Genevieve too knew her art.  And while the burning anguish of her position was real, the anguish she exhibited as he slammed his foot down was not.  Her back arched, her rear thrust up as she reacted to the sudden move, a performance for the crowd just as his was.  She knew she could maintain the position longer with her knees spread.  She also knew that the thrust of her rear into the air was a signal to the deep brains of the viewers, a sign of submission, a sign of eroticism.  She knew too that her inner self was bared for them, a glimpse of her feminity available to them now.  She was a piece of art, better displayed for them all.<br/><br/>The butterfly wings of her costumed fluttered slowly with the move of their bodies, his lock on her wrists, her stiff strained arms pinning her to the floor as one might pin the butterfly to the board.  The crowd murmured in tense, quiet approval.<br/><br/>When he took the flogger from her hands Genevieve drew in a sharp breath.  Those close could hear it, those who could not could see the way her rib cage swelled with air.  She held it, awaiting the long eternity to see what would come of it.  And though she could not see, she could feel the way Gravon's body tensed as he swung it.  She could hear the slight whistle of the leather in the air.  And so though she did not know where it would strike she was ready for it when it hit.<br/><br/>As ready as one could be.   A true artist, like Gravon, knew that the blind flogging amplified the sensations a hundred fold, for every inch of Genevieve's skin readied itself for the touch of the leather.  When it struck her arms, already strained, her body quivered and that held breath of air exploded from her mouth in a grunt which she knew would greatly please the audience.  For those who enjoyed House Valerian each sense was important.<br/><br/>She was too expert at this to jerk or scream, at this, only the first kiss of the leather.  She could feel the burning strips on her arms though, even as the flogger began a delicate journey along her flesh.  It crept between her upraised cheeks and teased against her delicate flower, promising the possibility of pain even in her arousal.  Her body tensed at this innermost touch even as it flowed away.<br/><br/>"He is," she whispered back, knowing no one could see her lips, nearly pressed to the floor.  She remembered her patron's greedy look.  Cruel, yes, but so were many of her patrons.  "He perhaps revels in seeing what you could do to me, that he could not."  Many of those who used House Valerian did not wield the whip themselves.  Often time the lust for it came separate from the skill.