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Ch 2: A punishment
In his hands, the crop.
“Forty today” He says; his only words to me today. He moves to my left.
I nod, close my eyes, and take a deep breath. I hear the hiss of the rattan crop through the air, and the crack against my skin, before I feel the burn of the first cut on my ass. I throw my head back but manage to contain my scream.
He waits for the burn to subside, a few seconds and then “Crack” a second cut on my ass. I stifle a whimper. A pause, then a third strike, I whimper again. It will get much, much worse. A fourth, a fifth, a tenth. I whimper with each strike. He stops.
I catch my breath. I see him on my right side now. I shudder. It will be my front now. He draws his arm back and strikes, before I can close my eyes. I scream. My right breast is on fire. The crop hit the top of my mound. I cannot help it and look down, to see the angry red stripe, crossing the front of my breast. He pauses, to let it sink. I know the drill; nine more on my right breast; the last three on the sensitive areola and the last one smack on the nipple. Again the crop falls, and again I scream; two stripes cross my breast, then three, then four; each one closer to my nipple; each one more painful, my screams more shrill, more pitiful. The fifth takes my breast at the bottom, where it joins my chest, then the sixth and the seventh. Sweat mixes with my tears. I have lost count, but Parker reminds me.
“The last three” He tells me, letting the anticipation build.
I am trembling in fear. He strikes, I scream. The top of my pink areola bears now a red stripe. A pause, I start screaming before the crop hits, and then a new stripe grows under my nipple. He stops for perhaps a minute. He lets me compose myself.
“You bastard” I think “Get it over with”
But I hold my tongue. Only whimpers come out of my mouth, until he strikes my nipple, with all his power. The rattan crop hits the tip of the nipple, I scream, maddened by the pain. A drop of blood beads from my nipple. My right breast is on fire. I shake my head.
Drops of sweat fly off my forehead. My wet hair has come undone and falls down my back. He moves a little forward. My left breast will now bear the brunt of his crop. I gaze at him. He stands, tall in his black vest and white shirt. He has loosened the neck of his shirt, but otherwise is as calm and collected as he was when he opened the door for me hours ago. His black pants, perfectly pressed, show the bulge at his crotch, but no erection there. Now if I was a guy, instead of a girl, it might be different. He takes aim and repeats the show, on my left breast. Is it my imagination, or is he hitting me harder?
I do not know. I am in a world of pain. Crack! Scream, Crack, scream. Until, again he warns me.
“The last three.”
He lets the seconds pass. He waits for me to recover and to open my eyes, and then, he strikes. I scream louder and louder, and he strikes again. Then the final stroke, on the tip of my left nipple. Blood drips slowly on my, formerly pink, areola.
The worst is yet to come. The last ten cuts will be on my pussy, which I perfectly shaved today, so there will not be even a hair between my skin and the crop. He needs a better shot at my pussy for his crop, so he takes me down. The beam lies on the floor. I sit down on the floor, on my freshly striped ass, as I prepare myself for the last torture. I fasten my ankles to the manacles on the beam then attach the ropes to my wrists. Once I am done I tell him:
“I am ready now”
He presses the button again and I am suspended, like before, but upside down. I am offering my pussy to the rattan crop. It is wide open. Like a flower, a rose about to be crushed, my lower lips await the rod. I am gasping for breath, I panic. I know I can’t take this. No one can. He takes his time.
“Get ready” he says.
How can I get ready? How can anyone? My pussy will be swollen for days after this. I sob. He waits. I must complete one more ritual before he will start.
“Please hit my pussy now” I must ask for it before he strikes my pussy.
“As you wish” He always answers.
The first horrible cut falls on my left labium. I scream and writhe violently. It takes me minutes to calm down. My labium throbs. He waits. Nine more to go and I must ask for each one of them.
I can’t. I can’t bear it. But I must.
“Please, hit my pussy again now” I ask again.
Thwack! And I scream again. And cry and sob. I wish I could tell him to hit me again and again, so it will be over, but I know I can’t. I must wait until the pain subsides, mostly, before I can ask for the next cut. And I do.
The first four strikes shred my left labium. The next four rip the right one. The last two will go on my clit. He waits for me to recover. It takes me a long time. My sobs and tears hardly let me breathe, let alone speak. Finally I calm down enough.
“Please hit my clitoris now, hard” I ask.
And he does.
Five minutes later I am able to ask for the last stroke.
“Please hit my clitoris again, harder”
And he does.
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