"Ain't nothin' that you won't do. So crawl, baby, come on, crawl on the floor! Show me what kinda proud bitch you are now," Jack muttered, kicking Monica lightly on the back of her head.

Grunting, every joint in her body aching from the leather restraints, the woman wrestled to her original kneeling position, adjusting her arms behind her to ease the pulling pressure from the wristcuffs attached to the waiststrap. Jack was shoving his boot against her ass again, threatening to knock her back down onto the floor if she didn't move quickly. Shaking the hair from her eyes, Monica began – one knee forward, then the other, then the first, her kneecaps cracking from her bound position.

"Uhhhhh…" Monica moved.

She was a horse, his horse. And now Jack was straddling her, one leg on either side of her ribcage, his thighs pressing against her. There was the rubbing sound of leather against cloth. His belt. God, he was taking off his belt. Monica knew what he was going to do. Twisting her head around, she saw him looping the thing, swinging the makeshift whip over his head.

"Come on, baby, come on, move it!" There was the whistling sound of the leather hissing through the air. And then came the heated smack, the crack of the belt against her moaned as she ass. "Uhhhhhh!"

Monica jerked forward, her body shuddering under the brutal attack. Again and again, the belt sliced through the dark shadows of the cellar, smacking against Monica's asscheeks, reddening her flesh until it glowed, while more juices frothed from her cuntslit and wet down the leather restraints. Monica grunted like an injured animal, crawling one knee forward at a time, her head bent low in defeat, her jutting shoulderblades pressing against the horrid restraints as Jack followed her, his knees even with her shoulders.