While her hands still sought a purchase, he slapped the three inch belt across the small of her back and cinched it tight. By the time she’d recovered sufficient presence of mind to resist, he had her forearms on the rests with a strap over each wrist and another pinning down her elbows. He took his time with her legs, settling them into the concave arms so the thighs were snug against the chill column, strapping the ankles and knees tight enough to make her wince.
To quell his mounting excitement, Adam turned his attention to Peter, probably the worst means of restoring calm that he could have devised.
When Peter had swung out the black-leather padded bench he would be using, Adam had had no conception of the creative use it would be put to. Petra was flat on her back or as flat as she could be, still turkey-trussed with her head towards the wall. The weights and chains had been removed to make way for more cord, which ran up from the nipple clamps, through rings high on the alcove wall and back down to her ankles. Her legs were straight and lifted past the vertical, so that constant effort was needed to maintain the position.
Putting the finishing touches to his handiwork, Peter took up the slack until the tips of her breasts were stretched to elongated peaks. Adam had a sudden vision of her legs collapsing from cramp and her nipples ripping off with a corkish pop! No wonder her jaw was clamped with strain, though when she turned her head he saw an unmistakable light in her eyes.
Peter place a hand tenderly on his wife’s cheek and rotated her head back for another of those lingering, loving kisses.
Adam tugged at the legs of his briefs, settling the elastic more comfortably on his thighs. The Lycra cling had suddenly become hot and confining.
***
Eva felt quite comfy once her body heat had warmed the pedestal. True. it fitted a mite snugly into her groin and armpits, but at least her circulation was unimpaired. And she wasn’t totally blind, either. For the silk was so light that even the bag’s double layer wasn’t wholly impervious to light. But she saw through a fog, darkly: only distinct shapes and contrasting shades. Clearest were Adam’s briefs, standing out like a Black Hole in pale space, while Peter’s only identifiable feature was his tools kit, hanging in the air like a monster tomcat’s furball. She vaguely discerned Petra as a dollop of topping on a Pontefract cake, but couldn’t work out why she seemed so misshapen. She realised with some amusement that she had been drumming her fingers on the rests. It seemed suicidally ridiculous to show impatience when she’d be fully occupied all too soon. With the hangman’s hand on the lever, there’s little point in hopping up and down on the trap.
What, she wondered, would this new Eva be like? Would she like her? When he saw his creation, would Adam? Time would tell. For this was no longer simply a disciplinary affair: It was the overture to a domestic drama destined to run for years and years. And years.
Footsteps moved away. Then came a woody rattle. The steps returned. A swish! Another. Testing strokes. He was priming a cane. Warming it up. It sounded wicked. Her buttocks cringed beneath crawling flesh. She wanted to cry out, to plead. But no sound would pass her parched and swollen throat., She contracted her stomach. Perhaps, just perhaps, he might take pity, if only she could make herself throw up!
Chapter Six
Peter stared, his attention on Eva’s slender frame. Her frailty stirred his rapacious instincts: age-old responses to exposed, unguarded throats. Each lithe curve was a masterpiece of nature’s art, culminating in the neatest, sweetest little peach of a pussy he’d ever seen. Running a close second for the noble prize for pulchritude, though, were those flawless buns. hemispheres of shameless sin; sweeping golden vistas adorned with her Master’s brand, between which nestled every man’s folly.
What wouldn’t he give to be Lord of that Manor of Loveliness! Even if only briefly, by droit de seigneur. He’d soon have her impaled on his pike. Fill her with steaming, spurting spunk until it burst from every pore.
Yet all he could do was watch while the New Man, gauche and unproven, abused sophisticated implements to crush her spirit. No expert’s touch there. No subtle guiding through the vale of tears until, in thrall to the kissing, flicking whip, the escarpment was conquered and the plateau of pleasure attained - a prize known only to those who make the psychic journey beyond the body’s limits. No, none of that. Just brute force and surfeit of enthusiasm.
He sighed quixotically and, loosening the cords which cleaved Petra’s crotch, set about ordering his own affairs. Okay, so his time was past. It was some small consolation, at least, that whatever damage Adam did that day was unlikely to prove irreparable. There could still be scope for a mature man’s contribution.
***
That part of Petra’s mind not occupied with her own torments was - oddly enough - in sympathy with Peter. Premature flagellation was a novice’s disease and, to her, an unconscionable vice. She hoped Adam would resist the temptation to go too fast, only to end up shooting his load wastefully over her painstakingly polished floor.
Restraint would pay dividends to them all. The lad was bright enough, if only his hormones would sacrifice a quick thrill for a long term advantage.
Peter’s nervousness was already apparent and her heart went out to the old bugger, who tried so damn hard yet for whom each step was such a monumental effort.
She flexed her knees a jot, sending a fresh lightning bolt of pain through nipples which resembled umber marquees atop pallid mountain peaks. The waiting was the worst part; all wrapped up and no way to throe!
***
It was difficult to imagine any similarity between bamboo - that stuff you prop up sweet peas with - and the supple rattan wand Adam flexed so wonderingly. It was thin. And clean. The ultimate weapon, dedicated to its purpose. He did as Peter had advised, bending and swishing it with a short flick of the wrist to ease the fibres.
“Get your position right.”‘ Peter had said. “‘Use a steady, even swing. Don’t go overboard. Aiming will take care of itself so long as you relax. Oh, and follow through. Do all that and what have you got? An impact like an explosion. Gratifying, lad. That’s what it is. Gratifying!”
Adam took up his stance alongside Eva’s trammelled body, his working arm in line with her thighs. Edging backwards until his outstretched fingertips were level with her hip, he wiped the palm on his briefs and took an easy grip on the cane. “Don’t throttle it! Think of it as a day-old chick: one squeeze and it’s all over.”
He touched the wood tentatively to the crown of her cheeks. Eva’s head came sharply round, the hood sucking to her mouth and nostrils, her buttocks tensing expectantly. He gave them a little tap before swinging his arm up and away. Eyes on the target, he let out half a breath - and swung !
Thwip!
Too stiff. And no follow through.
He repeated the procedure: Tap; Up and away; Swing - Thwip!
Breathe, damn you. Don’t hold it!
Again: Thwip!
She yelped.
Thwip!
Good. That felt better. Almost as if it was what his arm was meant for.
THWIP!
“Aaah!’’ Unmuffled by the silk, her appreciation was clear as a level, white-rimmed scarlet slash welled into view.
THWIPP!
Superb! Spot on! Felt good right through the swing.
Some things will never change. Possibly the world’s most resisted piece of conditioning is the metrification of corporal punishment. Centimetres may be tolerable, but ‘five of the best’ insults everything the civilised world stands for. So, reasonably happy with his first foray, Adam took a break, pleasure and relief writ large on his face.
Peter took that as his cue. Holding up a small cat, its handle barely a hand’s width long with several short, wrinkled strands dangling from it, he waited until comprehension dawned on Adam’s face. It was rubber! A novelty? Some mascot? Or a no
stalgic reminder?
Petra watched him looming like a giant beyond the Lilliputian valleys dividing her tits and thighs. Only the small arcs at the base of her buttocks were accessible - along with the entire length of each lusty leg, of course, but her husband could make a little go the whole way. His priorities were obvious: to start in the middle and work out and down, over and round. She made a conscious effort to relax, minimising the muscular tension. Without a gag to bite down on she’d be jerking soon enough, making the time in which she could savour the flavour of pain too precious to waste.
Peter flipped the rubber tendrils into a fan across her pubes, where they stuck to the moistly pink skin. With delicate little tugs he trailed them along the trim incision, over the peeping petalled inner-lips to fall in a heap before her anal shrine. Then up again, tickling and teasing; waiting. Back and forth; tickle and tease; wait; listen. Moments became minutes as her nerve endings awoke to the tacky, tingling latex drag. Then he heard it: a sigh. Of submission to the Inevitable. Of transported languor. A soft exhalation of contentment. The fire was lit. All that remained was to place the pan on the hob and, stirring constantly, bring the mixture to a brisk boil.
Using a quick backhand flick he lashed down at her defenceless quim. A soggy Splot! Betokened the flaccid tubber impacting viscid flesh. And again: Splot!
Her bum was at the very end of the bench, so there was no impediment to the increasing ferocity of his wing. Soon the air was punctuated by staccato Splots!
Damage was minimal, causing nothing more alarming than a crimson blotch in places never meant to see the light. He larruped the length of her slit and on to the perineum. Her anus puckered deeply as the flick approached: Spl-Spl-Spl-Spl-Spl-Splot!
Whirling tips scoured the delicate embrasure like barbs, striking sparks of incandescent pain. Spl-Spl-Spl-Splot ! Splot ! Splot! Splot! Splot!
Now he aimed. Deliberate, sure slashes where they’d hurt most. Splot! Splot! Splot!
Asshole burning, Petra gnawed her lip. She fought her body as it registered the pain nibbling along her spine threatening her reserves, overwhelming her self-control. Tearing the lip free, she ground her teeth in a final failing effort as the tender flesh rejected her denial.
“Nnnnnnnn-UUUUUUUUGH!”
She lost at last! Pushing back with her head she arched, then bucked her hips lust once, desperate to evade the cat. Her legs bobbed, bouncing against the cord which tethered her tits. The tightly trussed mammaries took the strain, yielding only at the tortured teats.
“Oh! Ooo-Ahh!”
Suffering from both ends at once. Petra sought stillness, equilibrium. Her arms could twist only slightly, but she strained to turn her hands so the fingers could grasp her flesh. Pinching hard, she kneaded a counter-irritant out of her back. Only pain fights pain; her self-administered jolt neutralising the inflicted agony which would break her down, eventually cast her into the red-gold flames which seared her crotch and flooded her belly with ecstatic ructions.
Peter ceased abruptly.
Adam understood. Finally. It was more than bare bodies he saw. Souls were being exposed to his wondering gaze. Inexpressible needs were being revealed as veneers were pared away. The absolute rock bottom equation - Domination equals Subjugation - was shown to be fallacious. They weren’t equal and opposite at all.
Domination WAS subjugation. Personified in Master and Mastered!
He laughed. The revelation lifted the veil of doubt which had obscured his vision for so long. It was bloody well existential, that’s what it was! It had taken a communion misjudged as perverse, by ‘normals’ obsessed only with girlie magazine fantasies of voyeurism and promiscuity, to open his eyes. There was no abuse here. No rape of mind or body. And it would have been as moving if Petra had taken a dominant role. This was an affirmation of one-ness, not a battle of the sexes.
“What?” asked Peter, alert to ridicule.
“I was thinking,” Adam answered. “You could write what I know on the tip of a whip. May I examine your work?”
“Go ahead.”
Petra’s plump privates sported a cherry red inflammation from mons to muck-spreader. Driblets of moisture speckled the crinkled leaves like fairy lights adorning the secret entrance to an enchanted world.
Adam was choked by a feeling of empathy, unreservedly conceding his good fortune in finding such friendship. Shorn of his presumptions, no longer an idle follower, he turned back to Eva. Her faith would be duly honoured as he plumbed the depths of their psyches.
***
Adam’s enlightenment meant sweet fuck all to Eva. Aimless activity plus trifling dialogue merely added up to more neglect. Detected, she felt like yelling out that she did exist, didn’t they know? And surely Fated some attention?
But she didn’t, still cautious of the hangman’s twitchy arm.
Only the last two strokes still stung, so It hadn’t been a demanding initiation, What had surprised her. though, was the strength of the urge to rub her smarting cheeks. As if she could spread the pain more thinly and make it more bearable. Odder still, she could actually detect the break in sensation where the cane had traversed the ruga, leaving a narrow void in which distant stars twinkled coldly.
She jumped. A hand was at her throat. Another gagging? The hood was pulled off and she saw Adam’s legs beside her. Without speaking he ruffled her hair before replacing the hood and turning away, carrying the black-pouched package out of sight, though not before she had seen what trouble Petra had got herself into and noting that it had had a marked effect on Peter’s penis which at long last bayed at the moon.
She turned back to her own problems with a THWIPP!
Adam had rejoined the fray with a cut which ran straight and true, exploding on her sleek bottom like a torpedo. She was sunk.
***
In minutes the whole focus of Adam’s intention had changed. His superficial fixation with delivery and impact had given way to an appreciation of the harmonies of punishment. His emergent perception weighed cause and effect out across her cheeks from each erupting stripe became a phenomenon of cataclysmic importance.
THWIPP! A low one, slicing across the tops of her thighs to elicit a strangled moan.
The view was rivetting. Still dappled with memories of yesterday, Eva’s birthday suit now boasted a layering of stripes worthy of Saville Row. Between the parted thighs the heart’s trimmed point boldly marked the treasure crevice - as if any but a blind man could have missed it. The trim hips moulded smoothly to the block with no hint, bulge or ruck to mar the symmetry. In all, as sublimely aesthetic as a carnal tableau could be.
THWIPP! And: THWIPP!
She ground her teeth. Such valiant fortitude deserved recognition, he decided. He’d have to devise a special treat in honour of her mettle.
THWIPP!
Her head jerked up. For an instant she possessed a sphinx’s air of profundity before she howled: “Nooooooooo Moooooorrrrr Pleeeeeeze!”
THWIIIPPP!
“Aaaaaaaaah!” she screamed, head bobbing frantically, fingers scrabbling vainly at the rests. That stroke had precisely overlaid an existing weal, Adam scoring off the second over with a fine cut to deep square leg.
Sensing another pause, she hung her head and mumbled incoherently to herself, indifferent to the saliva dribbling onto the hood from her slack mouth.
***
The break gave Peter the chance to take over from the other end again, with the ‘new ball’, a wooden paddle. The distressed condition of the foot long, six inch wide blade suggested an antique or at least a veteran of countless hard-assed campaigns. He prepared Petra by jamming the handle of the rubber cat between her teeth. Chomping meditatively, she was soon engrossed in contemplation of the matched grain of the ceiling panels.
Without warning he swung the paddle across her thighs and what little
was exposed of her buttocks, with an ear-splitting: BAATT!
“NNNH!” She almost bit the cat in half. No warm-up here; this was one item which gave no quarter.
BAATT!
“Ff fff . . . . !”
BAATT!
“SHHHHHH...!”
BAATT! Higher. Full on her meaty thighs.
BAATT! She spat out the cat as agony arched up from her quaking legs and down from her protesting boobs, colliding in a ball of unquenchable fire in her belly.
“AAAh ...” The cry shattered like crystal. Molten lava distended her womb whilst her body drifted in limbo, waiting, longing. For the thread. The umbilicus. Pl-ee-ze!
BBAATT!! The connection made, rainbows threaded her veins with myriad pulsing colours. Humbling heat scattered boiling tendrils from her core, shaking the fomenting fabric into convulsion.
“Aaaaaaaaaaah! - Aaaaaah!- Huuuuuuhhh! Unn-Unn.,, Uuuurr - UURRRRRRRR!-H-H-H Hhhhhh.....hhhh!” Bucking and twitching, she heaved into a cosmic climax which had the men staring in wonder. Legs, tits, body, everything shook, casting her further into oblivion. “HAAAAAA aaaaaa..” Breath gushed In a wracking sigh, signalling collapse. Residual tremors fluttered like after-shocks along a fault line, milking her flaring nerves.
Peter moved swiftly, deft twists releasing the nipple clamps to free the plush breasts.
Petra screwed up her eyes, grimacing with bright new pain as blood rushed back into the mashed teats.
Tying her legs direct to wall rings. he quietly watched the lolling mounds regain their ruddy tipped health.
***
Wage Slave Page 10