Thus there begins a long evening of pain, humiliation, degradation... an ‘aghast’ Susan ‘shocked’ as Sandy demonstrates oral skills quite proficient. The taps of the cane are moderate and many. But then as Tony plunges, the tip of that massive penis driving to the gullet, Susan works the buttocks, strokes crisp and well placed, the muscling well stressed by deep piercings and taut cords.
I do have to appreciate the concentration forced upon Sandy. Any spasmodic reaction to Susan’s brisk strokes merely enhances the agony, the impinged muscles cramping most painfully with the slightest motion, tensioning the many deeply implanted rings.
Therefore she must kneel and take it... every agonizing stroke... and such are steady and frequent... Susan’s wrath feigned, but the dispensed misery not. Yes, discipline Sandy, come my thoughts... physically offered but to be mentally endured as well.
***
Many sips, my martini is enjoyed. Yet dare I step to the kitchen for another? Miss a portion of the night’s entertainment?
No.
Tony Frobisher’s stamina continues to amaze, face fucking a tearful Sandy... which in turn seems to energize Susan Frobisher, the resulting welted buttocks quite noteworthy.
Finally, Tony decides Sandy has earned her ‘butt fucking’, stepping back, his withdrawal serving to display twelve inches of rigid, saliva coated maleness.
“And now for your reward,” the tone gracious, the ‘reward’ given to one’s consideration.
Susan knows to suspend her efforts, both globes evidencing her proficiency and her implacable resolve. Then in what appears to be a well rehearsed dance step, husband and wife both move counterclockwise... Tony to Sandy’s rear, Susan to stand before a face with puffy moistened eyes.
“Girls like you so much enjoy my company,” Susan mocks. “You all have such insatiable needs... always in want... no matter how hard I try.”
In an odd manner, this is serendipitous, for Sandy cannot simultaneously be caned and sodomized.
“Thank you, Ma’am, for your attention,” Sandy’s voice quaking with the trauma. “But please no more.”
Heart rendering. But for the sadist such words are a catalyst. ‘No more’ really means more, like when a second offering of a luscious dessert is politely declined. Why would anyone truly refuse?
“But I have not palpated these fine breasts,” the heartless words offered as Susan’s hands lower to cup the impaled glands, suffering I am sure from the impactful greetings offered by the introduction of the afternoon’s red hot spatula.
Indeed, Sandy cries out, every inch of rounded well formed flesh stung and seared by Louise’s excoriating hand.
Meanwhile, Tony deftly removes my wicked cunny cone, the needles sharp and many. Then he grasps the buttock cords and brusquely tugs, a manly but cruel effort to splay and better present Sandy’s rectum for penetration.
There comes a slow steady thrust of the hips and I am amazed to watch her backside in turn slowly but steadily ‘swallow’ such size and firmness. Tony’s tugging foments the cascade of severe contractions of the glutei, causing also the feet to challenge the bindings of the ankle rings... causing in turn more contractions of the soleus and gastrocnemius muscles.
Effectively Sandy tortures herself, failing to calm the paroxysmal lurching.
Meanwhile a curious Susan reaches to the breast cord, stressing the chain and forcing the mammary glands to so nicely offer themselves. She jiggles, watching the spiked globes comically bob, wondering why the simple press of her finger to a nipple brings repressed grimaces.
Then Tony begins to fuck and I note how a well trained Sandy accommodates, timing subtle squeezes to maximize male pleasure. My vaginal insertion brings pleasant oscillations, the heavy ball rolling back and forth counter to Tony’s thrusts. Thus the cerebral cortex is flooded, offered confusing signals of pain, pleasure, stress and enjoyment. Therefore Sandy opens her mind as well as her body... ‘for use... sadist visit here’ the imaginary sign posted at the masochist’s portal.
In Daddy’s barn, I am sure the libidinous conduct, muscles and motion enhancing the pleasure of the penetrating male, was intended to hasten the spending and time of coupling... the young male spurting and withdrawing quickly. But not with Tony Frobisher, the Clark Kent mask veiling the ‘superman of sodomy’. No, I hear a chuckle suggesting a glee in sensing Sandy’s subtle but ardent cooperation. But there comes no culmination or climactic release. He fucks onward.
Sandy will have a night of sodomy not to be forgotten.
I dread having to arise for a bathroom visit and another martini. But I know upon my return, Tony will be continuing, frictioning a sphincter soon to be well worn.
Chapter Five
The schedule for Sandy’s warehouse loft, well hidden in my desk drawer, suggests a visit tonight from ‘Mike the Masturbator’. I’ve watched the man work girls on occasion. I do not know him well, but it is rumored he has a medical background like me, his extensive knowledge of the female anatomy intimating some level of formal training.
His manner of bringing degradation to the needy subordinate female is most dissimilar from my cohorts. As his sobriquet suggests... he strips, spreads and masturbates them... in public, of course. How else would a devoted sadist oblige?
So once again I must put aside any late night paperwork to be reviewed at the office. I too much enjoyed myself last night in observing as the Frobisher’s partook in the blessings of membership in our little gathering.
Yes, the superman of sodomy plunged onward, Susan’s envy becoming evident as she gently rubbed Sandy’s tits, pretending not to be aware that Louise had hot spatulated the glands to a level of incredibly unbearable tenderness.
Wickedness, a calloused Susan offered what would otherwise be a very sensuous breast massage, apparently enthralled with the cruel spikes thrust through the body of the glands.
Finally, thrust after thrust, as I imagined the tender pink flesh of Sandy’s purse string muscle worn to a tenderness equaling her nipples, Tony plunged with zeal. Even with masked face, one could readily determine he ejaculated copiously and deeply within Sandy’s colon... an abundance of semen to challenge the effectiveness of Louise’s subsequent high colonic.
Then came the mandatory oral cleansing of the satiated organ and of course Sandy’s humble words of thanks.
Susan then leashed Sandy’s nose ring. Tony released the many elastic cords and the well sodomized girl became a little doggy, crawling about and dragging the heavy cunny chain throughout the loft in desperately avoiding stress on a leash kept painfully taut.
The action becoming mundane, though I am sure Susan found thrill, I called it a night and went to bed.
My thoughts are put aside as I need to send an email to ‘Mike the Masturbator’, reminding him that Sandy is to be kept chaste, all efforts of masturbation to be partial, welcoming him to keep her on the edge of orgasm for as long as desired but never offering satiation. I click to Mr. Haig’s email box and my computer suggests I have mail. I am heartened whenever messages come to Mr. Haig’s furtive address. I know it will reference the salacious, the sordid, the lustful, and the seedy. Such serve to break up the day.
I open. It is from the superman of sodomy, Tony Frobisher.
Haig,
Had a very enjoyable evening. And I think our little girl enjoyed as well.
I must assume he means Sandy, not Susan. I know his spouse enjoyed.
Love the foot thing. She needs not walk and the constant mandate to kneel and crawl keeps her in the proper frame of mind. But may I suggest the head moves about a little too much. She may be more comfortable, wanton little masochist that she is, if the head and neck were more constrained... much more constrained.
Hate to offer a girl a good face fucking and have her turn her head in some inconsiderate moment of introspection.
Tony
I respond with a brief note, indicating consideration. And indeed I will consider.
Why should Sandy’s head be fre
e to move when all else is under constant restraint?
So, knowing that Sandy’s full three dimensional body scan remains in the computer, I merely need to contemplate how and how restrictive should be another implement of physical and mental torment.... black wrought iron, of course.
A quick note to Mike and though I know he will be disappointed, he will comply. No ultimate climax for Sandy. He is able to make girls squirt, to induce female ejaculation, and so much enjoys the intense humiliation as he forces the discovery upon them. Most times, the young vixens are not aware that their love nests even have such capability. And having the knowledge forced on them by a male and before the many observing eyes of attendees at the likes of Spankers adds a delicious layer of humiliation.
***
At home, I think, I sketch. In my line of work I think three dimensionally, a capability not for all. But I can only sketch in two dimensions. So my effort is rudimentary and I will need some quiet, late night time on the Cadcam to perfect Sandy’s latest gothic device. The software will graphically simulate a three dimensional implement.
Such must be ponderous and annoyingly restrictive, constantly felt, a continuous message of subordination.
As Tony suggested... she’ll feel better as a result.
We’re so thoughtful, we sadists.
Time for Mike’s arrival, I slip my sketches into my briefcase and move to my home computer. I spy Sandy, on all fours, lapping water from her bowl. The loft is windowless, for reasons obvious, and without a clock. Sandy can judge some element of time from Louise’s afternoon visits. But otherwise, for Sandy life is the unending drudgery of a long serving inmate.
Time is meaningless.
Thus Sandy knows not when there will come the grind of the elevator and the need to position herself. She expects anal sodomy, that which has come to secretly thrill her masochistic psyche. Ah, tonight will be a pleasant surprise. And in reflection I am glad I spent heavily on the high quality, high definition cameras... many in number.
I test by clicking the numerous tabs, each one bringing to the screen not only a different angle but close up views, should I want the screen to fill with Sandy’s mocha nakedness and many black iron trinkets.
Such wonderful electronic wizardry, a smorgasbord of live depictions, Sandy crawling about in the misery she deep within relishes. I trust she appreciates my dedication.
Unheard at my end, Sandy responds to the deep hum of the elevator, hurting herself by crawling too quickly and bringing the cascade of cramping. I note she grimaces, the heavy chain constantly pulling on her cunny ring... and thus her cunny.
Tummy down, knees parted, cheeks splayed, I click to the camera at her rear, offering a wondrous view of shaven mons, thick outer labia pierced with iron, my wicked dangling cone mandating a good spread. Above I again note the glistening lubrication Louise has dutifully offered to a sphincter remaining sore I am sure from Tony Frobisher’s long, leisurely assault.
Fortunately Sandy’s rectum will have a night of clemency, her masochism to be otherwise tantalized.
I click to return to the panoramic view and see Mike the Masturbator enter, fully clothed donning a mask that mimics ‘The Joker’ character from the Batman comic book and movie series. He carries a satchel and I know from viewing his skills it contains paraphernalia that will assure even the most timid girl, frightened to frigidity, will climax at his behest... and only at his behest.
I must turn up the sound and listen...
Sandra Devon
Masks. I am never to know the true identity of my tormenters, other than Miss Louise and Dr. Winthrop, if those who both bring comfort and distress can be so termed.
Yet, since Dr. Winthrop announced the installation of cameras and connecting website even Miss Louise and Dr. Winthrop have been masked.
There is something about the anonymity in being tortured and butt fucked by those with faces never to be seen, visitors never to be known. I will never ever know them as people, persons of flesh and blood, wants and desires, calmness or anger.
Something about that adds to the ignominy... to the objectification of my bound nakedness.
I hear the elevator and instantly crawl, my too quick reaction stressing my cunny ring, causing the hanging cunny cone to prick the insides of my thighs, and my leg muscles to cramp without relent.
Still I assume the commanded pose, kneeling, tummy on the low padded bench, opened and spread, my lubricated aperture sore but ready for more of that which I have strangely not only come to expect but accept with odd joy... the fulfillment of another’s pleasure.
The door finally opens, the delay always serving to heighten my apprehension. On this visit, a man, alone, wearing a silly mask at which I dare not laugh. He carries a satchel and steps into my stall where my many rings await painful tethering. He looks down, releasing the satchel. I look up. He assesses. Should I assume an evil grin veiled by the hideous smiling mask?
“Such a wonderful tribute a girl with your proclivity offers to the likes of me. A ripe peach ready to be plucked.”
A hand lowers, taps my nose then hooks into my large nose ring. The digit waggles about and there comes laughter as my face obediently follows the brief directional tugs. Then it retreats, both hands lowering to cup my spiked breasts. The fingers grope, feeling the shards of iron thrust through the body of the gland.
“Such harshness, but for some girls such harshness is necessary... almost beckoned in a way. Don’t you think?”
“May I suck your penis?” my humble response about the only words I have spoken of late.
The head shakes as the hands palpate the stressed hillocks, remaining somewhat sore from applications of Miss Louise’s cruel, hot spatula.
“No. You’ll serve me otherwise.”
The man steps away beyond my sight. He returns with a leash, clipping it to my nose ring, then picking up his satchel. My tormented mind foments, imagining the contents.
“Come,” he commands, the hand pulling gently... more gently than most.
Out of the stall, I crawl, iron bound hands and feet clunking, to an open unused corner of the spacious loft. There the satchel is again released, his hands prod and I am positioned supine, head pressed to the two walls forming the corner.
“I like girls who show me lots of pink,” kneeling next to me and pushing apart my knees.
He graciously removes the cunny cone, appearing to admire Dr. Winthrop’s irritating handiwork before placing it aside. I offer what he likes, as much pink as the thick cunny ring permits. As he peers in delight he lifts the heavy cunny chain over my left thigh. Then he opens his satchel to remove bondage gear. Within moments my ankle rings are well tethered to convenient rings embedded low in the walls left and right. My thighs are held open and spread to form a right angle... 90 degrees.
“You’re quite wet,” he notes. “Being under control excites, does it not?”
How can I disagree? I am gushing vaginal juices.
“How long since you have had an orgasm.”
I suggest I have no memory of when last I climaxed.
“Ah, then you shall tantalize well,” the words offered as my iron mittens are also guided to the walls right and left. There to be likewise tethered.
Cords are threaded through my buttock rings and secured to lower wall rings. Supine and spread open, I cannot move a limb. And as always to attempt to do so brings the muscle contractions... the cascade of pain.
“You’ve come to experience dichotomous joy in being anally and orally penetrated... but it is faint joy... more emotional... more psychological than physical. Physically you are hurt. I watched Clark Kent work you last night. There was suffering... but no protest. Rather telling.”
I cannot argue the point, the masochism apparent.
The man turns to the satchel, opens and rummages about.
“I enjoy bringing intense pleasure to young girls... and doing so in such a manner that is... shall we say memorable.”
He retrieves a tube
, coating the fingers of his right hand with an unguent.
“Yes, being masturbated can be enjoyable, letting my fingers do all the work. But for some being so manipulated before the watchful eyes of others adds... let’s term it spice. And before cameras... unknown eyes... countless people recording... for a girl like you the humiliation can be intense.”
He points, a ceiling camera indeed is positioned, my ringed cunny the center of its focus. Then he points again, another camera, my face I am sure filling the lens.
His attention returns to my mons. The fingers begin to work the outer labia, slathering the unguent and gently rubbing.
“The labia majora. Yours are nicely plumped. There is no wonder why someone chose to so convincingly pierce you here. They do seem to beg for attention.”
His free hand grips the links of my cunny chain very close to the ring, gently lifting and pulling to assure the application of whatever is evenly applied to every inch of my dark brown lips. Within moments I feel warmth... pleasant... better than bearable... in fact quite acceptable.
“Good stuff, don’t you think? A little warmth to settle you. Strong stuff but the labia majora are somewhat insensitive. Bad girls get an application to the labia minora. You don’t want to be a bad girl.”
I must certainly agree, the skin there being thin and hypersensitive... particularly in my state of forced chastity. Nothing has touched there in many, many months... the huge iron ring keeping my cunny well tucked.
“There are many factors leading to the female orgasm. Frictioning of the vagina walls, stretching of the labia, some stimulation of the perineum... the anus. Yes even normal girls can find a degree if stimulation there to be arousing. There are theories concerning pressure to the urethral sponge... the so termed ‘G’ spot. And of late there have been similar observations... and theories... concerning gentle penetration of the anterior fornix.”
As the man speaks, the warmth grows and grows. I must wonder if my mons glows in heat, as did Daddy’s coal oven.
“But ultimately it’s the glans clitoris that brings climax.”
Dr. Winthrop Samuels Series Page 26
