I knew the next appointment was a bad one. I could tell by looking at my appointment book; by the gap between one appointment and the next. A mild session was followed by only a few days, a week at the most of recovery before the next one. A long break meant the session would be harsh. A three week break like Paul scheduled for me after this appointment was rare and presaged a really tough session. My guts squirmed inside me for days before the appointment, anticipation building on fear as the date approached.
There were no special requests by my patron, simply to be at the appointed street corner at the appointed time. To identify myself I would wear a red hat. A limo would come and pick me up.
That worried me; that and the long break. At best it meant I would not be able to return on my own; at worst, well, you know.
Thus, at 3 PM on a summer afternoon I found myself standing at the corner of 42nd and Lexington, wearing a black mini dress and a red Pamela straw hat I got at Bloomingdale's that morning. I hadn't been standing for five minutes when a black stretch limo pulled up to the curb; ignoring the protests of the drivers behind him, the chauffeur got out and opened the door for me. I slid into the plush leather seat and we were off.
I could tell right away this was not a livery vehicle. It lacked the distinctive obnoxious smell of the livery car, a mixture of cheap odor absorber and cheaper perfume. This limo smelled like leather.
The partition was up so I could not speak with the driver were I inclined to do so. He used the intercom to tell me that there was bottled water and soda in the wet bar.
We headed east, through the midtown tunnel and into the industrial morass of North New Jersey. After a while we left the urban sprawl behind and motored through a more rural area where the Garden State actually had gardens. I missed the name of the exit; not that it mattered. I never brought my cell phone on this assignments as it could be traced. My patrons were as concerned with security as, I hoped, Paul was.
As soon as the car got off the highway my stomach began to churn with equal parts anticipation, fear and excitement.
The highway gave way to a series of lushly arbored two lane roads. Every so often, a gated driveway opened between the trees, the mansion beyond never visible from the road. The moneyed people who lived here valued their privacy. They minded their own business and did not pry on that of others. The implications rocked a new wave of cold fear inside my belly.
The limo turned into one of these driveways and stopped at a large mansion. The chauffeur opened my door and led me to the entrance. He opened the door for me. I followed him into the house leaving the limo on the driveway.
The house felt cold inside, even in the heat of summer. The curtains had been drawn over the windows and the entrance hall, and the rooms beyond lay cloaked in semi-darkness. The chauffeur led me to a sitting room.
"Please wait here miss," he said.
I sat down on one of the easy chairs. The furniture that surrounded me could not be bought today at any price. I doubted that there were craftsmen now that could turn out pieces like the ones I saw around me. Restless, unable to sit still, waves of heat pulsing from my loins, mixing with icy pangs of fear, I stood up and walked around the dim room. The artwork, and the furniture were obviously polished and cared for regularly yet there was a very thin layer of dust on the surface of one of the side tables that told me this room was seldom used. The owner of this mansion must not receive visitors often.
I heard a step at the door and turned to find a thin, old woman, with white hair caught in a bun. Despite her age, she stood ramrod straight. Her long black dress, accented at the neck with a jet necklace reached her feet, its sober color relieved only by a thin strip of lace at the neck and cuffs.
"You've met Frank," she said, "follow me."
I followed her. At the base of the stairs she opened a door.
"This leads to the basement and to Frank's quarters," she said.
She led me up the stairs, to her bedroom. I followed her, my breath catching in my throat. I felt sweat beading on my spine; I felt short hairs on my neck rising, standing on end. My heartbeat throbbed in my ears.
A suite rather than a bedroom, it consisted of a sitting room, with a desk, bookcases, two easy chairs and a large screen TV; through the sitting room we reached an even larger bedroom with a king size bed, dresser and nightstands, all clearly handmade in fine wood. Beyond, a large bathroom with a sunken tub the size of a small pool.
"Do you like it?" she asked, "a gift from my late husband."
That was the last spark of humanity I saw from her.
"Stand here," she pointed to a small, wide foot stool, the kind taylors use when measuring their customers.
"Remove your dress."
I shrugged my dress off at the shoulders while standing on the stool. I tossed it on a chair nearby. As I stood in front of her wearing only a black lace bra and matching thong, she examined me carefully. I did not know what to do with my hands under her scrutiny so I hooked my fingers behind my neck and stood up straight, displayed to perfection.
I did so.
I faced the window. The curtains were drawn open and I could see the garden and a lake. Beyond the lake I saw the outlines of other mansions.
"I keep only Frank in the house," she said, her voice calm, even, "for security and peace of mind. Two maids come, during the week to keep the place neat. They don't do a very good job but I have other things to care about."
I remained standing, silent.
I felt her hand touch my buttocks. I flinched at the touch of her cold fingers.
"Relax, I shan't hurt you," she said.
That failed to reassure me.
"I let Frank take care of that."
Hot juice dripped inside my tunnel. Cold fear gripped my chest.
"I don't like all the sweating, the screaming," she said, "come, follow me."
I felt awkward following her in my underwear while she led me back to the sitting room, all clad in her sober black dress. I thought full nakedness would be preferable to this partial state of undress but it was not my choice.
She opened a cabinet on the wall and I felt my knees grow weak and my pelvis burn. It was full of rods, crops, canes, whips and other instruments of torture.
She held a dog whip in her hand. The business end swung slowly as her free hand slid over my belly.
"Do you cut easily?" she asked as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
"It depends on the instrument," I replied.
She showed me a long thin crop, "For how long would this mark you?" she asked, "Wielded by a strong hand."
I shook my head, fear replacing arousal, "Two weeks, I think."
"Remove your bra."
I did so. My breasts stood proudly on my chest. I covered them with my hands. I feared this woman looking at them; comparing them, perhaps, with her own withered dugs. I feared what she might do to them. The tremors that shook my body could not be hidden.
"You are afraid," she said.
It was not a question but I nodded anyway, "Yes madam."
"You have reason to be."
My innards squirmed, I gasped for breath, my mouth open. Her hand cupped my chin a finger penetrating between my lips. She held me by my jaw and moved my head this way and that. She led me back to the footstool but, before I climbed on it, she said, stretching out her hand:
I placed the thong on her hand and felt the colors blooming on my face. I wished the crotch was not as soaked as I knew it to be. Her fingers examined the frilly fabric and the terrycloth crotch. A wicked smile crept to her lips as she raised it near her nose.
"A hot slut I see."
I said nothing.
I followed her back to the sitting room and, on her orders picked up a stout rubber strap with a wooden handle.
"Ask Frank to work over your derriere hard."
She sat down on one of the chairs. As I left I heard the TV turn on.
Nude, carrying the heavy rubber strap in my hand, I stumbled down the stairs to the empty main floor. I opened the door to the basement and walked down the unembellished wooden stairs that led to Frank's quarters. I found him in his sitting room. It was a large, windowless room, with thick carpet, a TV, coffee table, easy chair and shelves containing books. He was sitting on the chair reading a hard cover book. Despite the thick carpet and my bare feet, he heard me arrive and put down the book. I glanced at the cover: The Remembrance of Things Past.
His eyebrows raised, "Yes miss?"
I handed him the strap.
"She said to work over my derriere, hard." I squeaked.
"Of course," he stood up.
He brought a straight back chair from a room and sat on it; he placed a towel over his lap.
I did not need further instructions; I knew what I needed to do. With my insides rolling with heat and need, I was about to drape my body over his legs. I knew I could endure the strap on my bottom. He interrupted me.
"Go to the bathroom first," he pointed to a door on the wall.
I obeyed, a bad feeling gnawing at the back of my throat.
Splatt! The sound of the strap hitting my buttocks preceded the pain by a millisecond. Cramps racked my body as my womb and tunnel expelled their oils, my screams of pain mixing with the sounds of my release. He took his time and hit me again and, once more, a wave of bliss throbbed over my body despite the blistering pain on my bottom.
He continued spanking my bottom, hard.
My pleasure over, all I felt was the strap hitting my ass, burning my skin, the pain throbbing into my muscle, into my flesh.
"Try not to tense up so," he advised.
It was pointless. My ass clenched up of its own accord, negating any relief the soft tissue could offer; my ass muscles, tight as rocks, received each and every stroke and only relaxed between blows, when it did not help. I screamed with each stroke, the screams that so bothered the lady in black upstairs. My legs kicked and my hands grasped at the fabric of his trousers. My tears flowed unimpeded down my cheeks. His cock, under the towel, rose to poke at my belly.
I felt my bladder and understood why he had me empty it before we started.
When he finished, I stood up, still crying. His shirt was soaked with sweat. I noted the erection tenting his pants and thought he'd want me to take care of that for him but he simply handed me the strap.
"Go, she's waiting."
My ass burning like the fires of hell, I made my way up the stairs to the lady's sitting room. On the TV, one of the old "Alfred Hitchcock Presents," episodes had just finished playing.
She remained in her seat.
"Come here dear," she said.
I stood in front of her, the strap still in my hand. I felt her cold hand on the blistered skin of my ass.
"Lean forward a little dear,"
She examined my cheeks, spreading them to see better inside my crack and my untouched bunghole. I heard her breathing harder. She was aroused by this. I heard her squirm in the seat, the only thing stopping from fingering herself right then and there was her long dress.
"Put the strap back inside the cabinet and bring the canes dear."
Inside the cabinet hung five different canes. I took them to her.
She picked one, a solid rod and swished it through the air, "What do you think?" she asked, "Would it cut your skin?"
It was hard and stiff, but I thought it would not.
"Too rigid ma'am," I answered.
"I agree," she picked up a long wicker one.
The sound it made was shriller, "Too soft, don't you think?"
"Yes ma'am," I answered.
I tried to assess the effect each one would have on my body as coldly as I could. The calmer I managed to get, the more excited she grew. Finally we chose two canes. A thin bamboo one and an even thinner rattan horror.
"The bamboo one is for your breasts dear," she said to my horror.
"Tell Frank to reserve the rattan one for your nipples," she added.
I began shaking uncontrollably; I tried to stammer an answer but could not utter any intelligible words.
As I left, before she turned the TV on, I heard her say:
"And do remind Frank to have no mercy, especially on the nipples."
"He does forget things sometimes," she murmured before the theme of "Alfred Hitchcock Presents" filled the room.
The two flights of stairs down were the longest distance I ever travelled. I inched down the last flight taking so long that, by the time I reached Frank's sitting room, my cheeks covered in tears, he was standing looking up at the stairs wondering where I went. He had changed into a clean shirt.
I handed him both canes.
"What are her instructions?" he asked.
I shook my head, blubbering and could not say anything.
He put down the canes and approached me. I felt to my knees crying hysterically. He took me in his arms and carried me to the sofa. He sat on it and hugged me to his chest.
"There there," he said.
It took me a while to stop crying and collect myself. Once I got control of the waterworks I released my death grip on his neck and stood up. He stood up too.
"What are her instructions?" he asked me again.
"You are to use them on my breasts," I said.
"The thin one is for my n... nipples," I added.
I had to say it, and I did; I blurted it out, before my courage broke.
"You are to have no mercy, especially on the nipples."
The tears began to flow again. Unable to control my eyes I was, at least, able to control my body. I stood still, or as still as my sobs allowed me to be.
He brought out a thick pole, the width of a pine tree, that he inserted into a hidden hole on the floor. A stout cross piece went into a groove at the top and was fixed in place by a strong metal peg. He placed a footstool by it and had me climb on the stool.
"Place your arms behind the crosspiece," he ordered.
I did so and he fastened my wrists together with handcuffs in front of my belly. The cross pole, sliding behind my back thrust my breasts out while pulling back on my shoulder joints in a pose that was as painful as it was obscene. Then he pulled out the footstool
With my feet dangling free, all my weight hung from my shoulder joints. All concerns about obscene exposure replaced by the tearing pain in my shoulders my screams filled the room and echoed on the walls. He placed a short flat board on the bottom of the vertical pole at such a height that I was able to rest my feet on it and take the weight away from my shoulders. I recovered enough of my composure to at least stop screaming.
My eyes were riveted to Frank as he picked up the bamboo cane. I saw his shirt, open at the neck and the loose khaki pants he wore, tented by an erection he needn't bother to hide. Then he began and I lost control. I screamed, and tossed my head about but he ignored my pleas. He caned my breasts with perfect tempo stopping only when, in my desperate throes, I fell off the bottom plank and hung from my shoulders from the cross. Whenever that happened he would stop and wait for me to stand on my own feet again before resuming. During this time he studiously avoided hitting my nipples.
I barely noticed he had stopped. Only when he carefully inserted a drinking straw between my lips I understood that the torture had ceased. I drank ice could water from a glass he held for me. I caught my breath and then I saw, on the coffee table the thin rattan cane.
It hadn't ended. I began to sob again. I wished he would have continued, non stop, so it would be over. He put away the water and bent to pick up the cane. Before he resumed I managed to say:
"Especially on my nipples."
I crawled up the stairs to the main floor, on my hands and knees; all the strength had left my body despite the Mountain Dew Frank made me drink after my ordeal was over. In my hand I carried the bamboo rod, not much the worse for the wear, and the remains of the thin rattan cane after it had shattered against my nipples. Across my breasts, red and purple stripes and welts had turned the, formerly white, skin into a psychotic's crossword puzzle punctuated, here and there by droplets of blood where the skin split under the vicious caning. When I got to her sitting room I stood up. The TV was off. I walked in silence through the room, carrying the canes in my hands. In the bedroom I found the old lady, stark naked, standing by the bed. Her jugs dangled, like empty wine botas, in front of her scrawny chest. Her pubic mound sported a few tufts of white hair. Her skin hung like leather from her arms.
"On the bed," she ordered.
I lay face up on the bed, my hands still holding on to the canes, while she straddled my face and lowered her pungent cunt on to my mouth. My nose poked at her fragrant asshole as I began to lick and suck at her withered cunt.
She said she wouldn't hurt me. She lied. Her hands pawed and groped at my sore breasts but her cunt was so effective at smothering my screams that her ears were not bothered by my squeals of pain. I had to endure this until the pace of her breathing, as well as a few drops of stale moisture announced her climax.
She got off me once her orgasm was over and pulled me up by the hand.
"He did a good job on those," she said.
I followed her to her study where, again, we looked thought the instruments hanging from their pegs in the cabinets.
"Let's find something to destroy that young cunt of yours."
I felt my spine melt, acid churning in my stomach. I did not reply. I could not mouth a word. I kept my lips firmly shut against the waves of nausea that rolled in my belly.
I managed not to puke.
She picked up an old fashioned car antenna.
I ran to the bathroom and violently hurled.
She did not follow me. I rinsed my mouth, using some of her mouthwash; who uses regular Listerine anymore? before returning to her.
"Ask Frank to give you three good strikes across your tummy, to see how it works."
I endured them in silence. They would be but caresses in comparison with what would follow. When I returned to the lady she examined my belly.
"It will do nicely."
While I stood in front of the naked hag, the aerial in my hand, she added:
"Tell Frank to give you the last five directly on your clit."
I did not get the last five directly on my clit, although I reminded him and Frank tried. My lips were so swollen by then, torn and shattered by the unforgiving metal, that the steel antenna could only reach my clitoris after first sliding between the swollen curtains of flesh. It was not my fault that my screams were louder. I wasn't able to talk by then.
I crawled up the stairs, and through her study, the aerial forgotten in the basement. I reached her room exhausted; too spent to be afraid, after all: What more could she possibly do to me?
Inside the room, I saw her from her flank, a massive strap on dildo sticking out from her pelvis.
"Here, on the bed," she said.
"Let's see if Frank did a good job."
I found my answer. I hope my screams bothered her.
When she finished pounding my shredded cunt, my insides felt as raw as my outside and my uterus and bowels felt as if a mule had taken a kickboxing lesson with them. Lying prone on the bed, my legs spread open, blood streaming from my destroyed pussy I heard her say:
"Stand up slut."
Using up reserves of strength I never knew I had, I slowly pushed myself off the bed and stood, wavering in front of her.
She pulled the sheet open and slid into the bed.
"Frank deserves a reward. Go ask him to fuck your ass before he takes you home."
I turned and walked to the door.
"And turn the lights off when you leave."
Hope you like it. I hope to have it finished before Christmas, New Year at the latest.