His rhythm felt erratic; there was no way to work with the white-hot agony, no way to breathe through it, no way control her wriggling.Or her helpless, rageful tears.Or her sporadic, high-pitched, guttural shrieks.At some indefinable but familiar point of sensory overload, she simply surrendered. She let the pain in, and it blotted out all thinking, all anticipating, all fear, all sound and sight. When he finally stopped, she was in a tight, trembling arch, her welted backside straining toward the cane, striped with it's thin red double tracks, each pair sandwiching a bruise.Beautiful. Probably the best performance art of her brilliant career.She stopped in the ladies room upstairs after wriggling back into her latex and politely blowing him and his hard-on off, and not in the way he'd clearly hoped for; his phone number, scrawled on a matchbook cover, had been flushed after she admired his handiwork in the full-length facing mirrors.She leaned against a sink and fished out her cell. ”“Sorry, Chief,” they declared in unison, tears coming to their eyes. Numa relented. “As nothing serious happened in the end, I will forgive you, but you had better set up some training with our experts, so that you will be prepared should anything like this happen again. You should react automatically and be ready to defend yourselves. I expect you to be able to turn on your attackers and defeat them!” At this, the two men became even more terrified of the Chief. John whispered to them, “Most of our tribe could do that, you should know. You were lucky, this time.” This did not make the teenage men feel any better. If anything, it made them seriously realise that John could have killed them, back on the trail. Numa resumed her interrogation of the girls.“So these men forced you to go with them. How? Did they brandish their knives?” The older girl admitted, “No. They pushed and shoved us around, to make us go with them, but they didn’t take out their knives; probably thought they.
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