Madam M doesn’t need to rush. She stalks.

The scene begins in silence. He stands motionless—alert, bound tightly in position—breathing far too loudly for someone already being hunted. Madam M approaches from behind, never close enough to be predictable. The dragon t*il whip hangs from Her hand like a serpent waiting to strike—but it doesn’t. Not yet.

Instead, She circles.

What follows is a slow, exquisite game of proximity and dread. Each footstep, every deliberate pause, becomes its own form of psychological t*rment. The whip brushes past his flesh like a warning. Or a promise. At every trepidatious flinch—She smiles.

He recoils and groans, while Madam M glows with sadistic anticipation.

When the bl*ws finally begin, they are surgical and spaced. Not punishment—performance. The dragon t*il writes lines of p*in across his skin with terrible precision, each lash a lesson in obedience, each pause a cruel suspense. He never knows when the next strike will come—only that it will.