky stroke, perfectly accurate, but he had hit far too hard, much harder than he had intended, and blood ran down her legs from the new cut he had placed precisely atop her sex.

There was no sound this time, only the movement of her lips as she tried to say, "Thank you."

He carried her sweaty, abused body off the stage, wondering where her spirit might have gone.

# # #

He waited for ten minutes before she finally appeared fully aware of her surroundings. He had laid her on the couch-prepared first by removing the back cushions and laying a pair of clean tablecloths on top of it-in the over-large closet that served the club as a dressing room, sure that this was the first time the room had been used in ages. Apparently the band was no stranger to this sort of thing because also in the chest were all sorts of little items that would be useful in an occasion exactly like the one Jack found himself in now, from cotton swabs to alcohol. Jack wet a washcloth at the sink to bathe her body.

The girl moaned, but it was more a moan of satisfaction than of pain. "Mmmm-thank you," she said. "Are you the one?"

He had a feeling that he probably was but he did not offer any answer. Instead he said, "That was very stupid. Of all of you-the whole band, including you. Stupid and dangerous."

"I can handle myself," she disagreed, "and I can handle those two." But her voice was still weak and she could hardly move enough to place her hand on his to keep the washcloth away. "I like to leave as much of the evidence as possible."

Jack shook his head and sighed.

"I thought you were great for taking control of things," she whispered, "but I expected you to be different."

"How so?" Jack asked. He doused a pair of cotton swabs with the alcohol and proceeded to clean the cut on her sex.

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