I was naked, my wrists encircled by thick leather cuffs and tied high above my head with rope. The sun was hazy behind the clouds, and a slight breeze caressed my naked breasts. I could see stretches of bare skin beside me, another naked woman tethered to the same wooden post. She shrieked as she shied away from her tormentors, and I glimpsed a modified cattle prod skim her upper thigh. I made a mental note to include cattle prods on my list of hard limits at next year’s Slave Hunt.
There were a dozen of us tied to whipping posts, our hard limits printed on white cards above our heads. Mine read: no penetration, no food, no glitter, no Wanderella’s diamond plated broadsword (which was a moot point, because Wanderella had a heavy duty rubber paddle the size of my torso instead.) Everything else was encouraged, but I wasn’t afraid for my safety. LH would be with me most of the time at the post, and my girlfriend was there too. Plus I had the safeword “asparagus” that would halt everything if I became overwhelmed. No, I didn’t pick it.
The beauty of the slave hunt was that it was the closest I could get to being hunted and captured without being in any real danger. Bounties were offered by the submissives, we were turned loose into the woods, and sadists with paintball guns hunted us. It didn’t matter that I had signed a waiver, declared my hard limits and wore a paintball mask for safety reasons. My survival instincts kicked in hard when the air gun signaled an end to our lead time. The feeling is primordial–fight or flight. Adrenaline shot through my veins and I ran.
The hunting ground was a small section of woods on a private property, and there were few places to hide. My sneakers made little noise against the thick layer of pine tags, but my breathing was hot and loud inside the mask. I had a moment right before we were signaled to run, a feeling of crystalline awareness of internal preparation. I was readying myself, and despite the jitters I experienced on the surface, my body was preparing physically and mentally for subspace. Whether it had been conscious on our parts or not, LH had been training me for this hunt. Every scene we had gave me more experience, and as he tested my limits, he gave me the skills to go deeper and adapt better. It was our first public outing as Master and slave, and I wanted to make him proud. More importantly, I wanted to prove to myself that “pain slut” wasn’t just another pretty title.
I had no intention of winning my heat. I wanted to avoid a paintball welt by surrendering, happily giving up my cinnamon rolls to my captor (not a euphemism). My real goal was the whipping post and the strangers that wanted to torture me. Anyone could touch me as long as they honored my limits. My true challenge was whether or not I could manage the pain they were eager to inflict.
LH began my warmup at the post with his flogger. The rhythmic thud of the leather against my back lured my brain into silence and pushed me into the quiet place where I go in a scene. When Angel stood beside me, one of the post monitors, I barely registered her request to play with me. Her crop smacked my thighs as she smiled up at me. I think she said I was pretty right before her teeth sank into my left breast. I exhaled loudly through my nose, and I had a second to adjust before she let go and grabbed my nipple between her teeth. The exquisite pain of teeth cutting into me stole all coherent thought. I moved with her as she pulled to the left until I felt another set of teeth fasten on my ear. I was suspended on a gossamer thread of pain, rendered immobile.
“Why aren’t you moving?” Angel demanded.
“Because I have her ear.” The voice was a deep rumble behind me.
She looked at me and grinned. “What do you want to lose–your ear or your nipple?”
“You mean I have a choice?” I asked.
The sadists laughed, releasing me, and I forced myself to breathe and move back into position. Pain lanced through my abused ear and nipple, but I refused to take stock of any injuries. This was just the beginning. The air held a carnival-like feeling, and a crowd of people surrounded the posts, talking and heckling. I had forty-five minutes to endure before the next heat was bagged and brought into camp. I permitted myself to scan the crowd to find my girlfriend, and she smiled at me in encouragement. I could do this.
The man who grabbed my ear, Kuma, struck me with a rod that came from a set of Venetian blinds. I didn’t know that’s what it was until later. Caning, regardless of the material, can offer a sharp, cutting pain depending on how it’s applied. It can steal your breath and deliver a pain so sharp that you’re jerked to the surface like a trout from the water. I tried not to anticipate the strike, which would lead to fear and cause me to lose subspace, but focused instead on my body’s reaction. My mantra was “accept the pain and disperse it.” Kuma’s voice was low and soothing as he hit me, and he asked LH if I normally “dropped” this fast. For a second I was confused, but then I realized he was referring to the fact that I was already in subspace. I was in the zone. There were shrieks all around me, but I couldn’t watch anyone for long because a different man began florentine flogging me.
I had been introduced to him earlier in the afternoon. He had an open smile and a leather duffel bag overflowing with floggers, canes and other toys of torment. He had a beautiful whip that he showed me, and watching his hands caress the tan hide made me think decidedly explicit thoughts about other things those hands could do. When he asked to play with me at the post, I practically orgasmed on the spot. It was my first florentine experience, but really, that man could use anything on me and I’d be thrilled.
“Wow. You can take that?” he asked after hitting me with a silicon rod sporting a glittery rainbow core.
I didn’t turn to look over my shoulder at him, trusting LH to gauge my reactions. When LH said, “yes she can” there was another blow to my ass. And another.
At one point he and LH both had floggers and were hitting me at the same time, and I had the stray thought that it had become a fun competition. Who could hit Heather the hardest? I rocked forward on the balls of my feet from the combined impact, and I did a mental scan of my body. Nothing hurt too much, but I could feel the heat radiating from my abraded skin. LH’s hand came to rest at the base of my neck as his other hand moved between my thighs. His fingers rubbed tight circles over my clit until I was gasping, begging him to let me come. I leaned into him and let the orgasm take me, my mind and body overwhelmed by sensation.
Eventually LH gave me over to my girlfriend, because he wanted to check on his play partner. It was a relief to hear Liri’s voice in my ear when she told me what a good girl I was. I wasn’t screaming or protesting. When I saw the grin on her face, though, I knew it wasn’t over. “I can’t believe they’re neglecting your tits,” she said.
That woman slaps tits harder than any dude I know.
After I was taken down from the post, I floated high on endorphins and the pleasure of a job well done. Eventually I found clothes, and LH and I delivered my cinnamon rolls and chocolate chip cookies to the sadist who captured me. He sent me the nicest thank you note:
“It was quite nice slinging a real woman over my shoulder and carrying her up the hill. The cinnamon rolls are beyond fucking amazing. Like mouth watering bliss in a sticky cinnamon bun. Amazing skills right there. Thank you so very much for such a treat.”
The entire day was a treat–a glorious day of firsts. I participated in my first hunt. I had my first public scene with new players, and we attended our first community event as Master and slave. I’m sure it must seem odd to some people that I would derive such pleasure from public submission and pain. I couldn’t tell you why that works for me, but I’m pleased as punch no matter how you slice it. I’m a pain slut, y’all. It’s what we do.
