I put my head down, kneeling to the whip

I put my head down, kneeling to the whip.
“Forgive me, Master,” I whispered.
“Once this evening,” said he, “you, a slave, addressed me by my name, rather than as ‘Master.’”
“Forgive me, Master,” I said.

“Do you think me an easy master?” he asked.
“No, Master,” I said.
“Do you beg now to be punished?” he asked.
“Yes, Master,” I said. “I beg to be punished.”

I saw him grip the slave whip on the long handle with two hands. I put down my head further, I shut my eyes, I tightened my body, I clenched my fists, held crossed, as though bound, beneath my body. I determined to hold position.

I heard the swift sound of the leather in flight. Never had I heard it approach so swiftly. After the fourth blow I could no longer hold position.
“Tie me at the slave ring,” I begged.
“Put me at a post, Master!”
I lay on the block on my stomach, my hands over my head. There was sawdust on my lips and face. I could not, after the second blow, scream. Yet he struck me only ten times. I cried, lying on the block, punished. I felt him thrust a steel collar about my throat, and lock it. I was collared.

He had not been angry with me. He had only been punishing me. I had deserved a whipping. He had given it to me.

Slave Girl of Gor, p. 787-788

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