Danielle's Dark & Dirty Dreams #4 The Whip

Danielle's Dark & Dirty Dreams #4 The Whip

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica



Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica



Danielle has a dark fantasy about being a disobedient slave girl and risking her overseer's wrath. He's a master with the whip and he seems determined to tease Danielle's senses until she is too aroused to resist his commands.


Danielle has a dark fantasy about being a disobedient slave girl and risking her overseer's wrath. He's a master with the whip and he seems determined to tease Danielle's senses until she is too aroused to resist his commands.


Submitted: October 22, 2018

A A A | A A A


Submitted: October 22, 2018



Danielle's Dark & Dirty Dreams

#4 The Overseer's Whip

The overseer’s whip fascinates me. Having been on the wrong end of so many of such instruments in my life, I probably know more about them than most people. I can tell that the overseer's whip is the sort which stings rather than damages the victim’s flesh. Which makes sense I suppose. The overseer's task is to keep the slaves in his charge in order, but not to devalue their price on the auction block.

Yesterday I heard the pirate captain suggest that if we are lucky, we could find ourselves living in pampered luxury in some sheik’s harem. I can't imagine anything worse. Belonging to a just one man is the last thing I want. Working at the Dead Parrot I was surrounded by men, many of whom didn’t hesitate to take liberties with my body. And Groat the innkeeper liked to give his serving wenches an intimate examination every now and then. Nor did he spare the whip when I accidentally spilt or broke something. And that was fairly often, since I find it very difficult to concentrate on serving the inn’s patrons their beer while some man’s hand is busy inside my skirt.

On board the Red Hawk I was put on display in a very lewd fashion. I’m not complaining since that was partly by my own choice. The lust in the sailors eyes only made me long for one of them to go a step further. However the bosun was quick to use his short knotted rope to make any admiring sailor get back to his work. I wish the bosun had used his knotted rope on me instead. After all, it was I who distracted the sailor in the first place.

The captain didn’t hesitate to use me though. By the time we arrived in Puskin, I was becoming accustomed to being sodomised by the captain. My arse still hurts, but it’s the sort of pain that is worth enduring for the pleasure I gained in exchange. And pain is something I’m used to ... even crave for at times.

It may seem strange that I enjoy being punished, particularly by a man wielding a whip. However, to me it is a symbol of affection. As far back as I can remember, whomever I regarded as my guardian at that time had used a belt or a whip on me whenever I deserved punishment. For years I have associated the care and affection my guardian showed me with the sound and the pain of a whip. To me a few red marks on my body are a sign that someone loves and cares about me enough to keep me in line. Too many girls I knew when I was growing up lacked that discipline and they ultimately suffered as a consequence. The lucky ones ended up as beasts of burden in some man’s kitchen or laundry, the unlucky ones ended up married. This isn’t a gentle or kind world, particularly for a woman, and it isn’t about to change anytime soon.

Perhaps I should add that I don't enjoy pain for the sake of it. Nor do I ever want my body to be torn into a bloody pulp. My various guardians have each shown restraint when administering a whipping. Their goal has always been to punish me rather than to torture me. For that I gratefully thank them, since I know there exist those who get their pleasure from the latter. Naomi said the Vizier of Puskin is just such a man.

I reflect on my own predicament. My neck is chained to a post in the viewing room of some slave dealer’s compound. Naomi and Emerald are similarly chained to the posts either side of me. They are doing their best to entice the steady trickle of prospective buyers passing through into wanting to buy them. Within a matter of days I will be sold into slavery, probably for the rest of my life. How do I feel about that? I can’t prevent Captain Jack from selling me, so I am ambivalent about what is happening here. As Emerald said to him yesterday, no woman in our homeland is ever free in the real sense of the word. Every woman is the responsibility of some man, who can do with her as he wishes. Slavery is only a technical difference from my previous status in life.

The overseer wants me to copy Naomi’s and Emerald’s actions and brazenly display my body to his clients. In reality all I want is to feel the taste of the overseer’s whip. In that respect he is more than happy to oblige, even if he doesn’t initially realise why I’m being so disobedient to his orders. Unfortunately for me, the overseer is no fool and before long he guesses my secret game. He goes to talk with the owner of this establishment and a short while later my neck chain is unfastened and I’m escorted into a different room.

The room I’m taken to is much smaller than the viewing room I’ve just left, although it is clearly used for the same purpose. I’m made to stand on the raised platform. A leg iron bolted to the platform by a short chain is locked onto my left ankle.

“Hands on your head, slave,” orders the overseer.

I do as I am told since I can guess what is about to follow, and the prospect of such intimate attention excites me. The overseer is experienced enough to detect my arousal.

“How many strokes of this can you take before moving your hands or crying out, slave?” asks the overseer while brandishing his light whip.

“Twenty or more on my bottom and back, or about ten on my breasts, master,” I reply, making a reasonable guess based on my past experiences.

“What about this one?” he asks, fetching a much heavier whip from a rack on the wall.

“I’ve never experienced a whip that heavy, master.”

“Then guess how many you might be able to take before moving or crying out,” demands the overseer.

“Umm ... Perhaps ten on my bottom and back. I don’t think I’ll be able to take any on my breasts without moving or crying out,” I reply. “Master,” I add, belatedly complying with one of the instructions we were given when we arrived.

“We shall test the heavier whip later. For now let’s see if your first boast is true,” says the overseer reverting to his light whip.

I don’t get any warning before the first stroke of his whip lands on my bottom. I feel incredibly proud that I hold my position and only let out a barely audible grunt. The whip lands with a light sting. I know it will leave a red line that will quickly fade. I’m ready for the second stroke, so I easily hold my position. The overseer seems determined to make me lose control, but so far I’ve defeated his best attempts.

Only when we get to the eighteenth stroke do I start to worry about losing my control. My bottom feels as though it is on fire and my insides are like a volcano ready to erupt. My tendency to have an orgasm when I’m treated in this way is partly why I desire such attention in the first place. I try not to let the overseer guess what is going on inside the hidden depths of my body. It’s a forlorn hope. The man is far too experienced in his trade not to notice what is happening.

The nineteenth stroke comes from a different angle and lands between my legs. The end of the whip curls up between my legs to slap my lower belly. It’s not a particularly hard stroke, but it undoes my composure completely. My hands instinctively drop to protect my abused slit and to hide the orgasm that rips through me.

“Interesting,” muses the overseer, removing my hands from their current position and feeling the wetness trickling down the inside of my legs.

I briefly feel ashamed, but then console myself that I’m now a slave, so the concept of shame no longer has any meaning. A slave is nothing more than an animal, and nobody complains when an animal satisfies is base desires. I move my hands back to the top of my head.

“Good. You can obviously take more,” observes the overseer.

I’m not certain provoking him into making further assaults on my body is the wisest thing to do, but that’s what I’m doing. I’m rewarded by his skilful use of the whip on my back and breasts which draws two more orgasms from me in quick succession. I manage to hide my last orgasm from him for a while. When he notices the fresh liquid oozing down the inside of my legs he acknowledges my achievement with a grunt which I interpret as praise.

The overseer allows me to rest. I take the opportunity to sit, which is something I couldn’t do in the other viewing room. Despite the punishment levied on my poor arse, the pain is well within my capacity to tolerate, so sitting isn’t a problem for me.

The overseer leaves the room, presumably to attend to his other duties. I don’t doubt that he’ll return later. While I’m pleased about my ability to handle this morning’s session, I’m apprehensive about what is to follow. The overseer said that he would use his heavier whip on me, and I’m not looking forward to that. At the moment, my bottom and breasts are a bright pink, although I know from experience that my normal colouring will return within a few hours. But using a heavier whip on my body will leave welts which will take much longer to heal. Perhaps he wasn’t being serious. I can’t believe they would want to sell damaged goods.

I look around the room while I wait. There’s a single door through which I entered. A small viewing area is located between the door and the platform on which I am placed. The room is very tall, giving it the appearance of a shaft. Daylight streams through high windows which I can’t see because a balcony above me. The balcony is about three metres above the floor and extends around three walls of the room. I can just see part of a door at one end of the balcony. It occurs to me that the balcony provides another viewing area of whichever slave is on the platform below. It’s possible that someone was observing me earlier without me knowing.

About midday a young girl of about six or seven comes into the room with a pitcher of water and a bowl of the standard slave gruel. She simply deposits the items within my reach and leaves without saying a word. That’s the only contact I have with anybody for the rest of the day. The overseer doesn’t return until it is going dark. He unlocks my ankle fetter and escorts me back to the cage. Naomi, Emerald and the others who arrived with me are already there, as are a dozen new girls and young women.

“We thought you had been sold and that we would never see you again,” says Emerald showing some genuine concern for my well being.

I explain where I’ve been but not my experience at the hands of the overseer. I doubt Emerald would understand my feelings about being whipped.

“When did these others arrive?” I ask.

“A couple of them arrived mid-morning and were chained to the posts in the viewing room with us,” replies Emerald. “The rest were in here when we returned tonight.”

“Why did you think that I’d been sold?” I ask.

“Naomi told me that sometimes private sales are made rather than waiting for the public auction. When you were taken away and didn’t return, I thought that someone had bought you.”

“Nobody has shown any interest in me,” I reply. “You, on the other hand, seem to have attracted interest from several young men. The one who was fondling your breasts seems very interested.”

“Hmm ... I must confess that I wouldn’t mind warming his bed,” replies Emerald. “And Naomi has a few admirers among the young men as well.”

“As long as I don’t have to endure a man like the Vizier of Puskin, I don’t care whether my owner is young or old,” replies Naomi.

With darkness rapidly approaching we all settle down for the night. Some of the new girls are restless and I can tell that it will be a while before everybody will fall asleep. I lie down thinking about today’s events. The marks on my body have all vanished and the pain is only a faint memory. I concede that the overseer is very skilled at his trade. But I don’t know what he hoped to achieve by today’s performance.

Eventually we all fall asleep, only to be roused before dawn the next day. Not all the girls are made to wake up, and I notice Naomi and Emerald are allowed to remain sleeping. I and the new girls are escorted to the washing area before being taken into the viewing room. The large viewing room has twelve posts on the platform, while there are thirteen of us who have been woken early. It comes as no great surprise to me that I’m the odd one out, and that my destination is the small room I was in yesterday.

“We will try a belt today, slave,” says the overseer to me. “A little more pain for you to endure than yesterday, but no lasting marks.”

I don’t question why he wishes to do this since I’ve no say in the matter. Groat used a belt on me on occasion, but it was never a good test of my endurance to that form of punishment. The overseer removes two belts from the rack and brings them over to where I am standing.

“Do you prefer the plain wide belt, or the narrow twisted belt?” he asks.

“I’ll take the wide belt, please,” I reply.

“Certainly, miss,” replies the shopkeeper, placing the wide belt into a bag.

Once again my dark fantasies have intruded into my real world. I like the wide red leather belt I’ve been admiring, but I’ve no clothes in my wardrobe that it will match. I’m going to need to buy an outfit to go with it. Perhaps I’ll try on that sexy dress I saw earlier. A bit of retail therapy might stop my mind from wandering into dark realms. Or maybe not.

[The end]

© Copyright 2019 Rachael Jane. All rights reserved.

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