Her flesh reddened beneath the sting of the cat, and she was lost in a state not unlike drunkenness; the pain more exquisite than any wine she had ever tasted, burning her inside and out.  Each lash drew forth a cry, each cry came along side a gush of wetness between her legs, each slick droplet to fall from her cunt onto Sophie's hand or tongue had a partner in a tear that fell from her eyes.  She was lost in the sensations, lost in the role, and, just for a moment, did not care.<br/><br/>But then the whipping ended, and her eyes opened.  Panting, she looked at Balthazar as he rubbed the butter-smooth leather against her nipples.  Her words were barely a hiss.  "More. . .please. . ."