Hard Rain

by Melissa Vayle

  ‘Ah, yes.’ He was admiring its springiness. ‘This is for a certain kind of pony - as you will in time learn.’ He did not look at her but returned the crop to the rack. He picked up what looked like an oblong table-tennis bat.

  ‘Anyone for tennis?’ he said, still with his back to her. ‘Don't all answer at once!’ With that, he turned round to face her, and slipping the bat under her chin, he raised it, jerking her head upwards till she was forced to look him in the face. ‘Or is that not your sport? So tell me, Catherine. What is your sport?’ She recoiled inwardly from his searching look and could only groan a low sound in response. ‘No doubt, one where you're always beaten,’ he tut-tutted, and smiled to himself.

  She did not appreciate the joke as the pressure from the bat was intense and she was suddenly aware that her knees were again aching.

  ‘But come. I'm forgetting my manners with a lady. On with the tour.’

  He returned the paddle to the wall, and tugging her on the lead, led her over to the large cupboard.

  ‘Cupboard - Catherine. Catherine - cupboard. Oh, sorry! I forgot you've already met. No doubt, my dear, you're already intimately acquainted with my toy collection.’ Catherine squirmed in embarrassment and she saw he sensed her discomfort.

  ‘And finally, my dear,’ raising his voice and with a grandiose gesture to something beyond her head, my 'piece de resistance!' and he led her to the final exhibit in the room. ‘My consultation couch.’

  She could only stare mutely at what was towering above her.

  ‘The consultation is free, but I'm afraid there's a price to be paid for treatment. But then you know that, don't you?’

  She softly moaned, already subdued by her predicament.

  ‘So then, my dear. Without any more ado...Oh! Any questions?’

  She gave a stifled plea. Half-aroused, half-frightened, Please! she said.

  ‘Phlumph!’

  ‘Oh, really Catherine!’ he said, in mock exasperation, ‘Stop gibbering! You really must learn how to behave,’ and he pulled on the leash, ‘and I intend to start teaching you right now.’ His face was suddenly serious.

  ‘Get up!’

  She went weak. The light played on his leather-clad crotch and it gleamed, stretched and tight under the strain of his accomplice thug. A surge of excitement shot through her and she clambered to her feet taking in the obvious sense of satisfaction that he had about himself. She suddenly welcomed being gagged. If it was removed, she would be at a loss for any words to explain herself and her abject submission to such outrageous treatment.

  ‘Get your arse over to the cupboard. Move!’

  Suddenly, she was aware of the clacking of her heels and was beginning to like being a sex slave. Moreover, she was not perturbed by this. He unbuckled her collar and removed it, then slid open the right-hand cupboard door. The one she had not had the opportunity to open. Inside, chock-a-block, in black and many vivid colours, was a rack full of shiny garments. A loud swish, and he was closing the door before she could take it all in fully.

  ‘Here. Put this on.’

  He thrust at her a plastic raincoat, very soft, smooth and silky, colourless and translucent. It glistened in the spotlight. She liked the feel of it at once and could not suppress the thrill of having to wear it for him now. She slipped it on, this time finding nothing odd about doing it, rather feeling better dressed for sex than she had perhaps ever been. She tied the belt tight and was immediately excited by the feel of the soft plastic against her naked body. Her nipples looked large under this second skin and her pubic hair looked tantalizingly mysterious through the semi-clear plastic. Naked, kinky mac, high heels, gagged, what next? Perverted or what? she thought. Anyway, who cares? Buoyed by this flash of assertiveness, she smiled behind the gag at him. He was a genius, a master in creative arts with women. She would have willingly kissed his boots. But there was no chance of such indulgence as he grabbed her arm at once and dragged her over to the padded couch.

  ‘Right! Up you get!’ and he pushed her forward in the back, indicating that she was to get on it. She hesitated, mentally working out how to get onto it in order to lie down on her back.

  ‘Face down. On your belly. Move!’ and he slapped her bottom. A pulse of excitement went through her. She clambered onto the couch, a second slap signalling his impatience and a sense of humiliation swept through her as the dazzling spotlight lit her up like a prize exhibit at an auction.

  ‘Face down! Stretch your arms and legs out!’

  The cool, firm leather pressed up hard against her and felt good against the warm, soft plastic that was already now moulding itself exquisitely to a body aroused by familiar stirrings. He at once took her outstretched wrists and, pulling them together at the top of the raised end of the couch, bound them with a buckled fleece-lined strap. This was then somehow connected to another strap or something out of sight which, pulled taut, stretched her arms out straight. The same was done to her ankles so that she was suddenly held rigid. Panic gripped her. She desperately mewed through the gag - ‘Please, no!’ - but only a dull moan came forth and her otherwise frantic struggling was totally suppressed. She was paralysed, utterly helpless, and suddenly felt very hot in the plastic. The sense of trepidation grew with the realization that ‘dungeon’ might mean ‘torture chamber’ and she struggled violently but the struggle was all on the inside. She could not move her wrists and ankles, only her hips and bottom budged, and then only slightly and she shook her head to say ‘No!’ but it was all futile.

  Suddenly he slapped her bottom, and she gasped behind her gag. He kept his hand there and slowly kneaded her buttocks in the clinging plastic, saying nothing, but clearly enjoying it. He caressed the cheeks, rubbed them, stroked them, patted them, fondled them, palmed them, felt them lovingly, slapped them hard, clipped them gently, brushed them ever so lightly - Did he kiss them? Her body and her senses stretched, her vision blotted out by the dazzling white light, and the embrace of the soft plastic all over her lovely bum now had her alight with pleasure. She nuzzled into the leather and moaned deeply into the gag as she sensed she was now getting definitely wet. Instinctively, she struggled against the straps, all the more to get herself really wet and hot. She wanted her bottom slapped hard - Please! came the stifled cry:

  ‘Phlumph!’

  ‘Shut up!’ came the voice from behind her and he moved somewhere over to her left. She was desperate. She wanted fondling all over, wanted feeling up mercilessly, wanted to be whipped and fucked, and....

  Thwack!

  ‘Umph!’ she screamed, a stifled splutter coming from the gag, as the strap came down out of nowhere onto her buttocks.

  Thwack!

  Another blow and all thought ceased, only her awakened rump now spoke to her. Again, the strap came down and sent a pulse of arousal through her. She twisted against her restraints and mouthed desperately for him to stop but the more frantic her stifled moaning, the more it sounded like pleas for ‘More!’ For an ecstasy beyond all time, she wallowed in an orgy of sensations. Her whole being was alight, her body awash with pleasure, her mind drowning in an ocean of sex, sex, sex as the whipping went on. Four strokes, six strokes, ten? She was incapable of counting. It stopped as suddenly as it had started.

  Oh, God! came the voice within. Oh God! She was very hot and damp, hermetically-sealed in the tight plastic, and she knew she was awfully wet below. She had been close to orgasm and wanted the beating to continue. Oh God! I love it! came the thought. Please! Don't let it stop! She was horribly turned on and tugged at her straps and pressed her hips down hard into the leather upholstery, and moaned, and squirmed, and pleaded for him to keep going.

  ‘Quiet!’ came the harsh voice from behind. ‘That's just a warm-up. The prelude.’

  She groaned, her face pressed into the warm couch, breathing in the aroma of the leather.

  ‘I've not finished with you yet, you little tart, oh no! Not by a long way!’ and with that, he quickly unbuckled the straps holding her tau
t by the ankles and wrists, still leaving her bound with the fleece-lined cuffs, and yanked her roughly off the whipping couch onto her feet. Their eyes met. He looked strict, harsh and dangerous. His dark features and black clothes at once overwhelming and powerful in the half-light, half-dark of the space between them. She looked away, crushed and humiliated, unable to bear the look he gave her. He knew what she was and she burned with shame and yet melted in the power he had over her.

  She needed to be punished and as he gripped her arm more tightly, she wanted it to be rougher. He pulled her across the room, she frantically hopping and gasping through her gag as the exertion took effect. Quickly, before she had time to realize what was happening, her cuffed wrists were clipped to a cable dangling down from a contraption fixed to the beam of hooks in the ceiling. Later, much later, under calmer circumstances, it came to her what it was called - a block and tackle. At once, to her horror, she was suddenly hoisted up off her feet, strung up by her wrists, into the air.

  Oh, my God! and she screamed through her gag and struggled violently, but her weight under gravity and the leather cuffs made it difficult.

  Clunk!

  Her left shoe fell off

  ‘Shut up!’ he snapped and slapped her buttocks. She screamed all the more. Another slap, another ‘Shut up!’ but she continued her cries as the madness of her plight took hold. He seized her round her hips.

  ‘You can hang for one minute or for one hour. The choice is yours. I said shut up!’

  She cried out an incoherent moan for ‘Please no! Please!’

  With that, pulling her legs forward as high as he could and then powerfully swinging them back hard, he launched her through the air and watched her swing helplessly back and forth, like a pendulum, back and forth, making a continuous, stifled wail as she screamed in supplication to her master. Like a dead weight, inert, she swung in almost stately fashion through the air, to and fro, as he stood there impassive and watching from the sidelines.

  Clunk!

  Her right shoe hit the ground.

  She was feeling no pain. The soft, deep-fleeced lining of the cuffs cushioned her wrists from the pressure of her whole body weight against the straps. It was the ruthlessness, the sheer brutality of her treatment which hurt. She was a woman. She could not believe he could do this to a woman and as she began to feel very heavy and uncomfortably stretched, a sense of alarm came upon her and she instinctively pleaded for mercy.

  ‘Shut up! Shut up!’ he barked. ‘One minute or an hour is what I said! The choice was yours!’ and she recoiled in dread at the implication.

  Leaving her still swinging, he vanished into the dark, reappearing shortly with a length of cord. This he began to tie round her waist, hips, thighs and knees, pulling in the plastic tight round her lower body.

  ‘That's better!’ and he slapped her backside. ‘Much better, Catherine! In fact, it would make a great souvenir, don't you think?’ and with that he vanished back into the dark, back to the cupboard.

  She was now even more alarmed and truly frightened by what he might do to her. This was not bondage as she liked it but something altogether dire and sadistic. She panicked and struggled, twisting herself violently, hanging there immobile, and screaming into her gag. What she now suddenly found she could only feel was not distress but the sensation of the tight plastic and bonds round her hips, thighs and buttocks, and the weird feeling of being strung up helpless, dangling there in the spotlight, for the enjoyment of others. He was back and there, to her shock, was a camera in his hands.

  ‘No! Please, no!’ she blurted out, only for a low incoherent murmur echo in her head.

  ‘Say cheese!’ he beamed.

  Then calmly walking round her, he took picture after picture, first dangling stationary, and then swinging crazily, gleefully capturing her for posterity in every detail of her predicament as she screamed in horror.

  Her arms were tired and she would have done anything to be let down.

  ‘Mmm...’ came a long note of approval, as he fondled her breasts and belly, her thighs and hips and patted her rear gently, then more vigorously. ‘Mmm…exquisite! You have really no idea about how lovely you are, do you?’ But he did not expect an answer and, disappearing off to her left, his voice trailing into the darkness with a boyish whoop, she caught the words ‘...going to give you a belting time!’

  She froze, knowing what was coming. She blanked out her mind and braced herself. The first stroke stung her to the core and she screamed, spluttering into the gag with ‘Please!’ but her helplessness only made it all the more intense as the blows of the strap landed with a sharp Splat! which electrified her beyond her smarting buttocks. The more she struggled and screamed, the more the whipping began to excite her and the more she heaved and twisted and squealed, the more the distress inflamed such shocking cravings as she had never known before.

  He pushed her forward, making her swing again, this time whacking her on the back-swing of her pendulous flight to and fro. And with each swing and blow of the strap, she glided remorselessly into a state of extreme arousal. She clenched her buttocks and desperately pumped her hips, screaming into her gag, frantically trying to come, but still it went on and she begged to be thrashed harder. Suddenly, he laid into her, all rhythm gone, as if he sensed she was very near. It came at once, a deep, unbearable convulsion, up through her belly, out to her thighs. Again, it came, again and again, racked in the throes of pleasure too intense to bear, she could only recoil under the surge, and it possessed her utterly and completely as she groaned deeply into her gag. Slowly, the convulsions died away, and she hung motionless, silent, head bowed, drained and exhausted, a shimmering spectacle in the dazzling spotlight.

  The thrashing had stopped, there was no sound but her heavy breathing, and she was suddenly aware she was wet-through in the mac. Her wrists and her arms ached, but, at once, he was hoisting her down onto her feet, steadying her as she touched ground with a show of gentleness and consideration completely at odds with his earlier behaviour.

  She felt as if she had been cured, as if, for the first time, the doctor had, at last, treated her for her condition with the right medicine, and an instinctive feeling of gratitude went out to the man cradling her now in his strong arms. Gone was the terror of what he did to her at first. This was an exceptional man, she was sure, who understood a woman like her, understood her more than she understood herself.

  He was unbuckling the ankle strap. She held out her wrists to be freed but, to her surprise, he grabbed her arm and without a word, dragged her out of the spotlight and through alternating light and dark before stopping in front of the shower. Good, she thought, with relief, just what I need and held out her cuffed wrists again.

  ‘Get in!’

  She was taken aback, and remained on the spot.

  ‘Do as you're told!’ and he vanished back into the dark.

  Confused, she felt he could not possibly mean for her to take a shower like this. It was ridiculous! He was coming back. She stepped into the large shower basin. Without a word, he pulled up the hood of her raincoat, tucking her hair inside.

  No! she reacted, umphing through her gag, but at once he fastened a wide plastic belt over her mouth, sealing it off, ball gag and all, tying the plastic at the back of the hood.

  ‘We don't want you to get wet, do we now?’ and he turned on the shower.

  At once, a fine torrent of cold water splashed her face, head and front, and she instinctively turned round so that it cascaded down her back and hood. It got warm quickly and she stood there, half in, half out, the sound of the water deafening, as it pelted her, drumming solidly in her ears inside the tight plastic hood. Only her calves and feet were wet.

  ‘Get under it, and turn round!’

  Now it drenched her, streaming down her face, flooding over her plastic coat. She thought she might drown as the water eddied round her nostrils before racing down her gagged lower face.

  ‘Turn round!’ She could just about hear h
im.

  There, through the slight steam, she found herself staring at him, staring at her. He had the camera again, and she thought Oh God!

  He stepped forward shouting ‘Damn!’ and fiddled with the shower controls. ‘Don't want steam. I need you crystal-clear. You’re fabulous!’

  She looked down at herself and saw how the tight plastic moulded to her as though greedy for her body, and was struck by how shapely she was and how stunning her body looked, glittering under the shower spotlight. The water ran down her in crazed rivulets, a frenzy of silver finding the easiest route down the contours of a body she was once again sexually aware of, and of herself, just how sexual a woman she was.

  ‘Turn round. I want to see your arse!’

  Pornography. The word shot through her. He was using her as fodder for his very own personalized pornography collection. Plastic macs in the shower. God! This is kinky! and the camera flashed. She stuck her bottom out, sure the cascading torrents would look good sweeping over her bum and, despite the double gag, let out a stifled ‘Wooh!’

  ‘Beautiful! You little beauty!’ and, as the flashing continued, she found herself adopting a variety of poses. This was great fun. So bloody kinky! and she smiled inwardly as the realization came to her, that she was a natural at this.

  ‘Touch yourself!’ she heard him shout out, and she knew this was going to be one hell of a shower. She, the quiet librarian.

  Chapter 16. Going with the flow

  She crossed the narrow cobbled street and made her way past the stone-washed cottages heading for near the bridge over the river. There had been no-one about, many people were still having their meal or settling down for the evening in front of the television. She loved this part of the town, the old quarter down by the boat sheds with its narrow promenade that skirted the river for a good mile or so. It was where the sloping grass bank met the ceaseless flow of the water, crystal clear over the pebbles on the river bed. Where the tall sycamores flanked the promenade by the graceful bend that turned into an avenue of willows, and Catherine's favourite spot, where she sometimes came when her soul was troubled and it was all too much.