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My body plunges around on the board, helplessly banging my sore tits against the hard wood.
I scream again, my sore back incapable of not writhing upward as the cane sears my bare soles again.
I am totally terrified.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
I don’t know where or how She found him. An actual torturer. Someone who spent his life interrogating and torturing girls in a mid East prison. I never got his name.
Retired now - or so he said when the three of us met for a drink at his house. Laid down the rules:
No safewords
His choice of methods
My Mistress can watch but may not comment
No really permanent marks (whatever that means)
It stops only when he says it stops
Did they really have to clink glasses and shake on it?
He’s an older man, heavyset. Not scary looking. Kind of avuncular, actually. He brought me a glass of clear liquid. Said “drink it” politely. It didn’t taste bad - kind of like lemonade. He waited until I finished before answering my Mistress’ questioning look.
“Stimulant. We don’t want them fainting.” THEM?
My heart started thumping in my chest.
Yet I took my Mistress’ hand as She led me, following the nameless man along a hall and then down into his basement. Felt a lessening of my nervousness at finding that it wasn’t a “torure chamber”. No chains hanging from the ceiling. No grotesque machines designed for hurting a girl’s body. Just an unused basement with gloomy lighting.
He cleared some stuff off the top of a kind of workbench while we stood there. My hand clutching Hers a little too tightly while the man searched for something. Came back with a heavy plank that he leaned up against the table. And my heart began to bang against my chest again.
Going behind the table, the man opened a cabinet. It was dark back there, but I was pretty sure there were things in the cabinet that I didn’t want to see. Still looking at the cabinet, he said conversationally, “Get undressed now.”
I tried to clutch Her hand, but She pulled it away coldly. Turned Her back, found a chair and dragged it scratchily across the concrete floor to where the plank was. Sat.
I was still standing there as the man came around the table, a long, stiff cane in hand. He looked at me and sighed. Unhurriedly raised the cane and pressed the tip into my slinky little croptop, the tip poking sharply against my breast. I jerked away, hand soothing my tit. He just stood there. But I got the idea.
“Undress” he said. Not coldly. With no feeling at all. Which was worse.
I got undressed, leaving me naked except for my high heels, the way She likes me.
“Hands behind the head.”
I assumed “the position” - hands behind my head, breasts pushed out, ass cocked up, legs spread. Wobbling a bit on my high heels. I’m a good little subby. Proud of my body, but scared. Or worried that I SHOULD be scared. It wouldn’t be the first time that I stood naked and had to accept a man’s hands on me. All over me. Mentally, I shut my eyes, staring straight ahead.
No hands. Just the sudden, excruciatingly perfect laying of the bamboo into my furrow, making me gasp as the hardness invaded my softness, held motionless for a while, then dragged slowly upwards so that the hard nubs on the bamboo raked over my clit, making me jerk and groan. The man gave a little sigh, as if he were disappointed. As if I weren’t worthy of his time. Were a failure.
“On the board” he said, tapping it with the cane.
Turning, I sat on the board, hands clasped over my tits.
The man sighed again at my stupidity, saying “Lie down”.
I scootched my ass up, pulling my legs onto the board, but that didn’t satisfy him either.
“Head down” he said, patiently, but still with no feeling.
Getting into position was difficult, my toes grabbing inside my heels, trying to keep them on. He finally helped by grabbing my ankles and tugging me up, dragging my belly and breasts against the rough wood.
Then things moved quickly - a strap around my ankles, legs, lower back, wrists. Done so I could move my chest and shoulders, but everything below my waist was immobilized. His hands yanking my pumps off, his fingers pressing on my bare soles. Something tightening around my big toes, lashing them together. Impossible to turn my head far enough to see what he was doing. Feeling a tugging on my toes and trying to flex my feet. Finding the toes being stretched tightly down, leaving my bare feet trying to squirm nakedly.
I raised my head, pleading with my Mistress - who was looking at Her nails as if She was bored.
“I work down,” I heard him say from behind me. And my Mistress was interested now, Her eyes intent on my feet.
The first cut caught me by surprise, and I yelped. Realized too late that I wasn’t supposed to. Should be a good little girl and take my punishment. Wouldn’t be the first time I’d had a bastinado. Knew they were very uncomfortable - but bearable.
But bearable wasn’t on this old man’s agenda. No warmup strokes, no slow build. Each stroke - and he spaced them out so I had time to feel the burn and think about it before the next one came - was full force.
For the first three or four I tried to be good, to relax, lie still, not cry. But as stroke followed stroke and the pain built, I began writhing around on the board, grunting with each additional agony.
Then, amazingly, he stopped.
I was almost at the limit of my endurance, so it didn’t come a moment too soon.
“Now,” he said with that same monotonous voice, “we move down only after ten strokes with no sounds.” A really long speech for him. I was still gasping and trying to bear the pain, so my mind wasn’t working that well.
And then he hit me again.
After the pause, it felt like he was inserting liquid fire under my skin, and I imagined my poor soles bubbling and blackening. My tired back arched up again as I howled.
And then I realized what he meant. That he was going to keep on whipping my burning feet until I could stand ten strokes without screaming. And only then move down to whipping my calves, my thighs, my ass - each time beating me until I could somehow not cry out long enough.
I clenched my teeth together as hard as I could, but the cry burst out through them as he sliced my helpless feet open.
Tears were running down my cheeks as I looked at my Mistress imploringly. Saw Her hand down in Her pants, rubbing vigorously, Her hard, glassy eyes staring at my torturer.
I scream.
My body plunges around on the board, helplessly banging my sore tits against the hard wood.
I scream again, my sore back incapable of not writhing upward as the cane sears my bare soles again.
I am totally terrified.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
I don’t know where or how She found him. An actual torturer. Someone who spent his life interrogating and torturing girls in a mid East prison. I never got his name.
Retired now - or so he said when the three of us met for a drink at his house. Laid down the rules:
No safewords
His choice of methods
My Mistress can watch but may not comment
No really permanent marks (whatever that means)
It stops only when he says it stops
Did they really have to clink glasses and shake on it?
He’s an older man, heavyset. Not scary looking. Kind of avuncular, actually. He brought me a glass of clear liquid. Said “drink it” politely. It didn’t taste bad - kind of like lemonade. He waited until I finished before answering my Mistress’ questioning look.
“Stimulant. We don’t want them fainting.” THEM?
My heart started thumping in my chest.
Yet I took my Mistress’ hand as She led me, following the nameless man along a hall and then down into his basement. Felt a lessening of my nervousness at finding that it wasn’t a “torure chamber”. No chains hanging from the ceiling. No grotesque machines designed for hurting a girl’s body. Just an unused basement with gloomy lighting.
He cleared some stuff off the top of a kind of workbench while we stood there. My hand clutching Hers a little too tightly while the man searched for something. Came back with a heavy plank that he leaned up against the table. And my heart began to bang against my chest again.
Going behind the table, the man opened a cabinet. It was dark back there, but I was pretty sure there were things in the cabinet that I didn’t want to see. Still looking at the cabinet, he said conversationally, “Get undressed now.”
I tried to clutch Her hand, but She pulled it away coldly. Turned Her back, found a chair and dragged it scratchily across the concrete floor to where the plank was. Sat.
I was still standing there as the man came around the table, a long, stiff cane in hand. He looked at me and sighed. Unhurriedly raised the cane and pressed the tip into my slinky little croptop, the tip poking sharply against my breast. I jerked away, hand soothing my tit. He just stood there. But I got the idea.
“Undress” he said. Not coldly. With no feeling at all. Which was worse.
I got undressed, leaving me naked except for my high heels, the way She likes me.
“Hands behind the head.”
I assumed “the position” - hands behind my head, breasts pushed out, ass cocked up, legs spread. Wobbling a bit on my high heels. I’m a good little subby. Proud of my body, but scared. Or worried that I SHOULD be scared. It wouldn’t be the first time that I stood naked and had to accept a man’s hands on me. All over me. Mentally, I shut my eyes, staring straight ahead.
No hands. Just the sudden, excruciatingly perfect laying of the bamboo into my furrow, making me gasp as the hardness invaded my softness, held motionless for a while, then dragged slowly upwards so that the hard nubs on the bamboo raked over my clit, making me jerk and groan. The man gave a little sigh, as if he were disappointed. As if I weren’t worthy of his time. Were a failure.
“On the board” he said, tapping it with the cane.
Turning, I sat on the board, hands clasped over my tits.
The man sighed again at my stupidity, saying “Lie down”.
I scootched my ass up, pulling my legs onto the board, but that didn’t satisfy him either.
“Head down” he said, patiently, but still with no feeling.
Getting into position was difficult, my toes grabbing inside my heels, trying to keep them on. He finally helped by grabbing my ankles and tugging me up, dragging my belly and breasts against the rough wood.
Then things moved quickly - a strap around my ankles, legs, lower back, wrists. Done so I could move my chest and shoulders, but everything below my waist was immobilized. His hands yanking my pumps off, his fingers pressing on my bare soles. Something tightening around my big toes, lashing them together. Impossible to turn my head far enough to see what he was doing. Feeling a tugging on my toes and trying to flex my feet. Finding the toes being stretched tightly down, leaving my bare feet trying to squirm nakedly.
I raised my head, pleading with my Mistress - who was looking at Her nails as if She was bored.
“I work down,” I heard him say from behind me. And my Mistress was interested now, Her eyes intent on my feet.
The first cut caught me by surprise, and I yelped. Realized too late that I wasn’t supposed to. Should be a good little girl and take my punishment. Wouldn’t be the first time I’d had a bastinado. Knew they were very uncomfortable - but bearable.
But bearable wasn’t on this old man’s agenda. No warmup strokes, no slow build. Each stroke - and he spaced them out so I had time to feel the burn and think about it before the next one came - was full force.
For the first three or four I tried to be good, to relax, lie still, not cry. But as stroke followed stroke and the pain built, I began writhing around on the board, grunting with each additional agony.
Then, amazingly, he stopped.
I was almost at the limit of my endurance, so it didn’t come a moment too soon.
“Now,” he said with that same monotonous voice, “we move down only after ten strokes with no sounds.” A really long speech for him. I was still gasping and trying to bear the pain, so my mind wasn’t working that well.
And then he hit me again.
After the pause, it felt like he was inserting liquid fire under my skin, and I imagined my poor soles bubbling and blackening. My tired back arched up again as I howled.
And then I realized what he meant. That he was going to keep on whipping my burning feet until I could stand ten strokes without screaming. And only then move down to whipping my calves, my thighs, my ass - each time beating me until I could somehow not cry out long enough.
I clenched my teeth together as hard as I could, but the cry burst out through them as he sliced my helpless feet open.
Tears were running down my cheeks as I looked at my Mistress imploringly. Saw Her hand down in Her pants, rubbing vigorously, Her hard, glassy eyes staring at my torturer.
I screamed. And kept on screaming.
*. *. *. *. *. *. *. *. *. *. *. *. *. *. *. *. *
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