by Syra Bond
‘I felt the surge of ecstasy starting in me as the first blow fell but I held it back. As the cutting belt flailed me, as they held my arms wide and tore at my clothing, I held it back. I shuddered as it fought against me, as it struggled to escape captivity. Semen dripped from my mouth. I tried to roll over on my back so that the lashing strap would fall fully across my cunt, but they held me face down so that he could thrash me as hard as he wanted and until he was satisfied I could take no more. Only then, when he dropped the strap to the ground and stood back, did I finally let it go. I threw my head back and screamed. I went rigid as I yelped in ecstasy. My eyes bulged and spit flew from my mouth as, at last, my body was overcome by an orgasm so strong and lasting that it ended only when everything went black and I slumped to the ground unconscious.’
There was a pause.
I waited for the priest to speak, for him to tell me that my sins had been forgiven, that my being here, at Pacific Heights, was all a dreadful mistake. I waited to be told I was free.
At last he spoke.
‘You are insatiable, my child. You are a sinful demon. I can see you are not ready for any redemption I can offer. Christ sheds tears of pain for your sinfulness. I can do nothing for you. You will be taken from here for treatment, only after you have been cleansed can you return, and even then I can only hope there will be forgiveness for you.’
I felt my arms being held out wide. It was the two women, stretching me out, digging their long nailed fingertips deeply into my skin. I looked up at the picture of the crucified Christ. I imagined his tears falling onto my suffering prostrate body. I felt a fresh surge of heat in my cunt.
The sharp talons of the women’s nails dug deeper. I stared up at the limp figure of Christ, my shoulder blades stretched, my neck bent backwards, my nipples throbbing.
Suddenly, there was an unseen hand pulling at the waistband of my panties. It ripped them down in one quick yank. I pulled myself up as much as I could against the restraining hand at my wrists. The material of the gusset of my panties pulled harshly at the soft flesh of my cunt. The pain increased the heat I felt in my crack. Another yank of the material brought another surge of pain. I bit my lips as a rush of heat passed over me like a sudden tropical wind.
I knew it was a belt of some sort - perhaps the priest’s black fascia that had been tied around his waist? It lashed across my buttocks and I screamed. The next one caught me on the hips as it flicked around before being snatched away. I heard him grunting with the effort as he brought it down again and I raised my bottom up to it, waiting eagerly to receive the next, hoping that it would be harder, more painful, more searing.
I stared at the altar. The candlesticks glittered beneath the flickering light of the spluttering candles. I was hypnotised by their light as one after another the cutting blows came down on my upturned naked buttocks. I saw contorted images of the women who held me reflected in the shiny silver surfaces of the candlesticks. I saw how tightly they restrained me, how eager they were to stretch me out for punishment. I saw their grinning faces, their exposed teeth and the smearing redness of blood across their chins. Suddenly, I saw another figure - fleeting, like a phantom, dark and shadowy, moving behind them, stretching his arm up high behind me. I could not see his face - it was as though it was obliterated like the face of the figure in the broken stained glass window. Another blow came down and I saw it was him - this faceless man - who was dealing out my punishment. I tried to convince myself that it was the priest - I was more comfortable with the thought that it was, but I knew it was not. No, it was not the priest. It was the man in the dark striped suit!
I opened my eyes and found myself again outside the chapel door. It was cobweb covered, bolted and chained. I was naked. I shivered with cold. I banged on the door as much in a gesture of hopelessness as anything else. Suddenly, the chains fell from it and the heavy bolt drew back by itself. It opened with a creak. There was no one inside. I called out. There was no reply. I walked up to the altar and dropped to my knees. I looked up at the crucified figure of Christ. The candles spluttered - threatening to go out. I smelled incense. I saw a shadow of something in the darkness. It looked like a hand - just a hand, no form with it, no body, no figure.
The hand drifted behind the altar. The candles spluttered more. I was filled with fear. I bit hard on my lips. For a moment, I thought the figure of Christ moved. The hand appeared in front of me. It slapped my face - suddenly, without any warning, for no reason. I reeled back and dropped to my hands and knees. The hand moved around me in silence. I looked behind me. It hovered above my bottom. I knew what I wanted.
‘Punish me,’ I said. ‘As hard as possible. Make me cry. Make me scream. Make me plead for more. Punish me.’
I closed my eyes and dropped my face to the ground. I started licking the stone floor as the hand came down across my bottom. I kept licking as it thrashed me hard. I did not move. I only tightened a little more each time I felt the contact of the punishing dismembered hand.
I do not know how long it went on. I was licking in a pool of my own spit as it continued. Even when I toppled onto my side, I turned my face and kept licking. I felt like a punished animal sipping at its bowl. I felt myself judder a few times - heavy, quaking jolts - but I was not sure if it was ecstasy or agony. I held my breath for a long while and when I breathed in again it felt like it would never end - I thought I would explode. All the time, the hand thrashed me - for my sins, for my bliss, for my need for more.
It did not seem to end - there was no moment when I realised it had stopped - all I knew was that I was crawling back along the corridor outside the chapel. Every one of my nerve endings was on fire, spit ran from my mouth, and every time I brought my knee forward it squeezed my cunt and I was sent into another shock of delight. I felt completely dissipated, completely degraded, completely overcome with pleasure.
It was night. I was still on my hands and knees leaning against the side of the corridor. I heard a voice.
‘Syra? What are you doing here? Let me help you up. Oh dear, you do look in a state. What have you been doing?’
I tried to speak but nothing came out.
Caroline draped my arm over her shoulder.
I tried again.
‘It was just a hand,’ I whimpered. ‘Just a hand. It thrashed me. Just a hand.’
The sunrise projected sharp red talons of light through the high windows in the corridor.
Caroline did not reply. I looked at her face. It was paler than usual. She looked afraid. I felt her fear and suddenly, as quickly as she had appeared, she was gone.
I felt myself drop to the ground. Again, I felt the smacking hand against my bottom. I saw the altar with the candlesticks and the picture of the crucified Christ. One of his tears dripped onto my open lips. I licked at its saltiness. No, it had not yet ended. My punishment was still going on!
THE DENTIST’S CHAIR
‘Oh, Syra, you do look tired,’ cooed Caroline, smoothing back my hair and stroking my forehead. ‘Here, let me rescue you. I’m a real first aider. I have a certificate - “Nursing, Part 1”. Impressive, eh?’
She bent her face down to me and started licking my eyelids. Her tongue was soft and warm and its wetness eased the stinginess in my tired eyes. I could tell they were red - it was as though they were filled with blood and Caroline was licking it up. I dropped my head back. The sensation was delectable - imagining her sucking out my very essence. I thought of her tongue licking my whole face, my lips, my nose, and in my ears. I imagined her licking my breasts, inside the sharp curve of my hips, the tight crease between my buttocks, the edges of the already wet crack of my cunt, the delectable darkness of my anus. I thought of it lapping at my flesh - moistening it, making every nerve ending tingle, saturating it with spit and sucking at the soft envelope of flesh that enclosed its dark centre. I thought of how I would open my legs so that she could g
et the tip in as deeply as she wanted - penetrating me, probing me, setting me on fire. I felt my jaw drop and my tongue rest expectantly on my bottom lip as one by one the thoughts overwhelmed me. I started breathing hard, pushing the bared globes of my eyes against her caressing tongue then blinking them slowly against the wet pink surface.
Suddenly she broke off. I felt the coolness of the air against my wet eyes. I looked up at her - startled, expecting more, hoping there was a reason for her to return to her delightful occupation.
‘Now you look as if you’ve been crying - crying my tongue-tears. You haven’t have you, been crying? Perhaps you need your teeth checking. Of course! I have to get you to the dentists! Healthy teeth are so important, don’t you think? Look at mine. Nice and sharp. I clean them three times a day, well, three times a night. Syra, don’t you find the light harsh? Look at this.’ She held out the back of her hand. There was a circular red mark just below her wrist. ‘This happened yesterday - when I was sleeping. I left the curtain in my cell window slightly ajar. Before I knew it - wham! I got my hand burned. I really had to rush to close it out - the light. Syra, it’s so cruel don’t you think? We don’t want you getting blotches, do we?’
She didn’t give me time to reply. With a broad smile she dipped behind me, grasped the handles of the wheel chair and pushed me out into the corridor.
I looked down at my wrists and legs. They were firmly strapped to the wheelchair as before. I didn’t know how it happened, who had done it, when it had occurred. It was as though there were gaps in my life when things were happening to me without my knowledge. The thought made me shiver all over.
I didn’t recognise the corridor, but they were all the same - heavy doors, the occasional sign, dimly lit, overbearing. A weak bare bulb hung from a bent metal fitting above a door.
Caroline pushed me up to it. She bent round to me, her face alight with excitement.
‘Just the place! The dentist!’
I looked up at the brass plate screwed in crookedly beneath the pool of yellow light cast by the bulb: ‘Dr Vahal B.Sc., PhD, Cosmetic and curative dentistry’.
‘Wow!’ she said. ‘You can’t get any better than that!’
She pushed me into a dingy waiting room. Dark wooden pews ranged around three sides, on the fourth two glazed panels flanked a glazed door with ‘Surgery’ delicately engraved on the slightly ribbed glass.
‘Now, let’s get you waiting properly.’
She undid the tape straps at my wrists. I stretched out my fingers to ease the stiffness caused by the bonds. She undid the tapes around my legs that held me to the sides of the wheelchair. I stretched out my legs. For a moment or two, I felt relaxed but, as I looked around, the momentary sensation of ease evaporated.
There were three young women sitting on the waiting room pews - a blonde, a brunette and a redhead. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t seen them when we came in; it was as though as my bonds were undone they had appeared from nowhere. They were all naked. Each had a large ball gag stuffed into their mouths and held fast with a tightly pulled leather strap that led behind their heads. Each ball had a number on it - “16”, “17”, and “18”. The blonde and the redhead held their hands clasped together at their groins. The brunette’s hands had been tied behind her head. The tension flattened her small breasts and accentuated the hardness of her small dark nipples. All three of them stared ahead as though under instruction not to look anywhere except at the blank wall opposite. Each one had a contusion at their necks - a bruise, reddened at the edges with two slightly seeping wounds at its centre which appeared in the dim light more as dark blotches. As I looked closely at them, I could see that it was blood seeping from two distinct punctures in the smooth skin of their necks.
None of them broke their stare to look at me. In a way, it was as though I was invisible to them. I watched the trickles of blood running from the wounds in the neck of the one nearest me, the blonde - she looked the youngest, number ‘16’. The crimson red of her blood looked shocking against the pallor of her ivory skin and the bright blondness of her hair. I had a sudden urge to reach forward and lick at the red flow from the punctures in her neck. I shivered with self-disgust at having such a thought.
Caroline helped me onto one of the pews. I felt the shock of cold wood as I realised I had no panties on. The smooth surface stuck to my moist flesh. I shivered again - this time with a rush of joy. I felt my buttocks tighten involuntarily and when I relaxed them I felt my cunt squashing against the ungiving shiny wood of the seat. I moved back and forth to increase the pressure. I shivered again.
‘Now, we need to make sure you take your place in the queue. We can’t have anyone going out of turn at the dentist’s can we?’
Her tone was so whimsical. It was as though none of this was serious to her, as though the gagged women, the wounds in their necks, my captivity and fear, were all irrelevant; as though they were all part of some ridiculous and perverse game.
‘As the orderly, I have to make sure you’re ordered!’
She giggled as she fetched something out of a cardboard box sitting on the floor in the middle of the room. It was a numbered ball-gag - just like the others.
‘Now, open wide, Syra. Wide!’
Her sudden anger made me jump. I opened my mouth and she started forcing the ball between my teeth. It was too big and would not go in. I started gasping. She pushed harder.
‘That’s better, now, just a bit wider. Like the dentist says, “A bit wider, please”.’
My jaw ached as she applied more pressure. She pressed her thumb down on my chin, widening it as far as possible and suddenly, with a click it entered my wide stretched mouth.
‘There! Excellent!’
The large ball wedged behind my teeth. I could hardly breathe. I thought I was going to vomit. I felt a heaving nausea in the back of my throat. I tried to swallow but it was impossible. My tongue was wedged flat against the bottom of my mouth. I stared ahead, wide eyed, filled with fear.
‘Now, Syra, let’s see what your number is. Ah, twenty four. Good. But I’m afraid you’ve got another three ahead of you. You’re going to have to be patient - a patient patient! Oh, Syra, you do make me laugh! Now, you must wait like the others. Coming to the dentist is serious.’
She sat down by my side and starting picking at her long red painted fingernails.
‘I used to come here every week. I like Dr Vahal, though his drill made me squeak sometimes. But look what he did! Look, Syra!’ I moved my head enough to see. The tension in my throat brought on the feeling of nausea again. She opened her mouth and pulled up her top lip. Her canine teeth were large and pointed. Each one, at their tip, had a tiny hole. ‘They’re really pointed don’t you think? “All the better to bite you with,” said Grandma! And see the holes, Syra? He drilled them right up into my head!’
I breathed hard, forcing myself as much as I could to stay calm. Spit was gathering behind the ball in my mouth, building up on my tongue and starting to run down my throat. Its frothy and glutinous warmth against the back of the tightly pressing ball was sickening. Again I tried to swallow, again I heaved.
I saw a figure behind the glazed door. The handle turned and the door opened. It was the dentist’s nurse.
‘My name is Nurse Hiatt,’ she pronounced. ‘Next!’
The young blonde girl with the number ‘16’ on the ball in her mouth stood up. She looked hesitant, unsure what to do, scared. Her blonde pubic hair was neatly trimmed into no more than a narrow shadow above the easily visible top of her neat crack.
Nurse Hiatt held the door wider.
‘Come along Number 16. Dr Vahal does not have all night!’
The girl stepped forward - she looked terrified. She glanced back at me - thinking maybe I could help, or perhaps taking comfort just seeing someone else was sharing her predicament. I stared back vacuously with
the large ball plugging my mouth - unable to show any expression, unable to either to encourage her or share her pain. She glanced nervously at Nurse Hiatt, entered the room as the door was closed firmly behind her.
I stared after her. I saw the figure of what must have been Dr Vahal motion her to lie on the dentist’s chair. I saw him pulling on some gloves handed to him by Nurse Hiatt - they were light blue. I watched him bend over the girl and probe around the ball in her mouth. Nurse Hiatt passed him something silver. It glinted through the fluted glass in the door. I heard a noise - a sharp penetrating mechanical whine. I heard a short scream then more whining. Dr Vahal stood up and held something in his hand, something dangling from straps - it was the ball he had removed from her mouth.
‘Do you like red?’ asked Caroline. ‘It’s my favourite, even better than black. Once I painted my hands red just like my nails. It was very exciting. It was as though I had dipped them in blood. But he told me to wash it off. He’s like that sometimes. One day he’s easy - lets us do what we want - the next we can do nothing to please him. Capricious, don’t you think?’
I wanted to ask who she was talking about. Who was ‘he’?
‘I think I might do it again - paint my hands red. The worst I can get is a thrashing. Did I say “worst”? Oh, Syra, you must think I’m so silly.’
I heard Nurse Hiatt’s voice. It was muffled so I couldn’t hear the exact words, but I could tell she was angry. I watched her raise her hand and slap the blonde girl across the face. The movements looked disjointed through the ribbed glass of the door. The young girl shrieked. Nurse Hiatt hit her again. The girl shrieked even louder.
