He requested tea with my beating. That was new.
From my vantage point, with my arms bound behind me with rope and my ankle cuffs clipped to the spreader bar, I could see steam wafting from the cup. He sipped the tea and perused the implements spread across the table. It reminded me of someone shopping for the perfect fruit, not a British sadist in contemplation.
Strike One – Heather
Things were subtly different from the first time we played. Some of it was a consequence of my actions, deliberate and incidental. I had forgotten repeatedly to update my shared calendar which made scheduling time at the dungeon a challenge for the Sadist. Eve, the Domme supervising our play time and the coordinator of this event, “helpfully” shared my sassy texts regarding the calendar. I hadn’t curbed my tongue. Strike one – Heather.
Strike Two – Heather
On the day of our scene, I hit unusual traffic on my way to the dungeon. I arrived half an hour late, and although the Sadist accommodated the change, I was going to pay for it. Strike two.
None of these occurrences compiled themselves in my mind to give me something to worry about. No, I arrived flustered and rushed to find that Eve had set up on her own. This meant that all sorts of items were out, things that I probably wouldn’t have chosen. Ouchy things. I had given my limits months ago when the Sadist and I first played, and I hadn’t thought about updating that list before arriving. But the Sadist wasn’t the only one changing things up. I was too.
When the Sadist and I first came together I had a master, and I had everything approved by him before I played with the Sadist. Now I was free of my contract, and I was the sole person responsible for negotiating the scene. But I had mostly forgotten about that until I was dressed in the outfit the Sadist had brought and bound to the large wooden frame at the center of the room. My thoughts resembled a sheaf of paper being thrown into the air on a blustery day. He approached me with safety scissors in hand, and it finally occurred to me that I had no idea what was going to happen. I hadn’t been proactive about what I wanted during our interaction, and now it was going to bite me in the ass. Probably literally.
Well, damn, Heather
The Sadist pinched and caressed me through the black dress as I watched him warily. He used the scissors to cut away the fabric over my breasts and pussy. Before I could ask anything, his hand came down swiftly in a chopping motion against my right nipple. The pain was swift and immediate, and I felt tears form at the corners of my eyes. He didn’t pause and whipped his hand down the front of the other nipple. I couldn’t tell if I wanted to cry from the pain or whether the nipple slapping reminded me so much of my ex. It was my ex who had trained me to endure nipple torture. He would hit me like that in the shower or anywhere I might be exposed. He was the only man who had hurt me in that way, and now the Sadist was doing it too. My feelings got tangled with the pain. Then the Sadist gripped my jaw and brought my gaze to his.
“You’ve been very naughty, Heather.” He tapped my cheek with his thick fingers. “You didn’t update your calendar and then you were late.”
I started to protest, and he smacked my cheek. Another slap. And another. I began to cry in earnest.
Again he began slapping my nipples, but I couldn’t bear it. I said “yellow,” and breathed a sigh of relief when he stepped back. Of course that respite was short. He cut more holes in the dress and abused more flesh. He tickled me, because he knew I hated it, then slapped me again when I laughed helplessly. When the cloth hung off me in strips, he shoved aside the remnants of the black thong I wore and rubbed my clit in rough circles. He knew I wouldn’t orgasm like that, but he handled me in such a way because he knew he could. It was degrading, and the humiliation made my cheeks burn in addition to the slaps.
That was probably the biggest difference of all. The Sadist had arrived this day with the confidence of knowing the submissive he was dealing with. This was our fourth time playing, and he seemed confident that he could challenge me. I felt that self-assurance in every slap, every strike of the cane, in the way he tied me and pushed in ways that he hadn’t before. He punched the meaty part of my chest and paddled the bottoms of my feet. He explored the most sensitive parts of my body with brutal calculation, favoring the tender flesh on my sides and inner thighs. The hardest part, for me, was the predicament bondage that he had dreamed up for the occasion.
The man tore off the remnants of my clothes and unhooked the spreader bar. He made me stand parallel to the wooden frame with my arms stretched straight in front of me. Around each wrist he looped rope that was then tied to the frame. If I dropped my arms, the loops around each wrist would tighten. He clipped pulleys to the chains at the top of the frame, and fed rope through each. He tied frozen bottles of water to the ends. But it was the other end of the rope that made me anxious. Each rope was tied to a zipper of clothespins. (A zipper is a term to describe clothespins tied in a consecutive line to rope or string. Once the clothespins are pinched on the skin of the submissive, the top can pull one end of the string and pull each clip off in rapid succession. When the clothespins are lining each side of the labia, for example, they come off like the teeth of a zipper.)
One zipper had ten clothespins that pinched my labia, and the other longer zipper had clothespins circling each breast like a deranged porcupine. The issue was never the clothespins going on in these situations. The painful repercussions always happened when they were ripped off and blood rushed back to the wounded areas.
My predicament was this: if I dropped the water bottles, the weight would rip off the zippers. If I dropped the water under two minutes, we would start all over again. If I held the freezing water bottles for longer, he would tie on more bottles and things would become heavier. The decision was agony. There was no way I could “win.” Any which way and those zippers would come off. I debated and squirmed as the icy bottles melted in my hands. Two more bottles went on as I danced in place. My arms were tiring quickly. I decided finally to drop the bottles on my left that were tied to the zipper around my pussy. Squeezing my eyes shut in tense anticipation, I dropped the bottles. They fell to the floor with a thud, but the zipper stayed.
“What happened?” I shrieked, going on to my tiptoes in response to the tightened clothespins.
The Sadist looked at me calmly. “I suppose we need more weight.” He grabbed the rope and yanked with all his might.
The clothespins flew off my pussy, and I would have doubled over if I hadn’t been tied to the other one. I made a garbled exclamation, the pain between my legs distracting me from articulation.
“Going to let go of the other?” he asked with mild amusement.
It didn’t matter what I decided. No sooner had the bottle dropped from my hand then he was jerking the other rope. This time I shrieked and clutched my abused breasts. I hadn’t felt anything like that in ages, and the sharp pain of the blood circulating made me whimper. The Sadist pushed the frozen bottles against my nipples, and I begged him to stop being helpful.
He wasn’t finished with me yet. The Sadist had me lie down on the massage table, and then used almost every implement laid out beside his tea cup. He turned my body from pale pink to bright red. And he saved the cane for last. The thing that I loathed and loved, the only tool that was guaranteed to undo the last pieces of my self-control. Again it was because of my ex.
The cane had been his favorite, and I through the years of us being master and slave, I had learned to read the strength and angle of its fall against my flesh like reading the sky for clues to the weather. I couldn’t be caned and not think of my ex. The Sadist didn’t know that part of it, so it didn’t slow him. The caning felt like it lasted forever, and the bruises it gave me matched the ones on my heart. I cried, my sobs muffled by the pillow beneath me.
Finally he decided to finish it, and he pulled me to my feet and had me pick out a dildo. I pushed it into place on the fucking machine and sat down so that I straddled the stiff rubber cock. The Sadist then rocked me back and forth on the machine, controlling how fast the dildo penetrated my pussy. I had orgasm after orgasm, my tears replaced with sweat and cum. Finally he stopped the machine, and I tried to get my synapses firing again.
I have no idea what I said or what he said at that point. We spoke of something pleasant before he left, I’m sure. I don’t remember much of anything except that I gave him many hugs in gratitude. My brain had stopped working but my heart was full. I hope he knew how thankful I was for the pain and the pleasure. And the bittersweet memories too.