Birthday

Ch 5

I woke up in the middle of the night. The light from the full moon over the desert bathed the room in an eerie blue light. I rolled out of bed careful not to wake Jane up and went to the bathroom in the corridor. My balls hurt from all the action I’d had this weekend. I returned to the room; Jane still slept fitfully. Her ass probably still painful in her sleep from all the pounding I’d given it. I could not help it. Silently, I left the room and opened the door to the basement. The whole house was quiet.

I crept slowly and carefully down the stairs, placing my weight on the edges of each step rather than in the center, to avoid making a noise. I just had to see her. I reached the bottom. The basement was completely dark. None of the moonlight made its way here. I crouched by the base of the stairs for a while, I could hear Lynette’s fitful breathing but I could not see her.

After a while, I could see, in the center of the room a dark shape, the cot we’d used before I imagine. On it, there was a darker blob, Lynette, covered by a blanket, lying motionless on the hard surface. She appeared to be sleeping, or at least resting. She whimpered in her sleep, whether from the memories or the residual pains from the tortures she endured, I could not say. I crept back to the guest bedroom as silently as I left it.

Jane woke up when I entered the bed. Perhaps trying to avoid another assault on her sweet ass, she dove under the covers and took my half limp cock in her mouth. I held her head while rolling on my back and enjoyed her ministrations for a while. When I came, only a few drops of come spilled in her mouth. I released her head and she wearily rolled back to sleep.

After a few moments, so did I.

Sunday morning came, and it was to be the end of Lynette’s torture gift weekend. The grand finale, so to speak, would start at one.

At one o’clock, I made my way to the basement, Jane at my side. Lynette was already strapped to the cot, her wrists fastened to the straps on the side with a thick belt around her waist attaching her body to the table. Her legs were held splayed wide open by two stirrups, much like a gyno chair. Her ankles, knees and thighs were strapped in to the padded stirrups. Her mound had been shaved clean.

Her pussy was to be the target then.

A ball gag in her mouth rendered her mute, “her screams would be too loud otherwise,” Brett explained, “it would not do to hurt our ears.”

There was only one chair for me, placed, of course, right at the bottom of the cot, close enough to her pussy that I would not miss any of the action, yet far enough that I would not be in the way. I approached Lynette and looked into her face. Her wide open eyes rolled madly from side to side. Saliva bubbled on the sides of the ball gag. I wondered for how long she had been tied here.

“We shouldn’t keep her waiting anymore,” Olga said, picking up the knout.

The knotted ropes struck her exposed pussy with a dull thud. Her head shook in response to each stroke with such violence that I feared she would hurt herself. Brett, watching his wife deliver stroke after stroke must have had the same idea for he slid a thin pillow under Lynette’s head. Still Olga struck with the knout on Lynette’s pussy; rhythmically, methodically. The knots hit sometimes on the larger lips, sometimes in between, sometimes on the bone. All of Lynette’s skin shone with her sweat. I stretched out my hand to caress her breast, still purple from yesterday’s exertions but Brett held my wrist.

“You can’t touch her,” he said, “not with your bare hands.”

Olga finished striking her mound, “Thirty,” she said, and tossed the knout aside.

“What can I touch her with then?” I asked.

He handed me a pair of pliers.

I looked at the pliers uncomprehending.

“You can always increase her suffering,” he said, gesturing at Lynette with his head. “Don’t use them on her pussy, not yet.”

I looked at my beloved. She watched me, mute, with her deep brown eyes. I held the pliers in my hand where they burned like fire. She looked at me, holding my gaze.

She nodded.

She closed her eyes and arched her back, a muffled grunt escaping her lips when I crushed one of her nipples between the jaws of the pliers.

The pliers clattered on the wood floor. I sat on my chair, shaking my head.

Brett approached Lynette next. In his hands, a riding crop with a flapper at the end, the size of a movie ticket.

“Another thirty strokes, with the crop.”

Muffled, her eyes wild, drool dripping from her gagged mouth, Lynette could only thrash her head and torso about in response to the litany of cuts on her pussy. Her throat made desperate animal noises, turned by the gag into muffled groans. Her soaked hair splashed droplets of sweat on Brett and me. I could not take my eyes off her, nor did I fail to notice the charming way her firm breasts jiggled on her chest when she thrashed.

“I must tie her down and whip her like this more often,” I thought, and felt my cock straining at my pants at the mere suggestion.

“She has created a monster,” I mumbled to myself.

“What was that?” Jane, kneeling at my side, said.

“Suck me,” I ordered.

It did not take her long. I released my load in her mouth with a sigh of relief, just as Brett delivered the last cut of the crop to her tender folds of her cookie. His bare, shaved chest shone with sweat; he had not spared his strength and Lynette’s pussy showed it. It was criss-crossed with angry red welts and swollen beyond belief. If the knout had caused pain and suffering unseen, the crop showcased each and every cut on her vulva, magnified by three.

She needed to rest, and so did we. When Olga removed her gag, her whimpers filled the room. She accepted the water Olga offered, drinking it through a straw greedily, but as soon as she was done, her hair fell back on the thin pillow and her moaning resumed. I asked Brett if he would call it quits now, she seemed so close to the breaking point, if she wasn’t beyond it already.

“Not yet,” he answered, “there is one more thing that needs to be done.”

We let her rest for about an hour before returning to the basement. Her labia, swollen to epic proportions, covered her pussy.

“If he strikes them,” I thought, “they’ll burst like ripe peaches.”

Olga released Lynette’s hands. She did not replace the gag.

Brett took a thin whippy cane from the chest.

“She shall receive ten strokes from the cane,” he whipped it through the air for effect, “directly on her clitoris.”

I blanched.

He turned to Lynette, “Your labia are so swollen that I cannot reach your clitoris,” he explained, “You are  going to have to hold them open for me with your fingers.”

“I understand,” she answered.

With trembling fingers, she gingerly pulled at her labia, the very touch of her fingers unbearable; she pulled them sideways exposing her swollen clitoris.

“Pull the hood back,” Brett ordered.

She did so.

I closed my eyes.

A blood curdling shriek tore through the room and echoed on the bare walls. Her hands clenched empty air and her head banged on the bed through the ineffective padding of the pillow.

She had to do it nine more times.

I did not miss a single one of them.

Then it was over. Lynette cried and blubbered incoherently while Olga and Jane freed her from the table and, with a chilled washcloth, cleaned her privates, each touch bringing a further moan from her mouth. It took a long time, perhaps an hour for her to recover her sanity and to roll over, slowly, out of the cot. She did not sit on the cot as such, her swollen precluded such a position, but she leaned her buttocks, the only untouched area of her body, against the edge of the cot, finally able to stand.

She looked at me proudly. I gazed at her face, streaked by tears and her swollen eyes and admired the beauty and strength within. I kissed her lips, reluctant to embrace her body; she winced when my chest touched her swollen breasts.

“I love you,” I said.

“I know,” she answered.

“There is one thing I want from you,” Brett said, “for me, this time.”

“You have but to ask,” she answered.

“I have not touched you, all this weekend,” he said.

I could not believe he would want to fuck her, her pussy and vagina were so swollen that he might just rip all the tissues if he tried; even so, to my surprise, she answered:

“You can, if you want.”

“No, there is too much swelling there. What I’d like, is your ass. I want to fist your ass, if you’d let me.”

This was not in the script, I realized. I saw doubt cloud my beloved’s face and opened my mouth to object but she placed her fingers across my lips, silencing me.

She turned around, resting her torso on the cot, and separating her ass cheeks with her hands.

“Of course,” she said.

Olga brought a pot of Vaseline; the plain one this time, and coated his hand and forearm with it.

Lynette held her buttocks open for him as he began to penetrate her puckered brown hole, first with one and two fingers, then three. She tried to keep calm; I recognized her slow, deep breathing, from the times when I buggered her. Forming a cone with his fingers he began to push more and more of his hand into her rear and her breathing became faster despite her efforts. When the knuckles began to stretch her hole, her breathing turned into squeals of pain, but she still held her buttocks open for him. I watched, amazed at her control, at her discipline, at the deep well of submission that she was able to tap to endure this.

His hand was in up to the wrist, and still he kept pulling back, dragging her red membranes out around his fist, and thrusting back in, ever deeper, into her belly. Her hands did not budge. She held herself open for his hand, and then his arm. Only when his whole forearm was buried in her bum up to his elbow did he stop. He looked at me.

“It’s amazing,” he said.

“You’ll have to do it to her sometime,” he added, as he pulled his arm out.

“I hope you do,” she said to me, after her last scream.

I left her, at the Jones’ home, to recover. For the next two weeks, Jane served all my needs, willingly, even when I practiced fisting her ass. Then Lynette returned, and nothing was ever the same again.

The End.