Whip Me

by Cathryn Cooper

  As she stepped inside, she automatically closed the door behind her. She was pretty sure there was no one else in the building after everything that had happened to her, but she wasn’t taking any chances.

  Her boss sprawled in his executive chair behind his large ornate wood desk. His thighs slouched open, letting his balls rest on the leather of the chair. ‘Now I want you to ride me,’ he said.

  Gingerly, still feeling the effects from her orgasm and the continuous pleasure/pain of the binder clips, she straddled him, lowering herself until his hard shaft slid right up inside her. They both gave a sigh as her pussy enclosed his cock in its warmth and tightness.

  Instinctively, she kept her feet on the floor and used her thigh muscles to raise and lower her body like a ballerina doing a plie, her hands resting on his shoulders to maintain her balance. Her boss leaned back in his chair, allowing her to do all the work as they pushed towards climax.

  Bend after bend, she rose and fell on his shaft, feeling the hardness push into her body, then retreat, only to shove in again. Suddenly his hands gripped her waist, holding her still while his hips thrust up and down, pistoning his cock in and out of her captive pussy.

  She froze, remaining still while he fucked her, then gasped and flew into an exquisite orgasm as leaned forward and flicked the binder clips on her nipples with his tongue. Her inner muscles clamped down as hard as they could on his cock and she shivered all over.

  He gave a shout, then held perfectly still as he came within her, his cock pulsing inside her throbbing body. She felt the warm rush of his semen as it shot up into her. After several shots, he lowered his hips and her body until she slumped against him in the chair, both of them breathing heavily, his large cock still buried in her clenching pussy. Simultaneously, they tried to draw air into their tortured lungs, to bring their heartbeats down.

  The minutes ticked away, the silence broken only by their gasping breath. His arms held her so tightly against him that she could feel his heart pounding beneath her. ‘Did you like that?’

  ‘Do you need to ask?’ she replied a little shyly. ‘If you want to know that truth, I think I’ve been dreaming about you for a long time.’

  ‘And I’ve been fantasizing about you also,’ he replied, his hands gently caressing her sweaty back, combing through her tangled hair.

  ‘I think it’s time to go home, my sweet,’ her boss said. ‘I have just one question for you.’

  A question for her? What on earth could he want to ask her? He was the one in charge, her master. ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Are you coming home with me, to be my companion, my sweet sex slave? Or shall we forget this night ever happened?’ As he spoke, she felt his cock flex inside her. Even after their tremendous orgasm, he was still hard within her.

  She caught her breath. She hadn’t dared to think about the future, past this night. But now, he was offering her a dream come true. A dream she hadn’t known she wanted until tonight. Margaret swallowed. ‘I want to come home with you, sir. I want to belong to you, to be your sex slave.’

  ‘Good.’ His voice rumbled next to her ear. ‘Then let’s get out of here. I still have a load of come that’s destined for your ass.’

  Margaret sighed happily as he withdrew his still hard cock, leaving behind a tingling sensation that left her wanting more. And she knew she was going to get it. She couldn’t wait. She was so glad that she had decided to work late tonight. She had a feeling she would be doing so more often now, especially with her sexy boss.

  Punishing The Professor

  by J. Carron

  Harriet stood at the front door of the museum, arms folded tight against her chest. She checked her wristwatch for the umpteenth time and scowled.

  The minutes ticked by slowly. The tiny courtyard was empty. A light breeze rustled through fallen leaves, sending them scurrying for cover beneath the ornate stone cloisters. The daylight was fading and it was getting colder.

  ‘Where the hell is he?’ she muttered, a piercing shiver running the length of her body.

  She should be well on her way home by now, heading back to her cosy apartment. There was a bottle of wine in the fridge and a flick on TV she wanted to watch. But here she was, still at the museum long after the last visitors of the day had taken their leave.

  She heard footsteps on the cobbles beyond the courtyard. But it was a false alarm, a tourist had taken a wrong turning. He spotted the ‘closed’ sign, turned on his heels and retreated into the gloom. Harriet prised her stiff arms apart, rubbed her hands together and blew hard on the pale white flesh.

  Silently she cursed the curator. He was the one who had left her here to greet the out-of-hours visitor. Of course, he was very sorry to land it on her at the last minute, but he had plans, an engagement he just couldn’t cancel at such sort notice. She had plans too, not that he paid any attention.

  She cursed the visitor too, even though she knew very little about him. The curator said he was an academic, making a flying visit to view an exhibit or two as part of a research project. She closed her eyes and dipped her head. The prospect of spending her evening – yes, her evening – baby-sitting a stuffy scholar in a draughty museum sapped the last vestiges of strength from her aching bones. Why could he not visit during opening hours, like everyone else?

  Harriet glanced at her watch again. She decided she would give him another minute. Then she was off. She would deal with the curator and any repercussions tomorrow, when she was slightly warmer, and a lot less pissed off. For now, the academic and his precious study could swing.

  Retreating back into the building, Harriet gathered her coat, hat and gloves and set the security alarm. She left the building, pulling the heavy front door closed behind her. But just before the latch was due to click into place, she heard footsteps behind her. She turned to see her visitor jogging across the courtyard.

  Harriet cursed again, the expletive muffled by the high lapels of her jacket.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ the man puffed, stopping to catch his breath. ‘My flight was delayed.’

  If only I’d been a minute or two quicker off the mark, she thought, releasing her grasp on the door handle. She tried to muster a welcoming smile, but the effort was too much.

  ‘Come in,’ she muttered, reluctantly pushing the door open again.

  Harriet disabled the intruder alarm and slapped the lights on. As the neon strips flickered into life, she noticed the man was younger than she had expected. He didn’t look like a stuffy professor. In fact, he was quite presentable. He wore denim jeans, a black roll-neck jersey and a black leather jacket. He dumped a scruffy leather satchel and overnight bag on the reception desk and extended a hand.

  ‘My name’s Robert Hale,’ he smiled. ‘I hope I haven’t put you to too much trouble.’

  ‘Harriet,’ she replied, still scowling, her expression evidence, if it were needed, he had.

  ‘My curator said there are a couple of exhibits you want to see,’ she said frostily, ever mindful he was eroding her free time.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘But first I need to make myself comfortable. I haven’t stopped since I left the airport.’

  She sighed. ‘The toilets are along the corridor.’

  He sauntered off and Harriet stood, tapping her fingers in frustration on the reception desk, edgily awaiting his return. Five minutes later he was back, smiling cheerfully.

  ‘That’s better.’

  ‘Can we get on now?’

  Either he failed to spot the abrupt tone, or chose to ignore it. He retrieved his satchel, opened it and slowly sifted through the contents. Harriet felt her irritation mount as the minutes ticked by. Eventually he pulled out a notebook and some photocopies. He handed one to her.

  ‘I’d like to start with this one.’

  She recognised the exhibit immediately.

  ‘Follow me.’

  She led him from the foyer into the main room of the museum, walking briskly, her heels clacking impatiently across the wooden
floor. Robert Hale lagged behind. This angered her even more, but she bit her tongue. He loitered, his intent gaze surveying the pictures gracing the black walls. Most were crude line drawings. They depicted scenes of slaughter, of human suffering, of agony and torment. Swords and axes, wielded aloft by grinning, manic-eyed men, lopped off heads and limbs at will. Men were hung, drawn and quartered. Women were burned at the stake, or drowned in ponds. And every picture showed great grinning crowds gathered to witness the medieval mayhem.

  The museum also housed the physical evidence, the historical contraptions of execution and torture employed down the ages by the ruthless, the bloodthirsty and the plain sadistic.

  ‘What do you think of our little collection, Mr Hale?’ Harriet asked in an attempt to hurry him along.

  ‘Professor Hale,’ he pointed out.

  ‘Professor Hale,’ she repeated grudgingly.

  ‘Remarkable, even if some of the interpretative material is a little questionable.’

  Harriet stopped in her tracks. ‘Questionable?’

  ‘A little ghoulish, one might say.’

  ‘One might, but it appeals to our visitors.’

  Harriet knew that most of the people who visited the Museum of Torture were drawn through the doors by a primitive urge to see blood and gore. They were the type who slowed to view the aftermath of a road accident or motorway pile-up. The exhibits were designed to shock. No apology was made for that. But there was an historical context too, an important role in the creation of civilised society.

  Rarely did academia grace the place with its hallowed presence. Harriet guessed this was why the curator was so keen to accommodate Professor Robert Hale. Perhaps the old fool thought it would lend some gravitas to his tacky tourist haunt. As far as she was concerned, if Professor Robert Hale didn’t like the ‘questionable’ captions, he could fuck off.

  She slapped her hand unrepentantly on hard wood.

  ‘Here it is, the exhibit you were so keen to see – the rack.’

  The professor approached the gruesome implement with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. He began furiously scribbling notes on his little pad, pausing occasionally to run his fingers over the polished oak, the worn leather cuffs, the rollers, the handles and the cogs.

  ‘It’s a very fine piece,’ he whispered. ‘Used during the Spanish Inquisition.’

  She nodded. The ‘questionable’ caption said as much.

  ‘Is that you finished then?’ she asked hopefully.

  ‘I’ve only just begun.’

  Her heart slumped. She was in for a long and tortuous night herself.

  Several long minutes dragged by before the professor spoke again. ‘I have a small favour to ask,’ he said. ‘Will you put me on the rack?’

  ‘Sorry?’ Harriet was confused. She wasn’t sure she heard him right.

  ‘As part of my research I want to get a feel of what it was like for the unfortunate souls who were forced to undergo such horrific torture,’ he explained.

  ‘Well…’ she hesitated. ‘I’m not sure if that is… er… really possible.’

  ‘You would be assisting me in my research,’ he pointed out.

  Reluctantly Harriet agreed. She remembered the curator’s instruction – afford him every courtesy. With any luck he’d hop up, hop down and hop off out of the place. But as soon as she uttered the word ‘OK’, the professor darted out of the room, slightly flustered, telling her he’d be back in one minute.

  In his absence, she set the rack up, unbuckling the wrist and ankle cuffs in preparation. It wasn’t the first time she’d racked someone up: she often did it for the tourists. It was all part of the interactive museum experience. What she wasn’t prepared for, however, was the professor’s return. He re-entered the room wearing what appeared to be an old-fashioned nightgown. Tied loosely below the neck, the cotton garment hung to his knees. He spotted the look of bewilderment on Harriet’s face straight away.

  ‘It’s for authenticity.’

  She was barely able to stifle a snigger. He was, she grudgingly admitted to herself, a handsome and well-built man. But frankly he looked ridiculous in this absurd get-up.

  Mindful of the time, Harriet gestured towards the rack and the professor climbed on, lying face down.

  ‘You should be the other way up,’ Harriet pointed out.

  ‘A common misconception,’ he replied. ‘Many victims of this cruel device lay face down.’

  Harriet awaited further explanation, but it was not forthcoming. She buckled the cuffs tightly around his wrists and ankles. She pulled one of the wrist straps rather too forcefully, causing the professor to exhale sharply. It gave her a little feeling of satisfaction. That’ll teach you to keep me hanging around all night, she thought.

  ‘I’m ready to be stretched,’ he said. ‘But not too far; I don’t want any dislocated limbs.’

  ‘Is that not the whole point?’ Harriet mouthed the words silently to herself as she gripped the great wooden handle that turned the rollers. Slowly she rotated it. It was easy at first, but more pressure was needed as the professor’s joints began to elongate and then finally stretch, the muscles tightening.

  ‘Ooh!’ he exclaimed.

  She stopped. ‘Is that enough?’

  ‘Keep going.’

  Harriet did. It was a rather liberating feeling, knowing she could, if she wanted to, inflict real pain upon the pompous professor. She recalled the moment he curtly corrected her when she addressed him as ‘Mr Hale’ and gave the handle a sharp twist.

  Hale yelped. Harriet stepped back and noticed his arms and legs were at full stretch. The muscles in his shoulders and calves were as taut as the strings on a Stradivarius and the nightshirt was riding up his back. He wasn’t wearing any underpants and the pale flesh of his white buttocks was starting to show. Harriet quickly averted her curious gaze.

  ‘Are you OK?’ she asked, worried she may have gone too far.

  ‘Fine,’ he whispered breathlessly.

  ‘I’ll roll it back.’

  ‘No,’ he protested.

  ‘Victims often had pain inflicted upon them while they were on the rack. I want to feel that too,’ the professor said.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘A riding crop, a stick, something like that,’ he suggested.

  ‘You want me to hit you?’

  His head nodded between rigid shoulders. Harriet hurriedly scoured the museum for suitable implements. Afford him every courtesy. She repeated the words in her head as she laid hands on a wooden paddle and a whip, the sort of things every good torture museum has lying around.

  Harriet eyed them cautiously; she wasn’t sure which to use first. She opted for the paddle. It was about the size of a table tennis bat, but without the blessing of rubber padding. She patted the rigid wood against Hale’s buttocks.

  ‘Harder,’ he said.

  She tightened her grip on the shaft and, with a flick of her wrist, brought it down sharply. The professor’s body tensed and he let out a dull groan. Harriet wavered.

  ‘Again,’ he muttered insistently.

  Smack, smack, smack, the slap of wood against flesh echoed through the empty hall.

  Harriet smiled. God that felt good. She was enjoying herself. The tension and frustration of the evening was ebbing from her uptight body with every sadistic stroke. The nuisance of being kept waiting, the irritation of those five long minutes in the washroom, her annoyance at his condescending attitude towards the tags on the exhibits. And it was all in the name of academic research.

  Smack, smack, smack, alternating between buttocks, the flesh reddening as she flicked the paddle up and down. The professor beseeched her to continue. He had really asked for it now and there was nothing he could do to stop her, his hands and feet were bound. The heady feeling of power was intoxicating. She realised she had complete control over him, this learned man, this educated man of words and books, lying helpless before her.

  Harriet dropped the paddle an
d took up the whip.

  ‘Why have you stopped?’ the professor asked, unable to see her actions.

  He had dictated to her long enough.

  ‘I’m in charge now,’ she said, running the tails through her fingers, preparing herself for the first lash. She was immersing herself in the role of captor. She would decide when it came, not him. That was the pleasure for her. He was the one on the rack and she was the one dishing out the punishment.

  The professor remained completely still, bracing himself for the unknown. Harriet raised the whip above her head. She held it there for a lingering moment, watched his cheeks clench in anticipation. Then she brought it down, tails whipping across the bare flesh. Hale’s body recoiled.

  ‘Do you want me to do it again?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  Harriet flicked the whip up and down, up and down. Hale’s buttocks rolled in torment until at last he pleaded: ‘Stop!’ His bottom was glowing a rosy shade of rouge.

  She laid the whip down and relaxed. Her breathing was fast and shallow. She felt her heart pound like a caged beast trapped beneath her ribcage. She rolled back the rack and released the professor’s hands and feet. He eased himself up and sat uncomfortably. To her astonishment, she spotted an obvious protuberance below his nightshirt. He had an erection.

  Harriet was uncertain how to respond. This was supposed to be academic research. He knew she had seen it. It was impossible to miss. He looked a little embarrassed. Moral indignation must surely be in order. But she was aroused too, there was no denying the satisfying warmth now radiating between her legs.

  ‘There’s another exhibit you should see,’ Harriet prompted, no longer quite so eager to see him off the premises.

  They crossed the floor together, Hale trying unsuccessfully to conceal the bulge of his groin. He was limping slightly after his time on the rack. She introduced him to a set of stocks.

  ‘This ought to perk you up a bit,’ Harriet said, no pun intended.

  She stepped up to the instrument of restraint. ‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to give this one a go.’