It was the Sunday before last.  Watching tv, I was bored to death and decided to give my slave, my wife, a bit of a work-out.

I instructed her to come with me down to the driveway at the back of the property.  When we first got married, she might have asked me why, or refused, or said it was too late.  But training a slave requires asking a little bit more of her every day.  And after 3 years of such training, any instructions are obeyed.  Sucking my dick, bending over so I may fuck her, letting my friends fuck her, making meals at 3.00am, all instructions are obeyed, without thinking.  Sometimes I wonder if she is a human being or just a robot.

I walked down to the back of the property and she followed obediently.  Walking two steps in front of me, so I could look at her clambering over the rocks and the weeds in her heels, just like I taught her.  Boots were the obvious footwear to use for this sort of ground, but I like the sight of my wife-slave stumbling:  makes her bum looks good too. 

I watched her bum as she stumbled.  Cheryl has a nice bum.  The skirt she was wearing was long, with light brown and various shapes of green, in large block patches.  Very autumnal.   Although a long skirt, it gripped her bum nicely, and occasionally I could see the line underneath her skirt, just under the point where her left thigh met her bum cheek, showing that she had on the mauve underpants that I bought her last Christmas.  She wore a thick white and sleeveless top, with no bra, just the way I liked it.  As I liked to see her stumble, I also liked to see her breasts move underneath her top.

We stopped near the old swing.  The swing itself had disappeared long ago, but there was just the frame left. 

“Stop here” I said. 

I spoke the words softly, in a normal voice.  Cheryl was well trained enough not to be shouted out, she just always obeyed.

“Undress – everything,” I said.

Again, she obeyed me without question, going on automatic, as she always did.

She looked down at the ground, as she was required to do when I gave her instructions to fulfil like undressing.

She removed her top first, which was a real turn-on.  Her tits dropped out as she pulled the white top over her head.  Seeing her stand their in the autumnal skirt and the heels, with her breasts exposed (it was a good, bright moon) was very erotic.  She folded the top and put it over a nearby wooden railing, almost as if it was put there for the sole purpose of being a clothes stand for undressing slaves.

She undid the tie to her skirt.  This skirt was an old Indian hippie wrap-around type of skirt, held up by a tie that goes around the waist and ties back on itself.  She unpicked the knot, letting the skirt fall down to her feet.  She pulled a foot out of the skirt, slowly so as not to snag on the heeled shoes.  She did the same with the other foot.  She was now naked except for shoes and panties.

The panties came down first, of course, exposing her complete lack of body hair, just like I like it.  Not only are shaven women more sexy, but it makes them more vulnerable.  And vulnerability is the sexist thing of all.

She stood now on her heels.  I almost told her to leave them on, so that she could totter all over the place – lovely vulnerability.  But I was silent and watched her continue.  I was very hard now.  

She balanced in a tottering fashion on one foot, as she undid the strap of a shoe, putting her free hand against the swing frame so to help her not fall over.  The shoe fell off, and then one hip was at a strange angle to the other, as she had one foot on the ground and one still in her shoe.  Her hips looked almost deformed, and for a strange reason that I won’t even explore, that was very hot for me.

She was now naked looking down.  I waited for her to look up or ask what I wanted her to do now, but she was too well-trained by now to consider anything so distrustful.  I got a rope from my backpack which I always took with me on these occassions.  Not a rope, actually, but a cord used for washing lines.  I love the look of the whiteness of the cord against her flesh.

I stood in front of her with the cord.  She put her wrists out, still looking down.  I tied the cord around one wrist, knotted it, then tied the other wrist to it.  That’s the best way to tie slave’s hands.

My breath was heavy now.   The combination of eroticism, the power rush, the expectation of what was to come, the feeling of my erection fighting against my clothes, had all combined into one great rush.

Under the swing frame, there were to hard plastic milk crates.  They were dark in the night light.  I instructed her to stand on top of each.  It would have hurt a little, because the lattice work of the crates was about 3cms apart, and the soft flesh of her feet pushed through the holes, under the weight of her body.

I got another piece of long cord, tied that to her wrists, and through the other end over the top of the swing frame.  I tied it in place, so that she was standing on the crates, and her arms were now raised above her head, exposing her armpits.  It was a very beautiful sight.

I tied a length of rope to each of her ankles, so that her feet were now about 40 cms apart.  She was spread eagled in a sort of ‘X’ shape.  I know that this use to be a method of execution when people burned witches.  A St. Catherine’s Cross they call it.   The name Cheryl is close to Catherine.

Although looking down at all times, I removed any temptation for her to look me in the eyes by blindfolding her. 

Now, perhaps most normal people would think that tying her into the shape of a letter ‘X’ at the bottom of a property would give satisfaction to my deviancy.  After all, naked and blindfolded, what more could I do to her?   But normal sex is for normal people.  For me I want to cultivate genius in how it is possible to abuse someone.

I passed another length of cord around the top of the frame, and brought it down and threaded it between her legs.  I tied it so that the cord was perfectly set between the lips of her genitals.   “It is harder for a slut to pass through the eye of a needle….”   I thought, meaning nothing in particular.

The white cord would have irritated her, but I figured that a bit of natural lubricant would take care of that.   In my years of torturing my slave, I have learnt that the body sometimes does things that the mind does not want to do.  It is a well-kept secret that women who are brutally raped sometimes get wet or even orgasm.  It is the nature of the body to react to such matters.  Mentally, the rape may be unwanted, but slave females become wet when their genitals are abused.  And as Cheryl’s genitals were being abused, she was also becoming wet.

Now, for the piece de resistance.  My heart became excited, as I was about to play the final movement in my symphony.  I had the expectation that comes from tasting a wine of an ancient vintage, or smoking a cigar direct from Havana.   Now I was about to unleash pain with little effort.

With the cord cutting in between her legs, I kicked away one and then both of the milk grates she was standing on.  Her weight was held up by her wrists and the cord between her legs. 

Oh, she was in pain.  

There was a scream in fact, or more of a yelp, actually. But she muffled any further noise as she knew that my immediate physical punishments were more painful and scary than anything that the cord could do to her lovely soft bits.  After all, the worst thing that could happen would be a very sore ache which would go after a few days.  But indiscriminate kicks or punches from me could break bones or damage organs.  No, it was much better for her to fight back the tears and keep quiet.

Alas, I have to confess that I lost control of myself.  There was the tiniest speck of blood, where the cord had cut into one of her vaginal lips.  The sight of this made me spontaneously ejaculate in my pants.  I hate this, as I like to conserve my semen for at least one of my slave’s holes.  But, that is what happened.

Like most men, after I came I was bored with my slave and anything sexual.  I actually went to the house and got coffee.   I watched tv and drank it.  I was only away for about 10 minutes, but I had to let her down.  I returned to the scene, and she was still there.  I know this sounds odd, I mean, of course she was still there.   But the sight of walking down the back of the property and seeing a woman tied up doesn’t happen every day.

I let her down.  Walked away without saying a word.   Letting her make her own way back to the house.

The torture didn’t end there, however.  In the hours and days following, I mentioned how the nastiest of men had seen the whole thing, paying me for the privilege.  How the neighbours unexpectedly saw her, but were too embarrassed to say anything.  And, of course, how there were night photos of her being tortured, sold by me to the internet so that they were now there for the world to see.  I didn’t really let her know whether these suggestions were true or just made-up.  Uncertainty is a great way to control people.

I think that next time I will have others to help me abuse her.  After all, keeping a full-time slave can sometimes be an exhausting business.  But although exhausting, it is always very satisfying and I wouldn’t give it up for the world.