Kaleun's second assignment

[Polecat]

This story is a little faster paced than previous efforts. I wanted to do a complete story, rather than the begining chapter of one like "Hanging around" or "The House"

The Day

Michael is the perfect husband, and has been for three years. Kind, thoughtful, respectful, a good provider; and boring in bed.

It’s probably not his fault. He couldn’t know he was marrying a pain slut when we did tie the not. Come to think of it, it is my fault. We met, at a friend’s party, and he swept me off my feet. We started dating immediately, and everything was just perfect. Everything, but this little “thing” of mine. When he asked “What would you fancy doing this evening dahling?” (He has this snotty British accent that hits just my right buttons) I couldn’t just go “Will you please whip me until your arm falls off, my dear?”

I couldn’t bring myself to broach the subject until about a year and a half into our marriage. By then I was so desperate I was considering looking for a dom on the internet, anything, but how would I explain any lingering welts?

After a while I couldn’t take it anymore, and brought it up, just like that. I figured if he thought me a freak and divorced me, I wouldn’t be much worse off than if he caught me having an affair.
To his credit he took it in stride. He even tried to tie me up and whip me.

It was pathetic. The idea did not disgust him, it even excited him some, but it was so against his nature that he could not go far enough. Never mind how hard we tried, how I attempted to encourage him, coach him, it wouldn’t work.

Then came “The Day”

I had met some sub friends over this period of time, and one of them invited us to a BDSM party. I asked Michael about it. I fully expected him to refuse to go but, to my surprise, he gladly agreed.

On the day of the party we drove to this large house in the country. Set back from the road, the mansion exuded an aroma of old money. We were admitted into a large foyer, and from there we wandered into the great room, where the gathering was getting started.

Many of the couples were in costume, the usual thing, leather, chains. Some subs wore blindfolds or cuffs. Michael and I wore regular clothes. He, tweed pants and sport coat, and me a bouncy flimsy dress, faded pink, and high heeled sandals. We got some drinks, he a Martini, me a Gin and tonic.

Some couples mounted a few scenes, nothing too exotic, Michael took them in with more than a passing interest, but nothing extraordinary.

Then a french dom, named Jacques, took center stage, and a game was proposed. A sub would be tied up, and whipped or tortured, until she said her safe word. Since sir Jacques was french, he used the term “signale”. Sir Jacques and sir Robert (The owner of the mansion) would be doing the honors. They would use a riding crop, a bullwhip and a thin cane.

We all gather round to watch. A succession of subs follows. The sub undresses herself, then is suspended from her wrists, and her ankles are tied, spread, to rings on the floor; thus she is spreadeagled and can be accessed from all sides.

Some subs take only 15 strokes of the whip before giving their “signale”. Others take more.

Michael watches the proceedings with some interest, and then he looks at me and, with a quizzical smile, asks: “Do you want to give it a go?”

I look up at him, stunned, We have never done anything in public. Yet, as the idea enters my mind, I feel a tightness deep in my belly, and notice the gushing in my pussy. He leans over, kisses me and sends me on my way.

I step up to center stage, my steps are faltering, almost hesitant, but it is the heat, the excitement in my belly that makes my knees weak. At sir Jacque’s instructions, I drop my dress, and stand there in my white bra and matching thong. Floodlights shine on the center stage. I then take off my bra, then my thongs. I have never even been topless at a beach, and here I am, standing nude, in front of all this people. He takes my hands and ties them to the overhead chains with leather straps. My feet he straps to the rings in the floor. He then takes up the slack on the chains connected to my wrists, and pulls me up off the floor. I am stretched, spreadeagled, painfully, but I am grateful, I do not think my feet could have held me up, my knees were shaking so much. I am surprised by sir Jacques whispering in my ear: “Your signale?” I shake my head. “I don’t have one sir” He pauses and says “Christopher Colombus; remember”

I hang there, nude. The crowd looks on. I see Michael among them, smoking a cigar, a glass of Scotch in his hand. He smiles at me, blows me a kiss.

Sir Jacques picks up the bullwhip, moves to my left, then behind me, beyond my sight. I tremble, afraid, but my pussy belies my fear. I feel my juices dripping, I can smell myself.

I can hear the hiss of the whip before it strikes; high, on my back; the tip swings across my body, and hits me on my right breast, near the nipple. I scream, from pain, from excitement. A second stroke, slightly below the first, a second scream, not as loud. He is an expert. He takes about 4 or 5 seconds between each stroke, to let you feel the whip, savor it. Over and over, the whip falls on my unprotected back, I scream constantly now. How many times has the whip kissed my back? I do not know. My breath comes in broken gasps, my pussy however feels like it is going to explode. There is a pause in the whipping; I catch my breath. Sir Jacques takes a break now, and sir Robert takes over, he will be using the riding crop.

The crop is more accurate than the whip. I hear the swish of the crop and feel the first cut. Right on top of my boobs. I scream loudly, and ready myself for the next. Sir Robert also takes his time between cuts, letting me feel it. The next one comes lower on my tits, the next one hits my nipples. I lose control, within my scream of pain comes a blinding orgasm, I jerk against my restraints, as I come violently. If sir Robert continues striking me with the crop, and he does, I no longer know. Each orgasm is the prelude of an even stronger one. I shake, scream, grunt, but it no longer has anything to do with the cuts of the crop. It all comes from within, the crop is now only a facilitator, a needed catalyst for my release. After a while I come back from whatever orgasmic paradise I was in, to find Sir Jacques and Sir Robert looking at me. I feel flushed with sweat; my hair, plastered to my face. I see Michael in front of me. A dark haired sub is greedily sucking his dick. Some part of me is happy that he is being taken care of. Sir Jacques picks up the cane, approaches me, from the front, cane held low. I tense, in anticipation of a cruel cut to my pussy. He smiles, and with the tip of his cane barely touches my clitoris. That is enough. Another mind blowing orgasm rakes my pained body. I know no more.

[submissivewife]

WOW! That sounded like heaven until you brought out the cane....*shudders*. Wonderful job!

[Polecat]

Notice it wasn't used (As a cane, I mean)

[submissivewife]

yes...I did notice...but the image of a canning....well.....it's a scary thought to me....great job.

[Aesop]

That was good. The only negative thing I noticed is that you seem to have a habit of writing sentence fragments.

Example:

Kind, thoughtful, respectful, a good provider; and boring in bed.

The above isn't a sentence and you have quite a few of these fragments running throughout the story, but many of them could be argued as technique instead of mistakes. If I were you I would check for these when editing and see if they make sense or not.

Otherwise it was great and I'm moving you up to level 3.

[Polecat]

I kind of like the tempo they set on the story.
Maybe I should use them less.
Thanks