Birthday

Ch 4

I woke up late on Saturday. I reached out with my arm, to find Lynette, finding Jane instead. The memories of yesterday’s events, and my later exertions with Jane rushed back and I jumped out of bed, waking Jane up in the process. She got out of bed immediately too. She walked gingerly to the bathroom, probably as a result of my attentions in the early hours of the morning. Throwing a bathrobe on, I went down to the kitchen, thinking of paying Lynette a visit.

Brett was already up and about; when he saw me, he poured me a mug of coffee. The clock on the wall read 11:00.

“What’s the plan for today?” I asked.

“Yesterday we concentrated on her back,” he said, “today; we will devote our attentions mostly to her breasts.”

“I’ll go check on her,” I suggested.

“Don’t bother; Olga is taking care of her needs, right now. Festivities start at two; you’ll see her then, not before,” he replied. “Unless you want to beat her, of course.”

I shook my head.

Lunch was a light event, oysters on the half shell, truffle omelet and champagne. I decided to keep Jane nude, so we could all enjoy her beauty. It also allowed me to play with her breasts while she ate. I wondered how we would find enough things to do to Lynette’s breasts to last us the whole afternoon and evening. Yesterday, her whole back and thighs received the kiss of the whip, with only her ass being spared and that only to save it for the spicy dildo. The surface area today was much smaller, and the time available much longer. Lynette’s breasts were in for a long, hard day.

At one Olga excused herself to go get things ready. At my suggestion she took Jane to help her. As a matter of fact, Jane’s spunky nature, as well as her looks and thoughts of tonight’s show were getting me really horny and, had she stayed, I probably would, jump the gun, so to speak. Instead, I joined Brett for brandy and cigars while we waited for the show to start.

At two o’clock precisely, a nude Jane returned to call us down. We followed her down to the basement. They worked miracles on Lynette; she stood, in the lit center of the stage, looking, from the front, not much the worse for the wear. She stood, with her hands crossed behind her back which made her white, firm breasts jut out, crowned by her small, sensitive, brown nipples. Her curls fell on either side of her face in a cascade that might, just might, be natural. I felt an almost irresistible impulse to rush upon her and bite off one of those juicy, chocolate nubs that crowned her perfect mammaries. Her eyes were submissively looking at the hardwood floor in a manner that gave me an instant, raging hard on. I held on to Jane’s shoulders while I lightly let the swollen head toggle across her round bottom. She turned her head to look at me and gave me a smile that was not entirely free from apprehension.

Lynette showed an image of a, slightly nervous, submissive girl, anxiously awaiting the opportunity to entertain her master. That image vanished as soon as I caught a glance of her back. Cords of blue and purple crisscrossed her formerly cream shoulders. I did not dare look at her thighs, afraid of what I would find there.

Lynette sat down on a high backed chair and crossed her hands behind the stair back. Olga tied her wrists together behind the chair and, to my increasing alarm, fastened her elbows to the upright sides with leather straps and her waist to the bottom of the backrest with a belt .

Brett pulled a device I hadn’t seen before from the chest.

“A knotted knout,” he said, showing it to me.

From a wooden handle, lengths of rope hung, each sported a series of thick knots about an inch and a half apart.

“It bruises terribly,” he said, “but does not cut the skin.”

“We shall start with thirty strokes of the knout,” he said, “count them, Lynette.”

“I am ready,” she answered with a shaky voice.

By the third stroke, her legs kicked out so violently with each stroke of the knout that they threatened to overturn the chair.

“Fasten her ankles,” Brett ordered Olga

By the fifth stroke, Lynette’s pitiful screams had me almost over the edge. I bent Jane over the back of my armchair and plugged her puckered rear entrance with my painfully hard cock. Fortunately the spicy Vaseline I used yesterday (with a condom) on her had worn off; otherwise it might not have been pretty. Jane whimpered as I thrust, only a few times before my orgasm exploded in her bowels.

“Fifteen.”

Brett paused while Olga gave Lynette some water and dried her tears with a tissue. She took a little time to compose herself before she announced she was ready to resume.

I saw her back bow in and out with each stroke, her screams getting shriller and shriller. The knout certainly did not cut the soft skin of her breasts, but there was no question about the deep red bruises it left in its wake. Olga stood behind the chair, preventing any accidental fall and, with her hands on each side of her head, she caressed the smooth skin on Lynette’s cheeks.

“There, there,” she would say after each stroke.

“Thirty,” Lynette said, dropping her head on her chest, sobbing uncontrollably.

While she rested, Brett brought in a wood contraption on wheels. It was essentially a flat wooden shelf, on two supports. As he approached the sitting Lynette, it became obvious what the purpose of the device was. The shelf was exactly at the breast height. I got up and approached to see better.

Standing by Lynette, I could almost feel the heat from her body and the ragged breaths from her chest. I could smell her sweet odor and see each tear glisten on her eyelashes and tremble, for a brief instant before rolling down her velvet cheeks. Olga placed her breasts on the wooden shelf and picked up a small rubber mallet from the chest.

Brett sat down on one of the chairs, his silk pants not hiding his raging erection. I gestured towards Jane and he nodded. The blonde girl knelt in front of him and expertly began to lick and suck at his veiny cock.

Lynette’s whimpers brought my attention back to her breasts. Olga began to gently tap the nipples with the mallet, first one, then the other, and back again. Each stroke not too painful by itself but, on the bruised tissue, the repetitive blows of the mallet had to be excruciating. Soon the whimpers turned to screams, each one more pitiful, each one more desperate. Still, Olga continued to strike, each blow precise, measured, timed. And the screams and the tap tap tap of the hammer continued. My cock grew again, sticking out of my shorts, like a short spear. Lynette’s eyes were closed. I was grateful she could not see the effect her torture had on me. Embarrassed by my own reaction I moved a bit, to stand to the side and behind my beloved; where she would not see my arousal. I looked at Brett to see that Jane had finished getting him off and greedily licked the jism off his shaft.

The mallet continued to fall on Lynette’s now swollen nipples but her useless screams faded replaced by heartbreaking pleas for mercy; still Olga continued to pound on her brown nipples. Only when defeated, surrendered, Lynette’s head fell on her chest and she, inert now, received the punishment in silence, did Olga stop her relentless pounding.

The clock now read 5 o’clock. I wondered what would come next.

That’s when Olga brought the tapestry nails.

Six nails, three on each nipple. It turned out Lynette was still able to scream.

After her boobs were nailed to the shelf, Brett freed the shelf from its supports and left it hanging by the nails from Lynette’s nipples. With every breath, the shelf swayed from her breasts and Lynette squealed some more. Olga released her ankles, elbows and wrists helping her up. Lynette followed Olga to the bathroom, all the time holding up the shelf so it would not pull on her tortured nips any more than necessary.

Once she returned, Olga fastened her wrists behind her back. Ignoring her whimpers, she hanged the shelf from two nails on the wall. The shelf hung a little above her breasts so Lynette had a choice: Stay on tip toe, and suffer only a little pain from the nails or stand comfortably and have her breasts held and pulled up by the nails. Once she was placed inescapably in that predicament, we all left to go have dinner.

Lynette’s muffled whimpers followed us up the stairs.

Later, Brett released her breasts from the shelf. Judging by her squeals of pain, the nails may have hurt as much going out as they did going in.

One more item remained, it seemed, on today’s agenda:

After taking two loops of thick twine around the base of her breasts and drawing them tight, he threw several loops around each breast and tied them together. A rope, passing through a pulley on the ceiling, and hooked to the rope on her breasts announced the next event.

She squealed through clenched lips as her whole weight came to bear on her breasts. Amazed, I watched her swing slowly, dangling from breasts that seemed about to be pulled off her chest. Brett sat down on his chair and motioned me to do the same.

While she dangled, Olga and Jane presented us with snifters of brandy. Brett always had very fine cognacs in his home but I must admit that today, I could not tell the difference between a VSOP or one of the French rotgut that often fills our liquor stores. My mind was totally absorbed with Lynette’s breasts and her slow circular swinging from the rope. She remained absolutely still, suspended from her breasts, each movement, I presumed, magnifying her pain beyond human endurance.

When we finished our snifters, Olga released her. She fell to the floor crying, unable to support herself. She screamed even louder when Olga released her breasts from the rope. They were the color and shape of large aubergines. I wondered if they would ever return to normal.

What would tomorrow bring?