The pain, when it came, was exquisite. That first obscenely brutal taste of mind-searing agony as the whip lightly caressed the smooth white skin between Wendy's shoulder blades, the angry red line that marked its first diabolical passage across her back.

The pain was almost unbearable but I still managed to avoid screaming. I could already feel the blood starting to run down my back from where the first stroke had so effortlessly parted my skin. Clenching my teeth I fought to ready myself, I could already hear the heavy bullwhip hissing through the air as the executioner drew back for the painful next stroke.

Earlier that evening, helplessly shackled in place, I'd watched as the executioner walked into the torture chamber carrying his heavy bullwhip, the lack of accompanying implements of torture telling me everything I needed to know about my night's painful entertainment.

Watching as the executioner expertly oiled the heavy braded leather of his whip, I smiled as I tested my restraints. And while the chains would keep me fully exposed to the whips painfully cruel attentions, my arms were far from taunt. I just love to squirm as I'm being whipped.

The whip was cutting my back to ribbons but somehow I managed to keep from screaming until the 42 stroke. I mean even a masochistic pleasure slave has her limits, and when the sharp tip of that whip came around my side and sliced across both my nipples, I reached mine.

After that, all composure, all dignity vanished. I struggled desperately against my restraints in futile hope of escaping the whip's next horrifying stroke. In that single terrifying instant my entire universe collapsed into nothing but unrelenting agony. I stopped counting the strokes and concentrated on the only thing that still mattered. The struggle to take that next desperate breath before the whip once again caressed my skin. It was quickly becoming an unimaginably long and painful night and you need air in your lungs if you want to scream.

Besides, there really isn't any point to counting the strokes, especially when you know it isn't going to end until you're dead.

For Ereshkigal's willing pleasure slaves, death in the dungeon torture chambers of the Mesopotamian Underworld never comes easy. Something that Wendy's painfully aware of.