and loads me into a St. Andrews Cross. I consider the position I’m in. I’m facing the audience. My arms and legs are spread apart and tied. I’m completely immobile. John’s saying something to the audience, something about the virtues of a submissive that can’t move. On that ominous note, he pulls out a pair of nipple clamps.
“Nipple clamps don’t always have to be stainless steel,” he says conversationally to the audience. “We’ve received a line of handcrafted nipple clamps that really resemble jewelry – they’ll make a perfect Christmas present for your sub.”
The nipple clamps pinch at my nipples painfully. The pain throbs through me and I can’t focus on anything else. I squirm a little.
The flogging starts. At first, the strokes are light, sending more heat than pain through me. My skin reddens. I feel the familiar arousal run through me, but it doesn’t give me the same satisfaction it’s given me in the past. I can’t imagine Doug’s going to be pleased with me.
Now, the strokes are harder, and red lines appear on my skin. John’s saying something about wrist movement and distance, but I am not listening. I focus on the sensation of the flogger striking me, but inside me, there’s dread as well, and it isn’t because of the pain of the flogger.
The flogger rains its blows on my breasts, setting them jiggling. Each jiggle causes the nipple clamp to move, and I hiss and squirm in pain. John notices my squirm and laughs and points it out to the audience. “No damage,” he says, “but plenty of pain. My favourite combination.”
He moves in front of me, changes the angle of the flogger. Now the strokes are striking my pussy, from beneath my parted legs. I squirm yet again. This feels good. The warmth of the flogger heats my already wet pussy.
John switches tools, picks up the crop. He says something to the audience, something I miss, because I’m now wondering if Doug is going to be so angry with me that he won’t want to have sex again. He doesn’t control me, I say to myself defiantly, but my defiance is only skin-deep. I realize that I do want to see him again. Sigh.
The blows of the crop start. Short, stinging strokes, all over my body. I can’t predict where the next stroke will fall. I’m dancing, flailing. The last time I was here at the House of Pain, I was able to open my mind to the pain, to let it flow through me. But I’m off balance because Doug is in the audience, and I can’t find the same peace. I writhe in pain as my body reacts to the crop.
John unbuckles me; turns me around and cuffs in into the St. Andrews Cross, with my ass now facing the audience. He says something, I hear the word “cane.” I instantly stiffen. Everything I’ve read about caning online suggests that it will be intensely painful.
It is and it isn’t. It’s a sensation I can’t really describe. There’s dimension to this pain, it hurts when the cane descends on my unprotected ass, but it also hurts after. John is, as promised, not hitting me very hard; but the cane still stings a fair bit. I’m squirming in my bindings, hissing in pain.
And finally, I decide I don’t care. I can’t do anything about the Doug situation, not right now. I decide to put it out of my mind. Either Doug will be angry, or he won’t be. There’s nothing I can do about it in this moment.
With that, I’m able to appreciate the feelings coursing through me, the sharp sting of the cane, the warmth radiating from my ass, the wetness in my pussy. Each stroke has me squirming, but as the strokes continue, I find that I’m pushing my ass outward, towards the cane. Once again, I’m dancing at that oh-so-small line between pleasure and pain, and once again, I don’t know whether it is pleasure I’m feeling, or pain.
The intensity increases. John’s saying something to the audience, and he finally brings the cane down hard, in one searing stroke across my skin. I shriek, as a flaming line of pain
“Nipple clamps don’t always have to be stainless steel,” he says conversationally to the audience. “We’ve received a line of handcrafted nipple clamps that really resemble jewelry – they’ll make a perfect Christmas present for your sub.”
The nipple clamps pinch at my nipples painfully. The pain throbs through me and I can’t focus on anything else. I squirm a little.
The flogging starts. At first, the strokes are light, sending more heat than pain through me. My skin reddens. I feel the familiar arousal run through me, but it doesn’t give me the same satisfaction it’s given me in the past. I can’t imagine Doug’s going to be pleased with me.
Now, the strokes are harder, and red lines appear on my skin. John’s saying something about wrist movement and distance, but I am not listening. I focus on the sensation of the flogger striking me, but inside me, there’s dread as well, and it isn’t because of the pain of the flogger.
The flogger rains its blows on my breasts, setting them jiggling. Each jiggle causes the nipple clamp to move, and I hiss and squirm in pain. John notices my squirm and laughs and points it out to the audience. “No damage,” he says, “but plenty of pain. My favourite combination.”
He moves in front of me, changes the angle of the flogger. Now the strokes are striking my pussy, from beneath my parted legs. I squirm yet again. This feels good. The warmth of the flogger heats my already wet pussy.
John switches tools, picks up the crop. He says something to the audience, something I miss, because I’m now wondering if Doug is going to be so angry with me that he won’t want to have sex again. He doesn’t control me, I say to myself defiantly, but my defiance is only skin-deep. I realize that I do want to see him again. Sigh.
The blows of the crop start. Short, stinging strokes, all over my body. I can’t predict where the next stroke will fall. I’m dancing, flailing. The last time I was here at the House of Pain, I was able to open my mind to the pain, to let it flow through me. But I’m off balance because Doug is in the audience, and I can’t find the same peace. I writhe in pain as my body reacts to the crop.
John unbuckles me; turns me around and cuffs in into the St. Andrews Cross, with my ass now facing the audience. He says something, I hear the word “cane.” I instantly stiffen. Everything I’ve read about caning online suggests that it will be intensely painful.
It is and it isn’t. It’s a sensation I can’t really describe. There’s dimension to this pain, it hurts when the cane descends on my unprotected ass, but it also hurts after. John is, as promised, not hitting me very hard; but the cane still stings a fair bit. I’m squirming in my bindings, hissing in pain.
And finally, I decide I don’t care. I can’t do anything about the Doug situation, not right now. I decide to put it out of my mind. Either Doug will be angry, or he won’t be. There’s nothing I can do about it in this moment.
With that, I’m able to appreciate the feelings coursing through me, the sharp sting of the cane, the warmth radiating from my ass, the wetness in my pussy. Each stroke has me squirming, but as the strokes continue, I find that I’m pushing my ass outward, towards the cane. Once again, I’m dancing at that oh-so-small line between pleasure and pain, and once again, I don’t know whether it is pleasure I’m feeling, or pain.
The intensity increases. John’s saying something to the audience, and he finally brings the cane down hard, in one searing stroke across my skin. I shriek, as a flaming line of pain
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