“Don’t stop, no matter what I do to you, whore,” I said, and lashed out at her big, soft tits with the rope. Heather bit down harder on the rope and jumped back, “Uhhhhhhn!” She let out a muffled cry. I stuck her tits harder with the rope; she lowered her head and grimaced in pain. “Keep the rope tight on your cunt, whore!” I snarled and pulled her head back by her hair. She nodded and whimpered as she pumped her hips again. I whipped the rope across both her tits. Heather shut her eyes tight and let the pain and pleasure wash over her. Each strike on her tits heightened her arousal. The stinging pain gave way to a soothing heat. Soon she was eagerly awaiting the bite of the rope on her tits and the sweet heat between her legs that was edging her closer to an orgasm. I kept whipping her tits and kept an eye on the quiver that was building in her legs. Her knees had buckled a few times. Up to that moment, she had managed to regain control and remain standing. I knew she couldn’t. It was kind of hard to believe, thought Ester, smiling at the ground, at a razor clam half dug-up next to her foot. It was kind of beautiful, this unbroken silence, stretching so long. At first, living without words was just quiet. Incredibly quiet; no voice, and no city sounds. In the mornings, they sat and James read and Ester drew. They took walks; they went to the beach; they slept. They lived next to each other. But then, on the third day, after James had started to talk to Ester in his head - only when she was far out in the sea - it had started to become more. It had started to become discovery. James discovered Ester’s neck, her yellow-green eyes, her scrunched-up hair, the ends still wet, her eyebrows, the line at the corner of her mouth. He never spoke, and so in each glance he put all his words, and Ester with her eyes sent to him the peace of her body in the sea. They started laughing in the tent when the pepper fell off James’ pizza slice for a second time, and they.
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