Cats Don’t Do the Dishes, Part Six
Craftsmate tied me facedown on his bed and proceeded to get his flogger out. He beat me until I was crying out so much that he had to gag me and put music on to drown out all the noise.
Then, he sat down on me and started to tickle my ribs. I am absurdly ticklish and I absolutely hate being tickled. A few minutes in, I was panting for breath and drooling around the gag. He stopped, moved his duvet cover so I could see the small puddle of my salvia that had soaked into it, and proceeded to scold me for drooling all over his bed.
“Look at the mess you made,” he chided, pulling on my hair before pushing my face into it. I blushed six shades of red.
He rolled me over and tied me back down, picking the flogger back up and starting to beat my breasts.