Between the counts, the strokes of the Flogger, Gravon began to display his mastery of his art. Like a great leather brush he worked the tongs of flogger across Genevieve’s skin. He swirled the tongs across her back, as if drawing the red of her flesh to the surface like paint. The torment was not just in the solid and heavy thud of the flogger, but in all contact, all motion. The tongs were let to drag across skin, to puddle in a leathery pool across the beauty canvas of skin. He at times would use only the tips, letting them dance atop her wounds like little feet. Other times they would spill over her sides, teasing that curve of her hanging breasts, the soft skin under her arm, even over her hips.<br/><br/>Gravon let the flogger land mostly upon the upturned curve of her rear, blossoming flesh in a rose hue. He removed his foot, letting those assembled see that hidden cleft of Genevieve’s body, the lips made full of puffy from arousal.  Every so often he would swing an underhanded stroke, instead of the heavy contact the tongs of the flogger would drag upon those open lips, pulling at her flesh as if to encourage the wetness her body would produce.<br/><br/>Contact and drag, puddle and swing again, the strokes were rhythmic but never the same, not allowing her to count on any specific contact, specific touch. All she had was the cadence, that constant tempo to drive her.<br/><br/>Her flesh, their art.<br/><br/>He worked her rear, her lower back, between her legs, even the legs and the soles of her feet. Each stroke a dedication to who they were, what they did, who they served. It was a ritual, it was their dedication. And as her arms began to tremble he moved to position her differently for the crowds pleasure.<br/><br/>He lowered her hands to her back and then stepped around her. Taking first the right, then the left, he drew her hands before her stretching her anew, pulling her body taut once again. He knelt down before her, his body and her arms now blocking the one patron from being able to see Genevieve’s face. However, this pose gave Genevieve a sight she may not have counted on, a new torment as the lashes began anew.<br/><br/>Gravon was before her, the black leather of the boots curled under his body as he knelt before her. His body was flushed like hers. The warmth of the room and his own arousal, causing the barest hint of sweat to coat him in a glowing sheen. Between his legs he was almost full, heavy, aroused, and with each stroke his flesh swung as if connected to the flogger. She could see the slight curve of his flesh, the girth as he fought himself to not display his full arousal even to her.<br/><br/>For the patrons it was a sight to behold. An Adept of Mandrake kneeling in front of the Stretched Adept of Valerian. His body aroused and bared before her, the flogger arcing above her in what was perceived as a painful lashing, though Gravon  pulled the strikes to provide more torment than pure pain.  Genevieve was there as was he, their oblation being performed for their deities. Nothing was hidden from the crowd, save Genevieve’s face from her tormentor in the crowd.<br/><br/>The count continued, steady in pace as Gravon did not seek the quick and easy victory, but instead applied his art to the remarkable woman before him. The strokes now were different, overhand and lapping at her flesh with the sting of a barbed tongue.<br/>