A Lady Pays Her Penalties Page 4
The first card said, “Let a random interval of more than one minute, but less than three pass; then remove the clip from my right nipple for sixty seconds. Put this card on the bottom of the deck.”
There was a digital alarm clock on the table, turned away so that Leslie could not see it. It said, “1:06.” Craig decided to wait until it reached 1:09 before removing the clothespin from her right nipple.
When the clock clicked over, he squeezed the right clothespin open. She squealed even more loudly through the gag than when he had put the clothespin on. Her nipple was white and flattened where the pin had cut off the circulation. As he watched, it slowly turned pink, then red again.
He put the top card on the bottom of the deck. The next card said, “After one minute, put the pin back on the nipple, but at a different angle. Put this card on the bottom of the deck.”
Easy enough. When the clock clicked over to 1:10, he put the clothespin back. Her nipple was still somewhat flattened, side-to-side, from the first pinning, so this time he attached the clothespin sideways so that her nipple would be crushed top to bottom. The weight of the pin twisted her nipple slightly.
Leslie started squealing through the gag even before he released the pin. Her squeal increased in volume and pitch as she felt the full force of the pin re-crush her tender nipple.
The next card said, “Let random interval of more than one minute, but less than three pass; then remove the clip from my left nipple for sixty seconds. Put this card on the bottom of the deck.”
And so it went. Over the course of forty-five minutes, each of Leslie’s nipples was crushed eight times, for a period of between three and seven minutes each time, with a one-minute interval between each crushing. Craig managed to read a few pages of his novel in between crushings, but could not make much progress because he was removing or replacing a clothespin on one nipple or the other every couple of minutes.
As the torture proceeded, Leslie’s nipples were getting more and more bruised from the mistreatment and more and more tender. During the last thirty minutes, tears were flowing copiously down her cheeks and she was tried to twist away from him when he removed and replaced the clips. Her motion was limited by the severe bondage and she could not bounce or struggle too violently without shaking the clothespins and torturing herself further.
During the last fifteen minutes, she was making choppy, gargling, moaning noises through her gag. Craig could tell that she was begging him to stop, but he pretended not to realize that she was trying to talk and ignored the noises that she was making. She wanted this. She asked for it. He did not doubt that her mistreated nipples hurt like hell, but was not going to cause her any permanent injury – not when he was letting the circulation return to her nipples after such short intervals. She would never be able to accuse him of going soft on her when the chips were down.
It did not help her state of mind that her knees were burning from having to remain in a kneeling position and her shoulders aching beyond endurance from the double hammerlock position. She was visibly trying to arch her back to relieve the pressure on her shoulders, but her arms were pulled too tight to allow her to give herself any slack.
She was far beyond worrying about the foul taste of the dirty panties that were still gagging her mouth.
When the clock clicked over to 1:50, and her forty-five minutes were complete, Craig put the index cards aside and read the last instruction on the sheet. “Release my nipples. Ungag me. Unbuckle my restraints. Handcuff my hands behind my back and let me rest for a minute. Then take me to the dining room.”
Craig stood in front of her. The lips drawn on the gag were still smiling in contradiction to the agony in her eyes. Most of her hair was draped down her back. Though she had twisted as much as possible to get away from him when he was clipping the pins on her nipples, her bondage had kept her sufficiently still during the past three-quarters of an hour that only a single stray lock had fallen over her face. He brushed it out of the way and said, “You’re still smiling, dear.” He brushed his fingers over the waxy lipstick drawing on the adhesive tape. “Maybe we should keep this up until your smile is gone.”
She looked at him with teary eyes and shook her head carefully so that she would not shake the clothespins.
“Let’s look at your real lips, then, and see if they’re smiling, too.” Craig slowly peeled the adhesive tape from her lips, one strip at a time, making sure that he did not pull of any skin. When the last piece of tape was removed, she opened her mouth and let him pull the sopping panties from between her teeth. Like overused chewing gum, any flavor had been washed from the material. He dropped the black mass on the table.
When her mouth was clear, she swallowed, then said, quietly, “Thank-you.”
Craig said nothing. He reached out and opened the clothespin from her left nipple. She screamed. Not loud enough to disturb the neighbors, but shockingly loud to Craig after listening to two hours of moaning and squealing beneath heavy gags. Her scream gave him a surprising amount of pleasure.
He unclipped the second clothespin and was treated to a second scream. With both nipples free for the first time since her nipple torture started, she squirmed in her bonds more vigorously, trying to flex her knees at least a little to restore circulation.
“Let’s stretch those legs,” Craig said, and unbuckled her ankles. She immediately unfolded her knees and toppled gently over on her side. “Upsidaisy.” He helped her slide off the table and stand, her arms still hammer-locked behind her.
She grunted. “My legs are asleep.”
“Shake them out. Stomp a bit. You aren’t going to fall over, are you?”
“Nope.” But she looked shaky on her high heels. Craig guessed that she would kick them off if she could, but the style of shoe had straps over the instep and she could not unbuckle them with her arms pinned to her shoulders.
“Well, you let me know if you feel like you might fall.” Craig unbuckled the belt from her waist, stepped over to the table, deposited the belt, snatched up the handcuffs and stepped back quickly, worried that she might fall over despite her assertion that she would not.
He took a minute to enjoy a good look at her breasts. They were her best feature, especially when they were forced up and out by the double hammerlock harness. Leslie looked like she wanted to hunch over to reduce their prominence, even to cover them with her hands, but the harness ensured that she could do nothing but stand proud in her heals, stockings, and garter belt and let him look. She waited and said nothing.
Normally her nipples were as pink as a gentle rosé but, after the severe maltreatment, they were as dark as burgundy wine.
Lovely.
Finally, he unbuckled her wrists. She lowered her arms gingerly and sighed deeply. She reached up and wiped the tears from her eyes, then lightly massaged her bruised nipples. She was completely unbound for the first time in a long time.
* * *
Her freedom was brief; Craig pulled her wrists behind her back and snapped the handcuffs closed without ceremony. He picked the last envelope from the table and waved it at her. “No time to waste. One more to go. Let’s get started.”
Leslie rattled her handcuffs and said, “Bring the key. I only have the two.”
He scooped the handcuff key and the last envelope from the table while she minced gingerly toward the door on the high heels. Craig guided her slowly down the stairs. She limped down one step at a time, leaning heavily against his arm. He did not know what instructions were contained in the envelope or what equipment was waiting in the dining room and his curiosity was gnawing at him.
Leslie knew what the last envelope held more pain and humiliation and she was in no hurry to get to it. She limped as slowly as she could.
There was much less equipment in the dining room than had been in the basement or bedroom. The dining room table had been pushed against the wall and all but two chairs had been removed from the room, creating a large open space. Craig’s eye was drawn to the tabl
e. There was nothing but a wooden paddle on it.
She rattled the handcuffs and said, “You can unlock me, now.”
When he unlocked her hands, she moved to the chair in the middle of the room, released the tops of her stockings from her garter belt, then unclipped the belt and discarded it. Resting her left foot on the chair, she unbuckled the shoe and removed it as well. She closed her eyes and sighed; Craig could see deep red marks underneath the black nylons where the sides of the too-small shoes had been crushing her foot. Then she reversed her position and removed her right shoe, sighing again. Returning her left foot to the chair, she peeled her stocking down her thigh, over her calf, and off her foot. Her position reminded Craig of the poster for the movie, The Graduate. She draped the stocking across the back of the chair, then removed her right stocking in the same fashion.
When she was completely nude, she gestured toward him and said, “You can open the last envelope now. There’s no gag in this scene. I’m trusting that you will be merciless and complete the scene even if I beg you to stop early. If you don’t think that you are up to that, you can go back downstairs and get the ball gag or tape and gag me again.”
Craig looked at the paddle on the table. “You can trust me.”
He opened the envelope. The last page of instructions was titled, “Beat Leslie’s Fat Ass”. The first instruction was, “Use my stockings to tie my ankles and wrists to the chair so that I am bent over the back.”
When he looked up from the paper, he saw her standing against the back of the chair in the middle of the room, holding one of her stockings out to him. She looked shy.
As soon as he took the stocking from her, she positioned her feet against the inside of the back legs of the chair. In that position, she had to bend half way over it to keep her balance.
The first stocking was barely long enough to allow him to secure her right ankle to one chair leg with one end and her left ankle to the other leg with the other end. When he completed the task and stood up, she handed him the second stocking, then bent completely over the back of the chair and stretched her arms down so that her hands were near the floor. He tied her wrists with the second stocking to the front legs of the chair in the same way that he had secured her ankles to the back legs. When he was finished, he walked around her and inspected his work. And inspected her. Bent double like that, she was completely exposed. She had no secrets left when he walked behind her; she was as vulnerable as a woman can be.
Her ass wasn’t all that fat, but it had a nice fullness. Craig never liked anorexic women with skinny men’s asses. Women should have nice plump womanly asses.
He glanced at the paddle on the table, then back at Leslie’s ass. She presented a delectable target.
He read the next instruction: “Beat the ass slowly. Take up to an hour paddling my ass to your heart’s content. Not continuously, mix together a variety of rates: sometimes a quick flurry of strokes; sometimes giving me ample time to appreciate each individual stroke; sometimes letting me spend long minutes agonizing about when the next stroke will fall. Make me count strokes if you want. Make me thank you for each stroke and ask for the next if that would please you. Amuse yourself. All I ask is that I suffer today and that I see heart-shaped bruises when I look at my backside in the mirror tomorrow.”
Heart-shaped bruises? Craig examined the paddle that was lying on the table. It was a wooden board, not too heavy, a little less than three inches wide, three eights of inch thick, and eighteen inches long. It had a leather-wrapped handle for his comfort and a row of a half dozen holes cut into the blade for Leslie’s discomfort: the holes would reduce the wind resistance when he swung the paddle, ensuring a sharp sting. The holes were heart-shaped, alternating pointing up and pointing down. Craig wondered how hard he would have to swing it in order to ensure that the holes left heart-shaped bruises. She was asking for more than token smacks. An hour with the paddle, even if he delivered less than two strokes per minute on average, would be true punishment.
He had never spanked anyone before. It seemed wise to start with some light experimental strokes to get a feel for the paddle. He walked behind her, stood a little to the side, and then tapped her across both buttocks lightly. The fleshy globes jiggled a little. He swung a little harder and they jiggled a little more. He raised his arm higher and brought the paddle down firmly, producing a meaty smack. She felt that one and grunted. He watched her white skin for a minute and saw it turn slightly pink. That seemed about right.
He told her, “Count to ten slowly.”
She said, “One.”
He swung hard enough to merit a yelp. There was a slight echo of the smack in the room.
“Two.”
He swung again, a little harder, and the paddle cracked sharply against her bottom. Her yelp was a little more sincere.
“Three”
He thought that he was swinging equally hard, but she made no sound this time and the paddle did not crack nearly as loudly against her skin. He had delivered a much lighter stroke. It was difficult to get exactly the same force into every swing.
“Four.”
He tried to swing a little harder, but misjudged his strength and swung a lot harder, putting some wrist action into it for the first time. The paddle whistled through the air and sounded like a small explosion when it hit. She clenched her buttocks and wailed loudly. Oh, well. She asked for punishment, so she couldn’t complain if she was getting punishment.
She paused for a long minute, then said, softly, “Five.” It sounded like she had to force herself to utter the count.
He swung again. Still a little harder than he intended, but not quite as hard as the last stroke. She yelped and twitched, struggling a little against the stockings that bound her to the chair.
She waited for a long minute before saying: “Six.” That was exactly the reason that Craig had asked her to count the strokes before he delivered them rather than after. He needed to get a feeling for how quickly she could make herself accept them.
As soon as she uttered the word, “Six,” he delivered another firm slap of the paddle. She yelped loudly again. He estimated that he was using less than half of his full strength, but that seemed just about right. He did not want to injure her.
Her breathing was uneven; her ass was bruising now and the pain of the stings was accumulating; she was feeling each successive stroke more keenly than the last.
She waited even longer before resuming her count. Craig snapped a sudden quick hard slap of the paddle against her butt and she yelped loudly. “I’m not going to wait all day. Get counting.”
“Eight.”
Craig lowered the paddle. “What?”
She replied, “Eight,” and clenched her buttocks anticipating another blow.
“What happened to seven?”
“You already struck number seven. You remember. When I didn’t count quickly enough.” Her voice was somewhat muffled because she was speaking from her bent position. Craig stifled a giggle when he thought of himself as having a conversation with Leslie’s ass.
She would have trouble seeing the humor in their situation.
“But you didn’t count it. You count; I hit you. That’s the way it works. I told you to count to ten. I never said that I was going to restrict myself to hitting you only ten times. You earned an extra stroke by making me wait too long.”
“Oh. Okay. Seven.” Her ass twitched.
He did not strike. “Nope. Too late for seven.”
“What do you mean?”
“I told you to count to ten. You messed up the count, so now you have to start over again.”
“You mean at one?”
“Of course at one. Unless you want to start at zero.”
“No. I’ll start at one.”
Craig waited.
She whispered, audibly, “One.”
He struck. She yelped. Her ass quivered.
“Two.”
He struck again. She yelped again. He was getting better a
t controlling the strength of his blows.
“Three.”
Smack. Yelp. Quiver.
“Four.”
Smack. Yelp. Quiver.
“Five.”
Harder smack. Louder yelp. More quiver.
“Six.”
Hard smack. Yelp. Quiver. Sob.
“Seven.”
Smack. Yelp. Quiver. Sob.
“Eight.”
He paused. Her cheeks quivered when she clenched her glutes in anticipation, then relaxed. Then he smacked them. She yelped a little louder.
“Nine.”
He dialed up the force a notch. The paddle whistled a little on its way down and cracked more sharply against her flesh. She twitched against her bonds and her yelp graduated to a howl. Her breathing was quick, deep, and ragged. That one really hurt.
“Ten.”
He hurt her again and she howled more loudly.
He waited for a minute but she remained silent. “Well?” he said.
“Well, what?” she asked.
“Are you going to count to eleven?”
“You said to count to ten.”
“I said that you earned yourself another stroke by making me wait too long. Now I’ve had to wait again. That deserves a second additional stroke.”
She saw his logic and did not argue. “Eleven.”
He struck her hard and she yelped loudly.
She barked, “Twelve,” almost immediately and he gave her another smart stroke, though not quite as hard as the previous two. She yelped unhappily.
He said, “Good beginning. There’s a lot more where those came from, so get a little rest while you can.”
He pulled the other chair behind her, sat down with his novel and read a few pages. When he looked up again, she looked relaxed. He could not see her face from this angle and was pretty sure that she could not see him. Perfect. He silently closed his book and set it down as quietly as he could. He gripped the paddle and snuck across the floor.