The sound of my whip cutting the air – and his flesh – is thrilling, amidst his pathetic cries and screams for mercy. But there shall be none. Stroke after excrutiating stroke, my whip slashes his exposed back and buttocks until it is raw. This is perhaps my finest masterpiece of sadomasochistic persecution, as I rain down a vicious torrent of whip strikes on my helpless captive, until he is quivering, screaming, and begging for a reprieve from his Goddess. I am relentless and calculating, with the precision of a surgeon, as each strike rips through his flesh like a hot knife through butter. I offer only a brief postponement of his suffering, for the occasional slap or spit to his face. He has nowhere to run, nowhere to hide from Goddesses deadly whips. As it should be.