Sexy as Hell Box Set Read Free Page B

layout like the back of my hand. Black walls, black floor, a somewhat out-of-place chandelier sparkling from the ceiling. Row upon row of toys hanging from hooks on the wall opposite, the metal of some twinkling. And Julie standing in the centre, naked except for a pair of shiny red thigh-high boots, her back to us. She was Barbie doll perfection, long, wavy blonde hair, and slender legs.
    Victor blinked.
    I looked through the window. Julie reached up and gathered her abundant mane in one hand, securing it into a knot with a scrunchie.
    Victor gasped. “Her skin…”
    “Pretty, isn’t it?” I looked at him.
    “No, no it isn’t. Where the hell did she get those scars?”
    “You’ll see. But if you meet her, never tell her you think those scars are ugly. To her they’re beautiful. A part of her. A very important part. There’s a lot you won’t understand this month, a lot you’ll think is wrong, Victor, but you must always bear in mind it isn’t wrong to those who are doing it.”
    “But she’s been hurt!”
    “Yes, she has.” I didn’t offer any more information. Sometimes it took seeing something before you could believe things weren’t as bad as they seemed. That what you saw wasn’t the first impression you’d got. I was going to open this man’s eyes so wide he’d think his pretty eyeballs were going to pop.
    Julie stepped forward and took a whip from one of the hooks. She moved a few feet in reverse so she was once again in the centre of the room. With a flick of her wrist she tested the whip against her booted leg, the sound of it hitting the leather filtering through the slim slats built into the top of the window.
    In my peripheral, I caught sight of Victor jumping, balling his hands into fists in his lap. I imagined his heart rate speeding, him not knowing what she was about to do, rolling information around in his mind with regards to her scars. They criss-crossed her back, some creamy and raised, old, others light pink, and others still red from a more recent whipping. She wore them as her armour, a badge displayed proudly, for they represented who she was, who she was finally allowed to be. Herself. I didn’t expect Victor to understand. Not many people did, I’d found.
    Julie drew the whip up in front of her, and its tail sliced across her shoulders. Victor let out an “Oh, shit!” but didn’t look away. Julie whipped on, one lash following the other with incredible speed, no long gaps in between strikes, no chance for a breather. This was how she liked it, hard and fast, and, like she’d said, if no one had the bottle to strike her in the way she liked it done, she’d do it to herself.
    “Oh, God,” Victor breathed. “What is she doing ?”
    “Pleasuring herself,” I said, shifting slightly so I could look at him. Tonight his expression fascinated me more than Julie’s show.
    “That isn’t normal,” he said. “Sorry, but it isn’t.”
    “Not normal to you, maybe, but very normal to her. She loves it. You wait. She’ll come like a train in a minute.”
    “How can you come from that?” he asked, moving his head as though to turn to me but failing to pull his gaze from her. “How can that be nice, make you feel nice?”
    “Have you ever tried it?” I asked, knowing full well he hadn’t. If he’d had to ask me such a thing, he didn’t understand.
    “No, and I don’t bloody intend to either.” He rested into the chair then crossed his arms over his chest.
    Defence mechanism. A way to distance himself from what he was seeing.
    Julie groaned, whipping on, frenzied in her attack. She turned then, continuing to whip, and stared directly at our window. Clips adorned her nipples, joined by a silver chain. She lifted it and draped it behind her bottom teeth, then closed her mouth.
    “What the hell?” Victor said quietly.
    Eyes closing, Julie flagellated with one hand and cupped her sex with the other. Moaning, she used her thumb and pinky to spread her wet slit wide,