Ch 1

I could not pay any attention at work; somehow, commodity futures were not as interesting as my upcoming birthday present. Lynette, my live-in girlfriend, promised me something special for my birthday. “Something special” always means some new way for me to enjoy her luscious young body; last year, it meant her tight ass which she had always been afraid to give me. I wondered, thrill with anticipation what would it be this time, why did she need a whole weekend, and why did she go to our friends’ desert home on Thursday to “prepare.”

At four, I could take it no longer; I also could not hide the raging hard on that had been bothering me for the whole afternoon. I hopped on the car and drove into the desert. Lynette; thoughts of my dark haired beauty raced through my head as I tried to keep my speed reasonably near the limit. She began exploring her submissive side last year, after I took her anal virginity. It intrigued her how, something that hurt her so much could excite her so. It helped that she was a psychology major.

“It’s you,” she said one evening, “I wouldn’t do it otherwise, but I love you and I know that you like to…do me, there.”

She did not like then, or now, to use coarse language.

“So,” she continued, “I don’t mind the pain as much, since I know it gives you so much pleasure.”

“It will get easier soon,” I said kissing her firm, pink lips, “and I’ll be careful.”

“Don’t; it’s OK that it hurts. It means more to me that way.”

That’s how it all started. It was easy to lead her down the road to submission; she was pliant, obedient, almost, but not quite, eager; even when I took her curly, shoulder length hair and rammed my cock down her throat until she gagged.

What were her plans for my birthday?

I parked the car in the gravel driveway and rang the bell. Brett Jones opened the door.

I walked out of the desert heat, into the foyer.

“Hi Pete,” he said.

“Hi,” I glanced around expecting to see Lynette, but she wasn’t anywhere in sight, nor was there anyone else.

I followed him into the living room. He poured me a Scotch.

“What’s going on?” I asked, “Where is Lynette?”

He motioned me to a chair and sat down himself.

“She’s almost ready; she is anxious to kiss you,” he said. “Now, I have to prepare you.”

I sipped my drink, “Why all this mystery.”

“Peter: Lynette is a very special young woman. She’s been preparing, we’ve been preparing this for a month.”

He stood up and paced slowly about the room.

“She wanted to create something very special for you. I believe she has.”

“Will you tell me what it is already?”

He shook his head slightly, “Three days of pain; severe, brutal, extreme pain.”

I jumped up. “No!”

“No, she’s not ready, not for that. I refuse.”

He shook his head with more emphasis, “Lynette thought you would say that.”

I just looked at him.

“She knew you would refuse her sacrifice, even though you’d like to receive her gift,” Brett continued, “so she built in a safeguard, for you.”

“Even if you were to leave now,” he turned towards me, “she would have to endure it, just the same. She made me promise her that we, Olga and I would go on with it, regardless.”

I sat back on the couch, stunned, stymied. There was really nothing I could do to spare Lynette.

“There is one more thing.” Brett added.

He called out, through the open door “Jane!”

A young, beautiful blonde girl not more than an inch taller than five feet came in. She wore a light blue shift like mini dress that barely reached the tops of her thighs. Its gossamer fabric enhanced her charms, revealing also that she had nothing underneath. Her small, pedicured feet were bare.

“Hi,” she said looking at me through large, playful eyes.

Brett placed his hand on her shoulder, “You are not allowed to have sex with Lynette for this three days, nor will she be able to service you for a while, until she recovers,” he nudged Jane slightly in my direction.

She approached me smiling, “Lynette arranged for me to stay with you for the next three weeks. You may do anything with me; nothing permanent, of course, until she recovers.”

She knelt by my side, placing my hand on her head. I sat there, stunned by the implications.

“There is nothing you can do but sit back and enjoy the show.” Brett said, “Come, let’s go and see what your girlfriend prepared for you.”

He left us. Jane led me by the hand, down the stairs, to their ample playroom.

Brett and Olga’s basement was huge and had a playroom area with all the toys you could imagine, and some you couldn’t, as well as an intimate theater room. Jane led me to the theater.

The room was quite dark, with four recliner chairs surrounding the brightly lit stage. Unlike the usual arrangement, the stage was not raised above the floor. It seemed there would only be one spectator: me. On the stage, two stout poles stood, about six feet apart. Off to a side, a large, dark chest. Nothing else. There was no one there yet, except for the gorgeous Jane and me. I felt the cool air on my arms and heard the hum of the air conditioner in the distance.

A door opened and Olga led Lynette in by the hand. I tried to rush to embrace her but Jane held me back.

“Don’t. Wait for her to come to you,” she said, “that is how she wants it.”

Lynette wore only a white terrycloth bathrobe; her feet were bare. She followed Olga with hesitation but, as soon as she saw me, her steps became firmer. Olga released her hand and she almost ran into my arms. I kissed her mouth deeply. Her body fluttered in my embrace, like a bird. She was actually shaking.

Her robe dropped on the floor; she was nude underneath. I held her in my arms, feeling her firm breasts under the thin fabric of my shirt, feeling the hard knobs of her nipples, erect from the cold air, tickling my skin. Still she shook in my arms and I could smell the fear in her scent.

“I was so afraid you wouldn’t come,” she said, “then it would all be for naught.”

“It is time,” Olga said, extending her hand.

Lynette kissed me once more and wriggled off my embrace. She extended her hand to Olga’s.

“I am not as frightened anymore, now that you are here.”

Olga took her hand and led her to between the poles on the stage. She wore a black leather micro dress that revealed the garters that held up her hose. Her high heels showed off her long, smooth legs. Lynette may have said she wasn’t afraid anymore, but the goose bumps on her skin, and the way her hands shook as Olga tied two ropes on her wrists belied her brave statement.

Olga tied her, arms spread-eagled between the poles. She pulled on the ropes until Lynette stood on tiptoe, with the ropes carrying most of her weight. I could not keep my eyes off her body, her arms outstretched by the ropes, and the tension on her frame, the way her arms lifted her breasts and how the trembled with each intake of breath. I walked around the stage and finally stood before her, looking at her, taking in her body, tied, helpless. She watched me with her soft brown eyes, seeking, I thought, my approval. I saw her; I saw her skin, welted by a whip, lacerated by a single tail, ripped by unmentionable tools. My cock strained at my twill pants, it seemed as if all my blood gushed into its length; I felt faint and stumbled on my feet. Jane, who followed me closely, held me up for a brief instant until I recovered.

Lynette gave me a faint smile.

“Happy birthday, my love.”

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.

Ch 3

Olga and Brett freed Lynette from the bonds at her wrists. They held her up and, not ungently, lowered her to the hardwood floor. Sitting on one of the chairs I watched them, my mind wandering to the Pieta statue in the Vatican. Brett left the room while Olga massaged Lynette’s wrists to restore circulation and sensation in her hands.

“Help her,” I told Jane.        

They laid her down on the floor, on her belly. Her back and thighs, shredded by the cat, looked like hamburger in stark contrast to her, white and untouched, voluptuous white ass. Jane lightly touched her upper back with the tip of her finger; even that lightest touch elicited a moan of pain from the prostrate girl. Brett returned pushing a small cot on wheels. It resembled a stretcher, of the kind you might find in a public clinic, in one of our inner cities. Its surface was lightly padded and it had, as its only modification, at the head and foot, leather wrist and ankle restraints. Between Brett, Olga and Jane, they lifted the inert and barely conscious girl on to the cot. Brett pulled out a white bottle from the cabinet that was under the cot and poured some of the liquid on Lynette’s lacerated back.

The effect was instantaneous. With a bloodcurdling scream, Lynette jumped off the bed, her eyes wide open, and ran around the stage. She caught sight of me, and began to run in my direction. I, my instructions forgotten, opened my arms and also ran towards her. Before I could even get close, Brett threw his arm across her chest stopping her and, on the other side; Olga too, extended her arm forming a symbolic fence across her path. Panting for breath, she stopped in the center of the stage. Her face a tortured mask of pain, she turned her eyes away from me and returned to the cot.

On her own, she laid down on it, and held on to the straps. With loud whimpers she endured while Brett and Olga disinfected her back and thighs with alcohol. Jane fanned her back to help evaporate the alcohol and thus shorten the burning. It appears that this pain was not directly part of the show; instead it was a necessary and unavoidable precaution. After it was over, Jane returned to my side and Olga helped Lynette outside, presumably to the bathroom.

With the two women out of the way, Brett poured himself a drink and brought me one too. The fiery taste of the malt braced me and at the same time restored my sense of time. It was close to midnight. I presumed that Lynette would be strapped, face down to the cot, and left there to sleep, if she could. I was wrong.

Olga led a much restored Lynette back on to the stage and had her stand at the foot of the cot. She bent over the cot extending her hands to the straps; Olga fastened the leather straps to her wrists. It appeared that there would be at least one more act on tonight’s drama. Brett fastened her ankles to the bottom legs of the cot, just above the wheels. Whatever was going to happen, I thought, she was not going to enjoy it.

Out of the chest, Olga pulled a large dildo and a jar of red unguent. I recognized it immediately and groaned. It was a mixture of Vaseline and Sriracha chili sauce Brett used, on occasion, to lubricate a dildo, when he wanted to be particularly cruel to Olga. It was hot enough that it burned, even when applied to intact skin. A shiver ran up my spine. She handed both dildo and jar to her husband who donned latex gloves and proceeded to smear the fiery goo on the surface of the dildo. The dildo flared near the base, like a butt plug, to prevent it being expelled. He took a generous blob of goop and slapped it on Lynette’s offered asshole. Her head jerked up, as if burned with a red hot iron, but she managed not to scream. Brett worked the goo into her rectum; her head jerked this way and that, whether from the pain of his fingers stretching her sphincter, or the burning of the goo, or both.

Once he was satisfied, ignoring her whimpers he pushed the large dildo up her bum. Lynette screamed when the tool finally made its way, past the flare, into her rear entrance. She squirmed, this way and that, as her asshole accommodated around the intruder; however, as soon as some it adjusted to the presence of the hard rod, the chilies in the goop began to work on the tender membranes inside. I stood up and walked to the side of the cot. Her tears were flowing freely down her face.

It would get even worse.

After freeing her ankles, Brett and Olga pushed her body up, on to the cot, and attached her ankles to the straps at the foot of the table. Lying there, on her belly, with the handle of the dildo sticking up from her ass, Lynette groaned pitifully.

“One more thing, before we retire,” Brett said.

Taking more red Vaseline from the jar on his latex clad hands, he rapidly smeared thick gobs of it on Lynette’s shredded back and thighs. Her face contorted in pain, pulling at the straps in desperate thrashes, she endured this additional torment, muffled shrieks coming from between clenched teeth.

Olga covered her with a thin sheet and, as if on cue, the stage lights went off. We all turned to leave Lynette to her miseries.

“The burning will get worse for the next two hours,” Olga said, “then it will subside. I know.”

I found myself erect again. I took Jane by the waist as I turned to leave but then, on an impulse, I told her:

“Bring the Vaseline.”

In the dark room, Lynette moaned softly.

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?

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.