Friday, March 22, 2013

Scene: Punishment?

I hung suspended by my wrists in the center of the room. My toes just brushed against the floor. If I stretched, I could barely relieve the pressure on my wrists for a few scant moments. Then my balance gave and the full weight of my body was returned to them. I knew why I was here.

I fought them when they found me. I had marks on my body from where they had struck me. Two shockingly small wounds where the tazer probes had been cut from me. Blood had seeped from them down my side. My clothes were dirty and torn. I had escaped into the brush and put up a fight when the search party came upon me. Now, I waited for my punishment. Punishment for daring to run and for resisting. I contented myself with the thought that he wasn't going to be here. I ran when he was gone, I was certain that he wouldn't possibly have time to return for at least a few days. I dared to hope that I could win free.

Now, I silently attempted to isolate myself from the discomfort of hanging by my wrists. I was so focused on turning within myself that I missed the sound of footsteps coming into the room. My head hung down and my eyes were closed, as I mentally forced myself to come as close to full relaxation as I could manage. I realized that I was not alone when the footsteps stopped before me. Still attempting to resist, I kept my eyes closed and my breathing slow. A familiar scent hung in the air, one that shot terror through me. It was him.

I told myself that it wasn't possible. I told myself that my tormentors were still the trio of brutes that brought me into this place. “It was just a matter of time, wasn't it?” he said. I couldn't help the gasp but I closed my eyes tighter. “I knew this day would come,” he said calmly, as though he were discussing the weather. I held my breath, unable to restrain the trembling that ran through me. “I actually planned for it,” he continued, turning away from me. He stepped away from me. In the hot, dry air of the summer afternoon, my mind attempted to flee into memory and the image of the old barn where I hid as a child.

Something rustled ahead of me and then a sound like thunder rang in my ears. My eyes flew open as my head whipped up and away from where he had cracked the whip near my side. The motion set me to swing slightly, increasing the agony in my shoulders, arms, and wrists. I stared at him, unable to quell the sudden terror that washed through my mind. His expression was placid, almost pleasant. His eyes, however, burned with unholy fury.

The single tail was held double in his right hand as he looked me over. With the looped end, he struck me in the stomach, making me swing harder even as he knocked the breath out of me. “Filthy thing,” he spat, anger contorting his face. He delivered another blow, snarling, “Ungrateful wretch. Did you really think you could leave here?” He uncoiled the whip, stepped back, and snapped it again, the lash mere inches from my arms.

I cringed away from him, unable to suppress a whimper of fear. He stepped up close and gripped my jaw, forcing me to look him in the eye. “I own you,” he growled, “You are mine.” I closed my eyes and bit my lips in a vain attempt not to show fear. He took his hand away from my jaw and struck me neatly on the cheek. My head whipped to the side as I gave a small cry of pain.

Even as the pain of the blow made my skin burn, I felt the same wash of arousal that I did every time he did it to me. And my cheeks then burned with shame. He snapped the whip again, this time letting it strike my right side. I screamed in mingled terror and pain. It felt as though someone had put a scalding hot length of wire along my ribs. Though the cut left was shallow and it hadn't truly begun to bleed, I dreaded what would come next. He walked around me, frowning as I stared up at the rafter overhead with tears rolling down my cheeks.

He gripped the back of the neck of my shirt and twisted it hard in his grip. As the fabric tightened around my throat, my eyes went wide and I gripped the length of chain between the manacles. He pulled me back against him. “You never fooled me,” he hissed in my ear, “I knew you weren't like the others. But you'll break, just like they did.” He pushed me away from himself with a hard shove.

As I swung away from him, I bared my teeth and hissed in pain at the effect of the motion on my body. He stepped back away from me and the whip cracked again. A searing, blinding bolt of pain ran down from my shoulder to the middle of my back. I screamed wordlessly. He did it again and I twisted in my restraints, attempting to move myself away from him out of reflex. This sent greater pain through my arms and shoulders, making me sob.

“Count,” he said, his voice wintry. My mind reeled in confusion when the next blow fell. I screamed again. “Count, or it will be worse for you, cunt,” he said warningly. He then let fly a second blow. To me, it was incandescent pain that washed away any thought of resistance. I sobbed incoherently, too caught up in the agony and fear to clearly enunciate the number I was attempting to say. He paused for a moment.

“Two,” I sobbed, “two.” So it happened that we repeated this eight more times. By the fourth blow, I was certain that he was going to leave me a bloody ruin. When the sixth blow fell, I miscounted and then corrected myself, unable to stop myself from wetting myself in terror. When the final blows had landed, I wept like a broken thing. He walked past me, tapping the coiled whip against his thigh.

I watched him, afraid that we were going to resume but with my chest as the target for his blows. He put the whip down on the table and turned to face me. The rags of my shirt hung from my neck and arms. With a cool look of consideration, he looked me over from head to toe. He turned back to the table and picked up a pair of scissors. He cut the t-shirt off of me and kicked it under my feet to stop up the mess I had made. He opened the scissors and put the edge of one of the blades against my neck.

My eyes rolled in horror. “Oh god,” I wailed, “Don't, please don't.” He pressed it a little harder against my wildly racing pulse. I squeezed my eyes tightly closed and sobbed. He looked closely at me, stepping up so close to me that I could feel his clothes against my bare skin. I realized that somehow, something changed. The fact that I just begged him for anything in earnest had captured his attention.

“Don't?” he mused, lightly dragging the edge of the scissors down my throat to my shoulder. I turned my face away from him, beginning to hyperventilate with panic. “Don't do what?” he asked, pressing the edge down against my left shoulder, “Don't hurt you?” I sobbed but I could feel something shift in the atmosphere of the room. I didn't know if it was a change in my favor or not, which made me shake harder.

In a sudden gesture, he cut me. While the cut wasn't deep enough to do major damage, it hurt and got a shuddering gasp. “Don't kill me,” I sobbed, “Please, don't kill me.” I opened my eyes and looked imploringly at him. His hard look of anger had faded. It was replaced with something else that was equally distressing, a mixture of amusement and fascination.

“Kill you?” he laughed, “Oh no, I'm not going to kill you.” I shuddered and wept with relief. He smiled. “You don't get to escape that easily,” he said, his tone rich with amusement. He stepped away from me and reached blindly back to the table. In a smooth motion, he dropped the scissors and picked up a cat-o-nine tails. As he turned, he let the lashes fly.

As they slammed into my left side, I cried out. Again, he swung and struck me, this time with a back handed motion on the right side. The lashes snaked across my abdomen, feeling like a thousand tongues of fire. He continued to whip me, walking casually around me. When he had returned to standing in front of me, my ribs, back, and abdomen felt horrible. The part that was especially tormenting, however, was how the heat of the blows had ignited a fire in my blood.

I could feel pleasure pooling in my lower body. He lightly flicked the lashes at my breasts, snapping them quickly over and barely touching my nipples. I yelped in surprise and flushed with shame as my nipples stood out proudly. He grinned, his eyes crinkling with amusement and his dimples standing out. In the aching pain of my body, I couldn't help but have butterflies in my stomach at that beautiful smile.

He cracked the whip harder across my chest. My flush of delight at his smile turned into a white haze of pain as I shrieked. Between my thighs, I could feel my clit throb. He did so again and I tossed my head, sobbing. “No, no, no,” I babbled and he laughed again. The sound of his pure amusement and my unconscious arousal melted together with my pain and somehow transformed it into something intoxicating.

I panicked and thrashed, attempting to pull myself free from my restraints. He leaned back against the table and watched. I tossed my head and kicked my legs, setting myself to swinging. After a time, it became clear that I wasn't going to win free. I hung my head and I sobbed. That terrible arousal and shame that flooded with it stormed through me. I wept.

He set the whip aside and stepped forward. Passing his hands over the welts on my sides, he looked at me with deep amusement. That terrible and beautiful smile lit his eyes even as his expression was solemn. I shivered, desperately telling myself that I shouldn't be aroused by this. In my futile effort to will myself out of arousal, I failed to notice his head dipping down.

I was gasped as his mouth closed soft and warm over my left nipple. His hands glided around my ribs to my back. I gave a strangled noise that I didn't recognize. He brought his hands up to my shoulders and sank his nails into my skin. With a soft growl, he dragged them down my back. I threw back my head, arched, and screamed as an orgasm blindsided me.

He bared his teeth and caught my nipple between them. Slowly, he closed them down harder against the sensitive nub of flesh. His hands splayed against my back, holding me tightly against him, and his nails digging into my raw shoulders, I couldn't help but cry out again. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I tossed my head futilely.

“Oh god,” I wept, “Stop! Stop...” He ignored me and moved his attention to my aching right nipple. I shrieked as the world turned white and I shuddered in another unexpected orgasm. His hands moved with glacial slowness down my back to my hips, his nails digging into the raw welts left from the whips mercilessly. When he reached my hips, he lifted his head and stepped back.

His hands moved around to the front and unzipped my pants. With a smooth motion, he peeled them and my sodden panties off of me. The acrid scent of urine mingled with a musky, heavier smell, the smell of my arousal. He put a hand between my thighs and pressed a finger into my sex. I shuddered and groaned. Relentlessly, he pumped and tickled deep inside me. Soon, I arched and came in his hand. “Hmm,” he mused, “You seem about ready.”

He took his hand away and turned away from me. He took a curiously shaped small device in hand and turned to me again. He pressed it into me and I squirmed at the sensation of fullness inside me. He held up a little remote control before my eyes. “We're going to have a conversation now, slut,” he said, all warmth gone out of his tone, though is eyes burned with lust. “Answer correctly and you get rewarded,” he said, turning the dial. The device began to hum and vibrate.

My eyes rolled as I shivered in pleasure He turned and picked up what looked like a glass tube with a coil of wire in it attached to a plug in vibrator. I looked at it in confusion when he flicked a switch and it lit with a purple-blue electric arc. “Answer incorrectly and you get punished,” he said, moving the device towards me. An electric spark jumped from the device to my skin.

The pain was worse then anything I had experienced. I gave a throaty, hoarse scream. “I'll be good,” I babbled, “I'll be good.” He smiled. There was no warmth in his expression, only a predatory hunger. That was when I realized that he had been restraining himself. If my bladder had still been full, it would have emptied. Instead, I cringed away from him with a low wail of fear.

“Who owns you?” he said.

“You,” I answered. The vibrator was turned up a notch, bringing back that bubble of pleasure.

“Who do you serve?” he said.

“You,” I answered. The violet wand was brought close to me and I flinched away. As the spark jumped, I wailed, “You, I serve you. Only you!” My words devolved to a high, thin scream of pain as he moved the wand along my ribs. The sharp smell of ozone in the air only added to the terror I felt. While it had only been mere moments that I was subjected to the wand, it felt like longer.

I wept pitifully when he took the wand away from me. As I wept, he turned the vibrator up a notch again. “Who do you serve?” he said again. I sobbed, unsure what to answer. He increased the vibration of the toy inside me again. “Are you allowed to run?” he said. I shook my head. “Are you allowed to do anything with out my consent?” he continued. Again I shook my head. The wand touched me again and I shrieked.

“I don't know...” I screamed, “I don't know. Oh god, please stop...” He moved the wand away and looked at me thoughtfully. I wept. I had no idea what to say or what he wanted to hear. I had thought that I had given the correct answers. He brought the wand before my face. I stared at it with dread. He slowly moved it down towards my abdomen. My eyes widened and I flailed.

In my flailing, I swung close to the wand and I got shocked. I shrieked and then was shocked again. He chuckled in amusement, choosing to hold the wand still and allow me to zap myself. As this happened, he switched the setting on the vibrator to a pulse and set the vibrations to high. I literally swung between the poles of pleasure and pain, screaming. He reached forward and put the violet wand against my abdomen, turning the device off before he did so. I screamed, resting against the device and his hand, expecting excruciating pain.

He stepped back and set the device back on the table. He then set the control for the toy buried in my sex aside. As a powerful orgasm made me shudder and grind my teeth, he divested himself of his slacks. He parted my thighs and took the toy out of me. I mewled senselessly in protest. When he introduced his rock hard erection, I gave a throaty groan and came again.

I wrapped my legs around his waist as he swung me back and forth on his dick. The pain in my shoulders simply became another sensation that inflamed me. I whimpered and began to cum with each thrust. As he used me to get off, he said nothing. It dimly occurred to me that I was nothing but a toy to him. A fleshy thing to masturbate with. The perverseness of this realization shot through me and brought on harder orgasms then I had ever felt before. Lost in the pleasure of being used, I made all sorts of primal sounds. Somewhere in it all, my consciousness became dim and then I lost all awareness, vaguely hearing myself begging him to use me with frantic desperation in my voice.

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