She chose the bullwhip; lifting it from its hook, shaking free its braided leather coils. The slave waited, suspended from an iron chain from his wrists; muscles stretched taut, white shirt plastered to a sweat streaked body.

"Be prepared to meet your punishment," she announced dramatically.

Swinging the whip back and with an overhand motion, she lashed out at the slave’s broad back. And again. And again. And again. The whip fell with a dull thwap on the concrete floor, a good six feet form the intended target, while the slave screamed, writhed, and rattled his chains. She was getting tired, her muscles sore from the unpracticed effort of slinging a good 12 feet of heavy leather; it was a wonder she could manage at all with those two over-blown silicone blimps grafted to her chest. She couldn’t even coax the slightest crack out of the thing after seven days of rehearsal and three days of shooting. Three worthless days.

‘Who writes this shit,’ Adam thought, preparing himself for the prospect of more wasted time and film. ‘I did.’

CONTINUE--->