He circled me. I tried to twist my head. Pain shot through the tortured muscles of my neck and shoulders. My heart pounded wildly in my chest as I squirmed. My stomach turned to stone. My mouth tasted like cotton.

The man stepped into my line of sight. He was swinging the hose in short arcs. Suddenly he snapped his wrist. The hose hit the underside of my right tit with a whump. My squeal of pain bounced off the walls and echoed back to mock me. My tit jerked and danced. The flesh turned a bright red where I'd been hit.

He kept walking in circles around me. This time he struck from behind. The hose swished between my legs. My whole body strained forward as it cracked into my twat. Bruising pain seared through my groin. I screamed and pleaded for mercy.

The men in the audience stared in electrical silence. Their eyes were glazed. Their mouths were

slack, and I saw that many of them were rubbing their crotches.

My tormentor reached my side. The hose sprang out again. This time it caught both tits just below the nipples. I jerked back. It didn't do any good. My tits bounced and jiggled like jelly. They felt like someone had slammed a hot iron across them. I almost dislocated my shoulders.

"Please! Don't hit me again-please!" I wailed.

My cheeks were bathed in team. My body was glossy with sweat. I was trembling from fear. The tense uncertainty of wailing was almost as bad as being hit. The muscles in my arms and shoulders trembled and stretched from holding my weight.

The pain went on and on and on. My legs turned numb after he smacked my shins and kneecaps a couple of times. My arms and shoulders were on fire. The man was an expert. He knew exactly how to make me scream the loudest without passing out. The audience gave him a thunderous hand when he finished and walked off stage. He'd primed them for the main act.