There is a fine line between sex and violence in the world of BDSM.

Karen learned that the night she first entered a fetish club.

The Doms were marked by their commanding presence and the absence of a dog collar around their necks.

In a sea of faces, one man singled her out, his icy blue eyes rooting her to the spot. Without a word, he took her hand and led her downstairs to the dungeon. There was a cross there, painted black and fixed with leather straps.

“Take off your shirt,” he commanded, gesturing to her top.

Karen obeyed immediately, something about this man made her want to obey.

He eyed her breasts appreciatively in the black lace bra and his scrutiny made her nipples harden beneath the fabric.

“Beautiful,” he said, reaching for the cat o’ nine tails at his belt. He saw her eyes widen in fear and with understanding he clasped the back of her head and kissed her, long, hard and deep, blinding her to everything, but the sudden rush of lust that made her panties damp.

Lost in his kiss, she felt no shame as he undid her bra and turned her, pushing her roughly against the wood of the cross before swiftly fastening the straps at her arms and legs.

She was caught, fascinated, unable to think.

When the first lash came, it was harsh, a burning sting to her hot skin. As he continued to whip her, she felt herself getting wet to the point of dripping as she rubbed herself against the wood of the cross. Her master responded with a slap to her ass.

“You’ll come soon,” he promised, resuming his assault.

Only when she was weeping with pain and the need to come did he deliver on his promise. His cock slid deep, testing her sanity and oblivious to everything but her Master, Karen came.