Guest Fiction

A friend sent me this story, and has graciously allowed me to repost it here. When I suggested he start a blog of his own, he wondered, "Who would read it?" As a voracious reader of quite a few submissive men's blogs, I know I would! How about the rest of you?

She prefers to keep me bound during my ordeals, though it could be argued that the bondage itself is a form of meticulously applied torture. A typical scenario might unfold thusly:

I am seated in the chair. My wrists are pulled behind me and lashed together by multiple windings of the harsh jute twine. The fibers biting into my skin are a constant reminder that my body is merely a substrate upon which she will make her mark -- with the implements of her choosing: the palm of her hands, a short whip, a heavy flogger. She applies the rest of the rope with the wordless concentration of a carpenter clamping down an unwieldy piece of board to get it ready for cutting. I hear the soles of her shoes scuff quietly against the floor, a sharp intake of breath as she cinches and knots the bonds at my upper arms and shoulders, but not a single word until the large rubber ball is held in front of my mouth.

"Open," she says. Her voice is even, taut with concentration.

Her other hand is at the back of my head, a fistful of my hair entwined in her fingers. She tugs firmly and my lips part involuntarily, as though she had pulled a lever. I let out a gasp but it is quickly absorbed by the hard rubber, which settles behind my teeth. My heart races as I hear the chiming of the buckles behind my head. My last chance to cry out, to call it off, has passed. There is no turning back. In an instant, the straps are fastened, the tension making my head throb. She traces the area where the leather bites into my cheek with her forefinger and asks me if it is too tight.

I nod slowly and deliberately, determined not to look pitiful.

"Good," she says, moving in front of me. She straddles me, places her forearms on my shoulders, her hands clasped loosely behind my neck as though we were slow-dancing.

"Do your arms hurt?" she asks, the fingers of one hand tenderly stroking the nape of my neck.

I answer by struggling. My legs aren't bound, so I nearly spill her from my lap. She stands slowly, her lips curling into a thin, barely perceptible smile. She takes a step back and, for a moment, I think she is going to say something comforting.

The first blow to my face makes my eyes water. She pauses, carefully cocks her arm back and gives me the back of her hand next, forcing an foreign sound from my throat, something between a scream and a curse.

"Look at me. Keep your eyes on mine. I'm not going to tell you again." Another slap. And another. In an absurd attempt to maintain my mental balance, I try to keep track but quickly lose count.

I'm begging now, making unintelligible sounds behind the gag, suddenly aware that I've managed to move the chair at least two feet from its original position. I've become desperate enough that I am actually struggling in earnest now and, as I twist my arms against the unyielding bonds, my fingers touch the wall behind me. There is no place to go.

Straddling me again, she produces a set of clover clamps, dangles them in front of my eyes. I struggle even harder now, shaking my head vehemently, and she sighs, putting the clamps to one side.

More rope is retrieved from the black bag in the corner and soon, my thighs are separated and my ankles are secured -- pulled back as far as they can go -- to the legs of the chair. With my arms practically welded together behind me, my upper body is bowed painfully, completely exposed, my chest thrust outward.

She puts the clamps on slowly, allowing the pitch of my muffled protests to guide her. She places tiny weights on the chain and whips the inside of my thighs with a straightened wire coat hanger. Bracing her hand against my throat, she takes a flogger to my chest. The sensation is beyond mere pain, but something that consumes me so completely, it is literally difficult to breathe. Fear and elation combine into an altogether new kind of emotion, something I couldn't describe if I was given all the time in the world.

She speaks softly, even tenderly, to me throughout her demonstration of cruelty, but it's when she says "You're so generous, to suffer like this for me" that I break completely, my body shuddering, the floodgates opening. I sob loudly into the gag, not caring who can hear me.

Thanks, AN!