Last Joys

On my journey to the coast I changed my appearance several times – not fancy disguises, just different wigs, a beard, a reversible coat worn one way and the other.  In the unlikely event that the police checked on other people following her, they wouldn't find any consistent reports.  She had driven openly, telling the hospital where she was going, making sure she was noticed at service stations and such, and leaving her car at the boat hire shop; her journey was meant to be as noticeable as mine was unseen.

       We had discussed finding someone to give me an alibi, and concluded that it wasn't worth the risk of involving another person; so in the end I enlisted my computer as a witness.  If anyone asked, I had spent today working at home, and there was a bunch of text files with artfully faked date stamps to prove it.

       I walked the last miles from the bus stop to the cove, ready to look for another place if there were any tourists on the shore.  But it was as deserted as usual, so I dragged the kayak out of my backpack and assembled it.

       This had been the biggest unknown in our plans.  I'd done enough sea canoeing to feel confident of covering the distance to the boat this way, but only in good weather; a folding kayak is a fragile thing, and an unexpected gale could have made the trip impossible.  I'd brought fake ID ready to hire a boat if I had to, but it would create a paper trail we didn't want, and I was glad to see it wouldn't be needed.  I took out my phone – a cheap one with a SIM bought that morning in a pound shop – dialed and said “I'm on the beach, all's well.  Be with you soon.”

       “I'll be ready, dear.”

       Thank Wayland and other gods of technology for GPS: finding a small boat on the open sea is now as easy as going to a street address.  I dragged myself over the gunwale and the kayak after me, and by then she was standing in the cabin door.  We fell into each other's arms and kissed as if it were the last time ever.

       When I could bear to let go of her for a moment, I drew back and took a look.  Her colour was bad, and her eyes were deep and bruised looking.  She'd had to work far too hard on bits of the plan that I couldn't be seen doing, followed by a long drive and bringing the boat out here.  “How are you feeling?”

       “Like death,” she joked wryly.  “I hurt in all the wrong ways.”  She'd stopped as much of her pain meds as she could, and the stimulants that hyped her up for this would also be making her more sensitive.  “But I'm counting on you to take my attention off it.”

       I don't need two hints.  I dragged her back into another kiss, shoved my hand up her sweater and found a nipple, and crushed and twisted it with all my strength.  She shuddered and keened against me.  “Oh yes, Master, it's been too long – make your fucktoy suffer for your pleasure, make this slave scream for you!”

       “Oh, you'll scream,” I growled between bites at her neck.  “You're going to die screaming under my hands.”  I'd said it so often before that the line came out unthinkingly: then I choked up and couldn't go on.

       She kissed the tears on my cheeks.  “Yes, Master,” she said softly.  “I'm counting on it.”  And she drew me down the steps into the cabin.

       She'd been busy.  The little space was lined with a plastic tent of decorators' dustsheets, stretched between fittings and shelves on the bulkheads and joined with tape.  It could have looked as cold as a hospital bed, but she had added drapes of red cloth taped to the plastic, shaded battery lights and an Ipod playing our favourite dungeon music, and made a warm cosy room.  “You shouldn't have,” I said, “I was supposed to fix things up.”

       “But then I'd've had to wait.”  She was shedding clothes as she spoke.  As the last garment hit the floor she went down on her knees, as best she could in the narrow space between the cabin table and the stairs, and held out the case of toys.  “Master, your girl is ready for your pleasure.”

       I stripped as fast as I could, tucking my clothes outside the plastic tent, and drew her up to take the case from her with a kiss.  I took out a hank of rope and signalled, and she gave a deep sigh as she turned around.  “Oh yes, please, Master.  It's been far too long...”

       I roped her hands tighter than usual, revelling in the freedom of not having to worry about consequences.  It didn't matter if I cut off all the circulation to her fingers, and she gasped her appreciation of the force with which I lashed her arms into a tight reverse prayer.  I've never managed to make her elbows meet, and I couldn't do it this time, but I got them closer than ever before while she whimpered with excitement.  I used the slack of the rope to wind around her chest and around her big soft breasts till they stood out tight and mauve, then forced her face down onto the cabin table and secured her there with a loop of rope round her shoulders, and left her gasping at the pain of lying on her tied tits while I dug through the case.

       I'd told her not to look in it, as some of the things I was bringing were to be a surprise, but the vibrators I shoved into both openings were a familiar start.  She was already dripping wet, and I cooed “Who's my hot-tailed tart?” as one who plays with a baby.  “Is it you?  Yes, it is!”

       She moaned and squirmed as I pistonned the big vibrator.  “Yes Master, your slave's a shameless slut – her cunt needs to be punished – Aiee!” as I pinched and tugged her clit.

       “Oh, you're going to be punished.”  The next toy looked like a short handled bottle-brush, but it was four centimetres wide with bristles stiff as wire: it was sold for cleaning mower blades.  I'd often left it wedged against her crotch while she was tied up, and she thought she knew what was coming when I scraped it up and down her hot red lips.  “Punished like never before.”  I opened her with a finger and thumb and shoved the end of the brush inside.

       “Oh my Master!”  Long ago I taught her that if she felt like saying something like “Oh my God” she should say “Master” instead, to remind her who she worshipped.  “Please, no, Master, no, that's unbearable!”

       She hasn't had a formal safeword for years, it was a defining moment in our relationship when I revoked it, but we both know that I'll pay attention if she calls me by my name instead of “Master.”.  Anything else is just begging not to be thrown in the briar-patch.  I kept on working the brush into her, pushing and twisting it to one side and the other.  “If I rammed this in in one go, it would rip your cunt to bloody rags.  Would you like that better?”

       “Please don't, Master...”  If she didn't trust me absolutely she couldn't get such a thrill from the fear that I might go too far.  It must be even hotter now, when we'd gone to such elaborate lengths exactly so that I could go way, way too far.

       I got the last of the brush well inside her and started to play with her pussy while she writhed and sobbed.  This used to be our favourite game with a vibrator with plastic spikes: the hotter she got, the more she squeezed down on the spikes and hurt herself, which got her hotter, in a happy cycle of sexual torture.  It took a bit more encouragement to get her going with those hard nylon points inside, but once she started she was clearly headed skywards.  I left off stroking her and smacked her bottom hard.  “What's all this, tart?  You're here to suffer, not to have fun.”  There would be time for plenty of orgasms, but she needed to be high for what was coming next.  “I'd better hurt this big bum here till you get it.”

       “Yes, Master,” she sighed.  “Please punish your slave's arse.”  I clicked the trigger on the cordless heat gun, and she screamed.

       I didn't want to burn her: burning destroys the nerves and the fun's over.  I quickly found the heat setting that would bring her skin up in big blisters, then run the blisters together till the skin slid off like wet paper.  I worked methodically while she howled “No Master, no more, have mercy!” 

       I've always loved the sight of her rump all red and sore, but I never got it this red or this sore before, and all without laying a hand on it.  When I was finished her buttocks looked like two peeled tomatoes, soft and wet and scarlet, and when I gave them a spank she screamed an octave higher.  I ducked round to see her face: she had that huge-eyed shocked look I love, that says she can't believe she could hurt so bad.  “How are you doing, love?”

       “Oh Master, you are so cruel.”  Her voice shook.  “Use your suffering fuckmeat for your pleasure – this toy suffers to please you.”  I gave her a big hug and kiss.

       “You say such sweet things, my precious plaything.  I promise to use you without mercy.”  I ducked back and pulled the vibrator out of her arse, tucked it under her pussy for safe keeping and slid myself in in its place, drawing a wail of overwhelmed feelings from her.  Her breasts hurt, her cunt hurt, and I couldn't begin to imagine how her bottom felt when I rammed up against it: from the noises she was making, she was in pain-pig heaven.

       It would have been easy for me to come like a volcano erupting, but she deserved better.  I'd intentionally wanked myself silly last night and this morning to minimise the biological pressure, and I had years of practice at making a scene last, but fucking that glowing hot skinned-sore bum was a serious test of self control.  But I hung on, and added my fingers to the vibrator's work, till her howls reached a peak that hurt my ears.

       “Thank you, Master,” she panted, as she was trained to do every time she came.  I hugged and kissed her and she gave me a shaky smile.  “You know what, Master, I can't feel those damned tumours.  Not a bit.  Do you think you've discovered a miracle cure?”

       “It'll never catch on.  I'm afraid it's only temporary, but let's enjoy it while it lasts.  Now, I'm going to cane you.”

       “Oh my Master.”  Her eyes went wide again.  “That'll hurt unbearably!”

       “I certainly hope so.  Remember to sing for me.”

       Since I knew there wouldn't be room to swing a cat, in the literal meaning of the old navy saying, I'd had to leave a lot of my favourite hitty-toys behind.  I'd settled on a black carbon fibre rod thin and stiff enough to sting: even in that tight space I was able to lash her with a satisfying crack.  I needn't have reminded her that I liked to hear her scream, the very first blow across her skinned flesh drew a high shriek of anguish, and after a few strokes she was making the sort of incoherent animal noises you only wring from someone in the extremes of torture.

       I could happily spend all day beating my slave's voluptuous bottom.  Once I'd laid down a good first grid of crimson stripes, I spent a while with her sucking me, reaching over to flick her agonised rump and savouring the lovely sound of her trying to scream with my cock down her throat.  Then I went back to cross-hatching my first stripes, till her bottom was more crimson than scarlet and beads of blood were popping up everywhere.  I'd given her some memorable thrashings before, but knowing that this would be the last made me keep wanting to do a bit better.

       Eventually I reminded myself that we didn't have forever: when the borrowed energy of amphetamines ran out she'd hardly know I was there.  Her face was red and streaked with tears and snot; any scene where I manage to make her cry is one to remember.  I crouched down and gazed into her eyes till she came back from some far corner of subspace.  “Hello, darling.  I want your attention, because I'm going to fuck you again. Remember how it hurt last time?  I'm going to use your sore cunt this time, and it'll be worse.”

       “A girl is happy to be used,” she croaked, hoarse from screaming.

       I stroked and teased her till she gasped with excitement as I drew the brush out, her hips moving in desperate circles and figure-eights of need.  “Please Master,” she gasped, “please use your fucktoy.  Your tart begs for your wonderful cock.  Please fuck your tart's sore cunt – AIEE!”

       I'd often tortured her vaginal walls with the spiked vibrator before sex, and she used to complain that without doing her permanent damage I couldn't make her sore enough to really hurt.  I thought she'd be satisfied this time.  I held the rope between her elbows so I could slam my hips against her lacerated rump on every stroke, and she responded with wordless cries of pure sensation, bucking and shaking against me.  I've often felt that I could pick up her orgasm with my cock by some kind of direct conduction, and right now I felt as if I were plugged into a socket wired for raw ecstasy.

       The pressure to come myself was almost unbearable, and as a last resort I called to mind our plans for the end of this.  It worked better than a cold shower, and I almost lost my erection before I could drag my attention back to the erotic moment and the screaming suffering slave under me.  I reached down and pinched her clit, and she shuddered and wailed in total surrender to her feelings.

       “Thank you, Master,” she breathed when she was articulate again.

       “My pleasure,” I told her, slackening the rope round her shoulders.  “Now roll over, it's time I did something to those tits.”

       Whether she was drained by all I'd done to her, or the speed was wearing off, she had trouble getting her legs up.  I found where she'd intelligently left rope loops sticking through from the supports of the plastic tent, and hauled first one ankle and then the other towards the low ceiling till she was dragged onto her back with her legs up and spread, sobbing as her weight came on her backside.  I lay over her and kissed and cuddled her, squeezing her sore bottom and playing with her taut breasts till she sighed with pleasure; then with a last kiss I stood up and put clover clamps on both nipples, and roped them to a couple more ceiling loops, drawing them up till her breasts went from balloon-round to pear-shaped.

       Her eyes were big and scared again.  “Master, if you were to fuck me like this, it'd hurt horribly.”

       I recognised her usual briar-patch style of comment.  “Sure it would, but nothing's so bad that I can't make it worse.”  I held up the last surprise in the case, a big box of dressmaking pins.  “I want those boobs of yours to hurt like never before.”

       “Oh Master, no!  I couldn't bear it!”  She's both excited and scared by sharps; we've done a little with knives, but she could never shake off her safety-conscious carefulness.  I saw her, too, making the calculation that things like infection and haemorrhage didn't matter any more.  “Please, Master, don't...”

       “But I want to.”  I put the box on her chest, cupped one breast and drove the first pin in to the head.

       For the next twenty minutes I was absorbed in the delicious task of turning the breasts I knew and loved into pincushions, to the accompaniment of her shrieks and gabbled pleas for mercy.  By the time I was approaching the bottom of the box her cries were tailing off, and I grinned.  I once saw a demonstration of needle play which began by sitting the display subject on a high stool so everyone could see her: but by the time she had a dozen needles in her breasts, they had to move her to a chair because she was so spaced on endorphins that she was in danger of falling over.

       I stepped back and admired the effect.  Her breasts were covered in pinheads till they sparkled like Xmas ornaments.  Her eyes moved from them to me: she looked dazed and shocked.  “Master,” she slurred, “I'm your toy...  Use me, hurt me, break me...”

       “I will,” I promised, and slid into her again.

       “Oh YES,” she groaned.  “Use your fucktoy...  Hurt her for your pleasure...  This fuckmeat is yours to use...”

       I put the big vibrator back on her pussy, and leant over her so that it was clamped between our pubic bones.  “Don't just lie there, tart, serve me.”  I caressed the accessible parts of her clamped nipples, and she groaned and flexed her hips under me as I felt her heat building.  “There's a good slave tart, please your Master, get that cunt hot for me.”  I pulled back and started thrusting, with hard jerking strokes that forced her down on her skinned rump and made her tortured breasts bounce, and she made wide-mouthed AA-noises that were just a breath with a sound, growing faster and louder, her eyes focussed on nothing.  When her cries seemed to be reaching a peak I leant forward, grabbed both breasts and squeezed and pulled.

       She gave a long, long wail with all the force of an operatic contralto's prize note.  As it tapered off I leant further and put my hands on her neck, and she focussed on me and whispered “Thank you, Master...”

       We'd discussed this, because I'd played at choking her many times, and it always turned her on: but I didn't trust myself to carry it through to the end.  Putting her out with an artery hold, that I knew I could do, I'd done it before.  I dug my thumbs into the carotid and jugular, and met her loving eyes as her lids sank slowly closed.

       You can't kill anyone with an artery hold, though it can cause brain damage after a while.  Keeping one hand pressing her carotid, I pinched her nose and covered her mouth with the other and held it for a very long time.  She jerked and kicked for a minute from spinal reflex, but her brain was already shut down and she quickly stopped trying to breathe; but I kept holding on in terror that I might not do it long enough. Finally, though it hadn't been in the plan, I grabbed the tape from a side bench and gave her a tape gag that included her nose, and then I felt I could relax.

       As the tension ran out of me I lay on top of her and wept for a little while; then I kissed her forehead and went to work.  Ripping down the drapes, I wrapped her in them from head to toe.  I cleaned myself of a great deal of smeared blood and whatnot, using disinfectant wipes that would scramble the DNA in any traces I didn't get off; then I stepped back out of the plastic tent, taking the case with me.

       With a few knife strokes I collapsed the tent, cut the bottom away and bundled the rest into a wad.  Shoving that up the stairs behind me, I rolled the remaining plastic round the cloth wrapped form draped over the table and taped it into place.  There wasn't room for a proper carry: I had to half drag her up the stairs, watching that the plastic didn't snag and make rips that could leak something.

       On deck, I taped the bundle of plastic to the case, stabbed it in enough places to make sure it didn't hold air, and deep-sixed it.  We had agonised over that, because we hated the idea of adding to the plastic pollution of the sea, but there was no other safe way to get rid of it.

       She had left a heap of beach rocks in the scuppers.  I wrapped most of them into the foot of the plastic shroud, leaving a few as evidence, and made a couple of big triangular cuts in the head end, big enough to let fish in as well as air out.

       “Rest in peace, beloved,” I told her.  “Gods, give her the peace in the next world she didn't find in this.”  The splash and  swirl of bubbles were just the same as when I tossed the case.  It should have looked more important.

       The light was starting to fade as I paddled away, but it would last till I got to shore, and I'd be in time for my train home.  The boat had a GPS locator, the hire shop would find it before it drifted into danger, and then they'd call the police; and by the time the police called on me, I should have received the letter she'd posted on her way here.  It was a lovely, moving letter: I'd helped her write it, and we'd cried and giggled over it together.

       It would be a clear, simple story.  Terminal patient checks out of hospital, hires a boat and goes swimming with her pockets full of rocks, when her loving husband, who spent so much time at her bedside, isn't around to stop her.  Husband is devastated, but understands her wish to spare them both pain.  That was the bit we'd laughed over, where she wrote “I can't face the thought of dying in agony...  I know you hate to see me suffering...”

       And then she'd finished “I trust you to find someone else.  I know there will be someone who can make you as happy as I have.”

       I wonder, darling, I thought as I paddled.  Where on earth am I going to find anyone I can torture like you?