Chapter 4 – Whip Her Bloody
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This is a work of fiction, any resemblance to persons living, dead or otherwise is purely coincidental, etc.
I felt a wave of sexual pleasure as I stepped out of the limo. Given my circumstances, that was the last thing I should be sensing. There are all kinds of people in this world and I was one of those rare statistical anomalies that are turned on by pain and humiliation. I was so far at the outer edge of the bell shaped curve I could get rained on.
Somewhere in my brain there was a miss-wired synapse. It turned pain into pleasure and humiliation and degradation into joy.
Most people would consider me a sick human being in need of multiple sessions on an analyst's couch and a Prozac prescription. But they were wrong. I was getting what I needed and the fact that the super sized dildo in my cunt was starting to squish around on all the lube my Bartholin glands were secreting said it all. I was in serious pain, on the verge of being degraded and humiliated on a scale few would ever experience; and my irrational self loved it. Even thought my rational mind said I should scream for help and attempt to run away.
Mary Ellen was leading me on a short leash into Trace's wake. I was wearing a ridiculously short dress with a piss bag hanging below the hem for all to see. All in this case would be the fifty or so of the extended Donaldson family and close friends that were invited.
My halting wide-legged walk would tip them off that I was wearing dildos in my cunt and ass. In spite of the discomfort from having eight of my dead husband's service medals pinned to my labia, I was emotionally transforming negatives to positives.
The step down and out of the limo caused the foreign objects in my body cavities to ache and the medals scraped painfully against my vagina. I took a deep breath and told myself that the pain was pleasure and the upcoming exhibition of my status was my own personal heroin.
Sergeant Amesbury stood at attention holding the limo door. He was looking at me with a nasty smirk on his face. Why not, his jism was deep inside my asshole. Even though I grabbed a swallow of Robbie's whisky before I stepped out, there was still the taste of the Sergeant's shit lurking in the back of my throat.
“Pretty poor piece of ass wouldn't you say, Sergeant,” said Robbie as I stepped on the payment.
“Yes sir, fucks like a tired old street whore,” replied the Sergeant.
I ignored the Sergeant's remark as I walked straddled legged toward the entrance to the funeral home. The dildo in my cunt was causing me to walk slowly with my legs spread apart. Mary Ellen jerked the leash a few times to speed me up.
“I hope you haven't forgotten any of the family,” said Denise. “If you have, we'll have to have a retraining session when we get home.”
My mind immediately began to recall the faces, names, and relationships of the extended Donaldson family. Learning to identify the Donaldsons had been my introduction to their bizarre world. It had been anything but pleasant.
After Trace and I got engaged, he invited me home to meet his family. For a girl who grew up in a three-decker in Winthrop, Massachusetts, the very idea of staying at the Donaldson's estate in Weston, MA was a thrill. Weston was known as the wealthiest town in the Commonwealth. On four-day leave, I'd flown into Boston's Logan Airport late Thursday night.
There was to be a family dinner Friday night and an engagement party at the Weston Country Club Saturday night. Trace met me at the airport. My plane was very late and I got in after midnight. When we got to the Donaldsons, everyone had gone to bed. The estate was huge and surrounded by a stonewall that must have been twelve foot high. I was a little surprised that the family hadn't objected to our sleeping together. That should have tipped me off I wasn't meeting people with traditional family values.
Trace took me to his room and made me slowly strip for him. Someone had given us a new camcorder for an anniversary present and he made a DVD of me dancing around the room to the tune of Boogie Nights while I slipped a dildo he bought me in and out of my cunt and ass. He'd also bought a huge black one that had a suction cup on one end. He managed to stick that to the center of a straight char so he could take close-ups of me raising and lowering myself on that column of chocolate-colored latex. We hadn't been together in weeks so I was both horny and enthusiastic as I did squats to drive it deep in my pussy.
Trace kept recording while I sucked his cock and took a full load of his jism on my tongue before I swallowed it. After that he put a pair of clamps on my nipples and made me jerk myself off while he kept filming. Trace encouraged me to talk dirty as I fingered my clit telling him what a pig whore I was and how much I loved it when he fucked my ass and pissed in my mouth. It was normal loving couple talk.
After he strapped a penis gag in my mouth to keep me quiet, he pulled the clamps off. I don't mean he released the tension first. He just yanked them off practically taking the end of my nipples with them. The agonizing pain in my breasts created such an incredible rush my climax felt like a bunker buster bomb had gone off inside my cunt. I let loose a long muffled scream into the gag as my clit hammered out a tune to my brain using a kettledrum for an instrument. A good five minutes later it all ended with Little Rozz covered in sweat and dripping girl lube down her thighs. I lay there thinking its good to be a whore as Trace licked my thighs. Swallowing pussy oil was one of his things.
It was nearly two in the morning when we finished. I was a happy and satisfied bride-to-be. I curled up in Trace's arms and fell asleep.
You always assume that people are not into BDSM until you find out different. I'd certainly assumed that Trace's parents were straight arrows. After all, he was a general officer in the US Army and that's not the type you usually associate with the world of S&M.
Trace and I had pretty much played only with each other since we met; not that we had been together that much. There'd been one exception. On one of his visits to Fort Campbell, we'd gone out with a friend of Trace's, Major William Gooding and his wife, Doris. Bill Gooding was a tall good-looking career officer, graduate of West Point, and supposedly destined for a general's star when his time came. Doris was a Southern bell, cheerleader at Old Miss where she majored in communications. She was blonde, skinny, and certainly looked the part of a future general's life. You could picture her hosting teas at the officer's clubs for the other wives.
Surprise, they turned out to be in the lifestyle and after dinner at the Officer's Club, Doris and I had the shit whipped out of us in the basement of Major Gooding's off base housing.
I hadn't guessed that the Goodings were anything but vanilla until we got to their place. Trace and Bill took Doris and I down to the basement, made us strip naked, and perform cunnilingus on each other while they drank another beer. Then they shackled us to a pair of St. Andrew's crosses. To make things interesting, they agreed that Bill was going to work on me while Trace entertained Doris. Variety is the spice of life.
Bill was into hot wax; that was something new to Trace and me. He grabbed my nipples with hemostats and stretched them out until you could practically see through my flesh. I screamed for him to stop before he ripped them off.
“Trace, your bride's a screamer, listen to this,” said Bill as he took my nipples through a one eighty.
“Rozz loves pain. The more she hollers, the hotter she gets,” said Trace.
Trace was imitating Bill and Doris was emitting loud ear splitting shrieks with a Southern accent. Her involuntary vocalizing confirmed my husband-to-be was a talented sadist second to none.
“Yea, she's a pain slut,” said Bill who had stuck a finger in my vagina to check my oil. My Bartholin glands were going full out.
Bill was one of those sadists whose whole face lighted up and cock hardened when his victim opens wide and bellows in pain. I was screaming and begging him to stop the awful things he was doing to my boobs.
Bill lighted a tall beeswax taper and allowed it to slowly drip on my over stretched nipples. You could almost hear it sizzle when it landed on my paper-thin tissue. I was surprised it didn't burn through and drop to the floor. My pain centers flashed agony in bright red letters and my mouth opened to let out a long plaintive scream. In a matter of seconds, I was pleading with Bill as I watched him slowly tilt the candle toward my other nipple. He was a merciless bastard who worked with an agonizing slowness. I would have sworn it took a full minute for him to turn his wrist. I watched the clear bee poop slowly trickle toward the wick until gravity took over and a half dozen drops touched down. It takes a few seconds for the pain of a burn to gather its energy and signal to your nerve endings that something very serious has happened. I took in deep breaths thinking I could control the pain. On my exhale, the nerve endings sounded the alarm. My exhale ended in a chortled scream. My next inhale was dedicated to collecting enough breath to power my vocal chords through the full throated scream that my brain had decided was appropriate for a woman who had just suffered a serious burn on her breast tissue.
Bill worked on my tits until I thought I was going out of my mind. He applied more hemostats to my labia and clitoris. Trace was following Bill's example and dripping large splats of searing hot wax on Doris' breasts and pussy.
“Watch and learn,” said Bill as he angled a candle toward my armpit. Any well-trained nurse will tell you that a person's armpits are one of the very most sensitive parts of the body especially to a burn.
“No,” I yelled but I was too late. The wax landed right in the center of my armpit. I screamed as loud as humanly possible. To reward my performance, Bill took his time doing my other armpit. It was days before I could raise my arms above my shoulders.
After the guys tired of the wax torture, Bill unlocked a nearby cabinet and showed Trace his extensive collection of whips, canes, floggers, etc. Most of the whippings I'd received had been from the type of product you buy in an Adult Products store, overpriced and cheaply made. Bill's collection was on a different level entirely. I heard Bill answer Australia and Turkey when Trace asked about the country of origin of some of the whips.
They began with ridding crops that were actually used by jockey's who won one of the Triple Crown races. Military men have a sense of history. I got hot as a firecracker when Bill snapped the crop across my nipples causing a tidal wave of fiery pain to engulf the end of my breasts. I was pumping out girl lube by the time he landed the business end of the crop on my labia and clit. My pleasure centers climbed up to the top rung of the pain ladder and stayed there as the guys kept switching implements of torture. For a pain slut, there's nothing better than being whipped into a state of semi-consciousness. Your brain is controlled by your need to feel pain and each time the whip lands, that need is fed. I submerged my mind and body into the experience.
There was a point where Bill landed the barbed tip of a bull whip on my vagina that sent me into such a paroxysm of muscular contraction, it felt like I was about to break my own back. Doris was hysterical by this time screaming for Trace to stop but not shouting the safe word that would make him halt. You can always tell a true pain slut. We never shout the safe word. We just keep screaming and cumming hoping the agony never stops.
After I'd had almost every known type of whip used on my most tender and sensitive parts, our two warriors made us kneel down with our mouth open while they emptied their bladders of all the beer piss they'd been accumulating all evening. It was a dessert of degradation after a full meal of suffering. Doris and I were so thirsty we practically fought to see who got to swallow the most mellow yellow. Our guys must have pre-planned it and avoided the urinal because they just kept filling our maws, pausing so we could swallow then continuing the flow.
For the finale, the two dommes took their pleasure. The guys fucked us in both our holes. They kept switching between Doris and me calling us whores and sluts. Each of us was double penetrated and had to perform ass to mouth or ATM as Bill called it. It was the first time I'd ever sucked a cock that one second before had been up another girl's ass. Neither Doris nor myself had been cleaned out so I got to taste Doris's shit and she mine. It's definitely hardcore when a guy pulls his shit-covered dick out of a nasty asshole, grabs you by the hair and shoves it down your throat. You can't ignore the smell and taste of the gritty brown feces that covers his cockhead as it coats the lining of your throat.
Bill took some kind of diet supplement that he swore increased the volume and taste of his semen. I knelt there while Doris jacked him off onto my tongue. Since I was company, I got to take the host's load.
“Get it all before you swallow it bitch,” said Bill as he ejaculated. I felt a large gob hit the back of my throat and another flood onto my tongue. I waited patiently mouth open and tongue extended until he finished before I gulped it down. Doris used her long tongue to lick the insides of my mouth to savor her man's leftovers.
All I can say it was the most jism I'd ever taken in a single orgasm. And the taste was odd, almost medicinal. It definitely went way beyond the normal two tablespoons I'd experienced since I started giving blowjobs in the ninth grade.
It wasn't my first S&M group activity but it had certainly been the hottest. The four of us slept in the Gooding's king sized bed. The next morning I was so sore it took me half an hour to get out of bed. I could barely walk. Fortunately a nurse even one in training has access to painkillers. You can always steal them from a cancer patient.
Regardless of that experience, I expected that everybody at the Donaldson's would be on best behavior. I was in for a surprise.
I met the immediate family at breakfast. Everybody seemed so polite and glad to meet Trace's fiancé. Afterwards, my future mother-in-law took me shopping for most of the day. She spent a fortune on me, dresses, shoes, lingerie, etc. I lost count of how much she spent. She bought me an incredible Bill Blass evening gown for Saturday's engagement party. The dress cost about twenty times more than the most expensive dress I'd ever purchased on my own.
We had a formal dinner at nine. It was in the mansion's cherry paneled dining room that looked like it was copied from a French chateau. It was the General, Lois, Robbie, Denise, and Mary Ellen in addition to Trace and me. I was on cloud nine, dazzled by the wealth and prestige of Trace's family.
After dinner, we had drinks in the library. At some point, I recall Robbie speaking first.
“Dad, the servants are all gone. We can start now.”
“Good, let's head downstairs,” said the General.