Birthday

Ch 2

Brett entered the room through the same door. He wore loose fitting cotton pants, held up at the waist by a cord. His shaved chest was bare showing off his muscles. He approached the stage. Olga took a cat out of the chest and showed it to me. It was a real torture instrument; the hide strips hung ominously from its business end were not the soft cabretta or even velvet found for sale in adult toy stores. My eyes opened wide on seeing this; this thing could maim if used carelessly. Had it been anyone else wielding the whip, but Brett or Olga I would probably have cut Lynette out of her bindings right then and there. I might have succeeded too.

Brett took up the whip while Olga, watching me through her large, exotic eyes, said:

“One hundred lashes,” she paused briefly for unneeded effect, “on her back, and thighs.”

“Are you crazy?” I interrupted, “there is no way she can take that!”

“Yes she can,” Brett simply said.

I could see in Olga’s face that she wasn’t as sure of that as her husband.

“It has all been arranged already Pete. She agreed to all of this,” then, to Lynette, she added. “Count them dear.”

Lynette nodded, “I’m ready,” she said with a quaking voice.

I stood looking at my girlfriend, hanging from her wrists, her hands clenched into useless fists, her legs trembling from fear, or from trying to hold her weight on her toes, I couldn’t tell. I could see the tears brimming in her eyes; I could feel my all too visible erection pulling at the fabric in my pants. Through my shirt sleeve I felt Jane’s hand lying lightly on my arm. Once more I caught a whiff of Lynette’s acrid fear, mixed with the musky aroma of an aroused woman, not hers; Jane’s, I guessed.

The hide tails crashed across her back, the sharp ends flicking at her shoulder. She screamed, her fists pulling desperately at the ropes holding her up. I saw more than fear in her eyes. I saw panic, sheer, cerval panic; I could swear she would have stopped it at that first cruel cut of the whip. If she could…

“Say your safeword!” I ordered.

“There isn’t any,” Jane whispered at my ear, “she cancelled it.”

“One,” Lynette said.

She only grit her teeth with the next few strokes, although the splat of the tails cutting into the skin of her upper back told me that Brett was not sparing her. She closed her eyes every time the leather bit into her flesh, but opened them immediately after and always, looking at me. I saw the pearls of sweat beading on her face, and felt the sting of salt in my eyes.

“Fifteen,” she screamed.

My shirt was soaked despite the air conditioning; I removed it. I could bear the weight on my pelvis no more yet, I could not bear the idea of Jane blowing me, right there, in front of Lynette. I could not bear the thought of her seeing me, enjoying Jane’s mouth, spilling my seed into her, while she hung from her ropes and suffered the sting of the cat.

I moved to her back; the sight of her ruined back, purple and red welts, with spots of crimson blood where the sharp leather edges cut into her soft skin, cooled my ardors for a second; then my cock again demanded its dues. I gestured towards the floor. Jane slipped her dress off at the shoulders. It flowed over her young body before making a puddle on the floor around her feet.

I was right; it was the smell of her arousal that I noticed, just before the session started. She knelt before me and took my hard on between her lips. I barely felt her tongue, licking and sliding along the shaft, nor did I see her face as she swallowed my entire length. My eyes were riveted on Lynette’s back, mesmerized by the bright reflection of the halogen lights on the white skin of her back, where it hadn’t been turned into purple corduroy, and the tiny droplets of her sweat that splashed from her body with each cut of the whip.

“Twenty five,” she gasped.

I held on to Jane’s hair as my cock erupted, of its own volition, in the depths of her mouth. I looked down, surprised, to see her, working her throat, swallowing my spunk, while deep inside me, I came, and came, in a never ending orgasm. Only after I was done did I realize that Brett has stopped whipping Lynette and that Olga stood by her side, offering her a glass of chilled orange juice which she drank greedily through a straw.

I approached her, meaning to kiss her, to embrace her, during this break in the proceedings but Brett stopped me, handing me a cane.

“You are not to comfort her in any way,” he said. “The only way you may touch her is with a whip, or a cane. You may add to her pain, but not comfort or relief.”

I looked at the cane, not understanding.

“We will follow her instructions,” he continued, “to the letter. You, on the other hand, may hit, whip or abuse her as you wish; Lynette is yours, after all.”

I looked at her tortured body, hanging from her wrists, her hands turning purple from the prolonged suspension.

“She said that?”

“In as many words,” Brett answered, “you may use any instrument in the chest, on her, at any time, on any part of her body; or any other instrument you wish.”

The dark wooden chest beckoned from the darkness outside the stage. I dared not approach it, I dared not look inside.

I stood beside Lynette, watching her breasts rise and fall in time with her labored breathing; I slowly moved to the front, where she caught sight of me. Her eyes sought my face, I gazed deep into the deep brown pools and, to my surprise, I saw the mask of pain relax, and her lips turn into the sweetest possible smile.

“Let us continue,” said Brett.

“I am ready.”

I remained there, inches from her face, where I could feel her sweat splat on me with every stroke of the whip and smell her sweat and her fear. I heard her grunt with pain and whimper the number of each stroke.

“Thirty five.”

I was erect again.

“Forty.”

Painfully erect. Unbidden, Jane knelt in front of me, and in front of Lynette, and took me again in her mouth. Of course, if Lynette did not want me to use Jane, she would not have arranged for her to service me while she suffered for my sake. She tried to say something, but did not have enough breath but for the number.

“Forty five.”

Her eyes looked at me and at Jane at my feet. Her mouth curved into a smile. I could not hold her gaze however and averted my eyes, after a moment. I saw Olga, standing to the side, her hand creeping under her short leather dress. I noticed her open lips, and the heave of her breasts straining at the tight top of her outfit.

“Fifty.”

Brett dropped the whip and moved behind his wife. Obediently and eagerly, she dropped on all fours and took him; whether in her ass or pussy I could not tell. He fucked her savagely, until he came, deep inside her body. She, her eyes rolled back in her head, was in a world all of her own.

It seemed Lynette would have to wait for her orange juice.

My second orgasm of the night over, I pulled Jane to her feet.

“Give Lynette some juice,” I ordered, wondering if it would be allowed.

With a couple of drops of my come shining at the corner of her mouth, Jane brought the cold glass to Lynette’s face. She drank the cool, sweet drink, between gasps of breath. I stood behind Jane as she slowly finished the juice. Her hair had turned black with her sweat, and chills racked her body.

“Are you ready,” Brett had recovered from his exertions.

“I am ready,” she whispered.

“We shall do your thighs now.” I saw her hands clench again on the ropes.

Her screams, as the cat’s tails bit on the soft, virgin skin of the back of her thighs, were shriller than anything that had come before. The skin on the back of a woman’s thighs is thinner, softer, and more delicate than on her back. The strokes, falling on virgin flesh, previously untouched by the whip, unprepared, hurt more and cut deeper. My beloved screamed louder, her eyes wide open, her lips pleading for mercy, but expecting and receiving none. I watched her, unbelieving that she would put herself through such agony, of her own free will, while making sure that no reprieve was possible.

“Seventy,” her voice, torn by what seemed like hours of continuous screaming, was no more than a rough rasp by now.

Her head thrashed from side to side, her wet hair spraying rivulets of sweat.

“Seventy…five.”

I was erect once more; the sight of Lynette’s martyred body, her shredded back, the red stripes and purple welts on her thighs, turning me on, yet again. How well did she know me, to perceive that I would enjoy this degree of abuse on her, so much? I shook my head, amazed. After drinking, Lynette recovered a bit. Again her eyes sought me, and noticed, I’m sure, my hardened cock, sticking out of my shorts; my pants having been discarded some time ago. At least, that’s what I thought her wan smile was all about.

Brett, tired after swinging the cat seventy five times, handed off the whip to Olga. I’d seen her swing a whip before and knew that Lynette would get no mercy from her. She could swing a whip with as much gusto as any man. She looked at me before starting and said:

“I’m sorry.”

Then she asked Lynette:

“Are you ready?”

This time, she had no voice left to spare, she nodded, once, before letting her head hang from her shoulders; her hands no longer grasping the ropes that held her up.

She barely whimpered when the cat’s tails crashed against her back and thighs. Her limp body just hung from the ropes, her knees bent in surrender. The unintelligible noises that she made, after every lash, were her efforts at counting the strokes. Jane and I echoed the last ten for her benefit.

“One hundred!” Brett, Olga, Jane and me said, simultaneously.

It was over.

Not really.