Page 40 of Twisted

I wriggled from where I was lying bent over the bottom of the bed up to the center, shimmying out of my panties and discarding my bra as I did. I knew what he was going to do. The cuffs jingled as he lifted them from each corner of the headboard and I held out my arms compliantly. I didn’t want this; I didn’t want to be hurt when he was angry with me. A moment later my ankles had been fitted with a spreader bar extended to its widest setting. I gasped a little as he strapped it on and instantly felt the weight of his hand across the back of my thigh. A sharp sting followed by a long, slow burn reminded me to keep my mouth shut.

I heard him leaving the room and wondered where he’d gone. I didn’t have to wait long; two minutes later he came back in and there was a second set of steps with him.

“Come in, Merta,” he said, as they both entered the room.

Merta was our maid. She was slim and pretty and spoke little English, and sometimes I couldn’t resist touching her, especially if he’d left me feeling horny when he went out to work. She didn’t seem to mind and never shied away from my exploring fingers.

I could sense them standing at the end of the bed.

“Show me, Merta, what she did to you. How she touched you.”

A second later I felt a soft, feminine hand running up my thigh. I tried to stop my hips from moving in response to the dull ache that started up in my pussy. Her fingers stroked and caressed my buttcheeks as I’d done to hers and then silently slid down between them to push gently between my swollen labia. My breath was ragged and I clamped my jaws tightly together, even though I wanted to lift my head and groan out loud. The sensation of her cool fingers delving into my hot cunt was exquisite, and I knew that she would only have to slide them in and out a couple of times to bring me to the brink. But that would never be allowed.

“I see,” he said. “Thank you, Merta. That will do. I will see to it that Miss Sylvia gets punished for her behavior.”

I heard Merta leave the room and when she was gone I heard him locking the door. Panic bubbled up through my chest, and without realizing it I whimpered a little. His hand was in my hair in a second, gripping tightly, pulling my head back sharply.

“If you’re going to be noisy, you know what will happen?”

“Yes, Sir,” I whispered.

“Do you want to be gagged?”

“No, Sir.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure, Sir. I won’t be noisy.”

He slapped me sharply on the butt with a flat palm as if to test my resolve, but I was biting my lip and stayed quiet.

“Good girl.”

I heard him pacing round the bed.

“Let’s get this over with.”

I lay wondering what sort of punishment he had in mind. Then his arm swooped under my waist and he pushed a bolster cushion in underneath me, drawing my legs up slightly and raising my arse a foot or so above the bed. I knew what that meant; with the spreader pulling my legs wide, my butthole and labia were fully exposed and vulnerable to whatever pain he devised for them. I shut my eyes and chewed on my tongue, determined not to cry.

He must have been aware of my distress because then I felt his hand gently stroking my arse and down the back of one thigh.

“Don’t be frightened, sweet girl,” he whispered in my ear. “You know I’ve got to do this for your own good. You know you’ll feel much better when it’s over.”

“What will you use?” I managed to say, finishing with a slight sob.

“No, no, no. Nothing given away beforehand.”

He moved silently in the darkening room and as the light faded, I felt as if I was losing myself, sliding into a deep pit from which I would never be able to claw free. All I could hear was his breathing, deeper and heavier than when he’d first come in. He was getting ready to punish me now, psyching himself up, deciding what he would use, how many times he would strike and how hard.

He opened the cupboard where he kept his toys and I heard him rifling through his collection: whips, crops, paddles, belts, a flogger.... He’d been collecting them for years and he’d tried them all out on me. I knew exactly how much pain each would cause and as I wondered which one he would pick, a dull, grinding ache of need made itself felt in my clit and my cunt and my arse. I breathed deeply; I was starting to sweat now with the anticipation. I wanted it to start, but I wanted to wait like this on the brink forever. I longed to hear the whoosh of air and feel the first the blow but I was scared, frightened of the pain, frightened of his anger and of his desire. I pressed my forehead into the bed as time seemed to stand still and all sensation was lost apart from the throb of longing that pulsed from my cunt through to my chest.

Then I heard it. The thin, high-pitched whine of his bamboo riding crop. Instantaneously, I felt it too; a shard of pain that seared through my left buttock and up to the base of my throat. I gasped, and then I wretched as the after-burn kicked in. I fought for breath, desperate to regain my equilibrium before the next inevitable blow. This was one of his favorites; a harsh bestower of pain, of bright red welts that stayed for longer than any others in a sharply delineated pattern.

“Look at you, you’re so wet for it,” he whispered near my ear and at that moment I became aware of hot juice that was dripping from my cunt and running down the inside of my thigh.

Swoosh!

And again. And again. A white-hot flood of pain. And soon I could no longer tell where the crop was falling on my bare arse—the whole area was swollen and burning. Until he lowered his aim slightly, and I felt the sting of the crop slicing across my labia. Exquisite, burning pain. A fire that cut through me like a laser and made me crush my face into the duvet to muffle my scream. He hit me there again and again, while I ground the soft fabric with my teeth, hardly able to breathe, my insides like a molten pool of lava. I was no longer conscious of the room or of him, or even of the individual blows. I was adrift in pain and breathlessness. Unable to articulate. No longer me. Just sensation.

---