The Gamblers 6
Author: Diana
Filed in: bondage, sm, series, testing, croppingThe library in my grandfather’s house was massive, about 30 feet long and 15 feet wide with an 18-foot-tall peaked ceiling. Crisscrossed beams ran the full length of it ceiling, creating openings which looked like the night sky when the lighting was right. A beautiful dark oak had been used to finish all surfaces and to trim the fireplace, which was made of rough-cut black granite. A large parlor and a dining room further isolated the library from the street. It was totally soundproof as my Grandfather had intended.
Despite its size, the room was surprisingly cozy. This was achieved by creating three distinct zones. At one end there was an oversized cherry-wood desk; at the other was a long reading table made of the same light cherry. In the middle, in front of the fireplace was the most unusual piece in the house—a huge, stone coffee table made of the same rough-hewn black granite as the fireplace. The table’s stone surface seemed to absorb light, creating an inky black hole in the floor. Its enormous weight was supported by a number of steel beams which rose up out of a concrete platform in the basement.
I arrived home that third evening with mixed emotions. What had been inconceivable 24 hours ago was now an undeniable truth—I was capable of sadism. More importantly, as Jesse had predicted, I’d enjoyed it!
This had been on my mind all day.
I knew now that her threat to bring in a lawyer was hollow. It had just been another part of her game, one designed to feed on my insecurity. I was beginning to realize that Jesse was an expert at finding and pushing the right buttons.
She had, in fact, scripted the entire evening, including her punishment. It was amazing how easily I had been manipulated. I was resolved that tonight would be different. I’d be a perfect gentleman and I’d force her to be a perfect lady, assuming of course she had decided to stay. I was sure that we could work out a more normal relationship, something that made sense for both of us. I had even prepared a little speech of apology. I still didn’t want people to know that I now owned a CELT, but I was no longer prepared to give her up just for that reason.
She was waiting for me in the library. After last night’s pissing scene, I was sure that nothing she could do would ever surprise me again. I was wrong.
She was kneeling on the stone table naked except for a hood and a collar. The collar, which was tied to an overhead beams, kept her upper body ramrod straight. A wooden platform of some kind held her feet and legs motionless. The light-absorbing surface of the table made it appear that she was floating.
A mean-looking riding crop and two leather mittens lay neatly on the edge of the table beside her. Three complete dinner outfits had been arranged on the nearby easy chairs. The fourth chair, the one closest to her was empty.
I was struck dumb and walked around the table in a trance. I sat down to think and, I admit, to study her amazing bondage.
The kneeler resting on the table was an antique made of light oak. Surprisingly, it fit quite well with the room’s décor. (Had she gone out and bought this thing, I wondered?) It was 2-inches thick, about three feet long and two feet wide. Her upturned feet lay absolutely flat about 12 inches apart inside two beautifully carved indentations. A second wooden block, with holes in the shape of a woman’s heel, held the back of her feet. This block was hinged to the base like a stock. I could see that the foot indentations in the surface were designed to hold the girl’s feet in place while the block was being closed; this would be important, I thought, if she was struggling. A thin leather strap at the front of each foot completed the binding. It prevented the foot from moving laterally or curling up, but still allowed it to arch beautifully.
At the other end of the base was a thick leather kneeling pad. Straps buckled just behind the knees, forcing them deep into the leather and keeping her legs about 20 inches apart at that point. It was clear that the purpose of spreading her knees this far was to expose the full length of her inner thigh and her cunt to the whip. I imagined that the girl’s terror was greatly increased by having her vagina open and exposed.
This was a working bastinado—a torture device popular for centuries to exert control, especially over mistresses or sexually repressed young wives. After a night of unsatisfactory sex, for example, a gentleman would sometimes have his lady dress properly and then lock her in the bastinado. When he returned in the evening, he would cane the soles of her feet to motivate better performance. During the day, the bound victim could continue to supervise the affairs of the household, and even receive her consoling friends. If a harsh caning left her unable to walk that evening, all the better; her first place was in bed anyway.
Unlike the relatively thick sack-like hood of the other night, tonight Jesse wore a black-leather hood that hugged every curve of her beautiful face. It had two small holes for breathing through the nose, and a large hole for her mouth. The black ball-gag from Max’s bag was strapped deeply inside her mouth; it made her incredible lips appear even larger.
Stretching her thin neck to its limit was a 6-inch leather collar. It had a cruel blunt point at the top which pushed against the underside of her mouth, forcing her head high and back. Six tiny belts in the front were used to tighten the device and there was 4-inch metal D-ring in the back that allowed the collar to be used as a general-purpose attachment point.
The rope that hung from the ceiling beam was no ordinary clothesline. It was a black, non-stretch climber’s rope. (She must have bought this as well.) It had been tied to the top of the neck-collar’s metal D-ring, run over the overhead beam, and then tied off to the D-ring with a non-slip climbers knot. It was obvious from her ramrod straight back that her upper body had been pulled taunt by the rope before it was tied off. Jesse obviously liked her bondage tight.
Each of her wrists was also secured to the collar with a double-sided snap hook. This was done by self-bending each arm back to the shoulder blade and then snapping the hook onto the collar’s D-ring. That must have been an incredibly painful maneuver, I thought.
Obviously, she had put herself in this position. What did it mean? Was this her way of communicating her decision to stay… to reaffirm her status as my CELT? I thought about this for several minutes. Maybe, but there was something else; she also wanted to test me, make sure that last night was no fluke. I was sure of it; she wanted to see how I would respond when there was no anger or emotion involved. I was instantly glad that my apology remained my secret; this girl had no time for weak men.
But how was I going to respond? Was I strong enough? What if I didn’t measure up? What if I looked like a weakling? For a minute, the insecurity and fear were overwhelming; then I felt another emotion, an even stronger one—anger. Who was she to be testing me!
I retrieved the mittens, stepped onto the table and moved behind her with my legs astride the bastinado, Gently, I closed her hands into fists and strapped on the leather mittens. I could feel her body trembling through her fingers. Did I have the strength to hurt her? My anger disappeared instantly and I felt my resolve eroding. She was incredibly beautiful; could I really whip her…in cold blood?
My hands were shaking as I moved to her front and tightened the six straps on her collar, forcing her head up even higher. This also made her back straighter, putting some slack into the ceiling rope. I tightened the rope until it was like a guitar string.
Her body now formed a perfect “L”. She could move her hips and flat belly a few inches in either direction, but that was it, otherwise it was as if she was set in cement. She was also absolutely silent. I stepped down from the table and sat back in the chair. Cruelly, I considered adding the Piranhas. No, I thought, I didn’t want her distracted. For the next half-hour or so I wanted her mind totally focused on the crop…and on me.
I retrieved the clothes she had laid out and held each one up to her front. She bristled as the material brushed her bare skin. I selected a white silk shirt with a plunging neckline and a gray skirt. She had included some underwear which I set aside; tonight, I wanted her naked underneath. For shoes, I selected a pair of ultra-sexy ankle-strap heels.
Holding the shirt against her body, I made tiny dots on her skin with a felt-tipped pen. I did the same with the skirt. These marked the areas covered by the clothes I’d selected. I’m sure she knew what was happening. It must feel strange, I thought, to know you were being prepared for pain.
Taking a deep breath, I retrieved the long crop and made a few test swings. Her cunt turned dark red in anticipation. I had never whipped a woman, but the crop felt natural in my hand as I moved into a comfortable whipping position.
I struck her ass. There was a satisfying “thwack” and her body jerked, but no sound. I struck her a second time, harder, and then a third until I heard a muffled yelp. This was the right level of force. I started again.
Each stroke produced a red mark which made an ideal guide as I moved down her legs in neat columns. She was glistening with sweat when I finished her back. Without hesitating, I started on her inner thighs. This was serious pain and immediately her almost-playful yelps and jerks changed into short painful screams and mini-convulsions. I watched these closely to gauge the force needed for maximum pain. After a while, the swish of the crop, the satisfying “thwack,” and her muffled screams all blended into a kind of savage rhythm.
When I finished her thighs, I moved to the front and paused. She was moaning pitifully. I thought about removing her gag, but decided to wait. I cropped her underarms then worked my way down her torso, taking care to avoid her breast and pussy and always staying within the tiny black dots. When I was finished I stood back and watched her again. Her body moved in a dance of intense pain, as if it were engulfed in flame.
I removed the gag and stood back. She immediately started panting like a dog in heat, too overwhelmed even to scream. I almost stopped; then I remembered that she was testing me. What would she think if I ended her torment too early? I stood back and viciously cropped her breasts, leaving her nipples to the end. Her head twisted violently and she wailed in agony with each new stroke. I heard her try to say “please” a number of times, but she never quite got the word out. I replaced her gag, amazed at my growing callousness.
Then I whipped her pussy. In the middle of this, I could see her mind starting to go numb in self-defense.
No way, I thought; I wanted her to feel every stroke. I sat down and relaxed, giving her time to recover. When she calmed, I moved in close to her feet and gave the sole of each foot five test strokes. The bastinado worked perfectly to hold her feet absolutely still. I knew somehow that this was the only pain that would now penetrate to her brain. There was no sound anymore and the only real movement was the puckering and un-puckering of her ass cheeks. I used this to gauge the pain and the timing of each stroke, knowing that she would only feel new strokes now when the pain subsided. As I waited, I watched the mittens puff out as her fingers moved in an impossible attempt to reach through the leather to the snap hooks.
I wanted her to walk tonight and cropped her feet to that limit, which somehow I knew. I dropped my pants, stepped up on the table, and removed her gag. Without waiting, I grabbed the back of her hooded head and pushed my penis into her mouth. Her mind had shut down for sex and there was almost no response.
Reaching over her back, I began to savagely crop her ass and thighs. This new cropping on top of the old shocked her out of her stupor. Almost immediately she understood the relationship between her new pain and the cock in her mouth and she started to franticly suck me off. This was the desperate act of an animal in pain with none of the cocksucking form of the prior evening, but it did the job. I ejaculated within seconds, but she was in such distress that she let my cock fly out, causing several spurts to drop to the polished wooden floor.
I adjusted my pants and returned to my chair. The girl was covered with painful welts that must have felt like the fires of hell. Curious, I watched her twitch for a full ten minutes. Then I walked over and ran my hands over her body. At first she pulled away afraid, but gradually she began to respond, pushing herself against my moving palm. Incredibly, she wanted to be fucked again.
But I had other plans for the evening. Carefully, I released her from all the bondage and laid her down on the black table next to the bastinado. I returned to the chair. After a few more minutes rest, she began to stir. I spoke for the first time.
“Take this outfit, Jesse, and go shower. We’re going to dinner. You have one hour. If you’re not back here by then, we’ll repeat the cropping.” I knew this was the appropriate tone. I waited. In a few seconds, she moved to sit on the table’s edge.
“You also made a terrible mess on the floor,” I said. “Clean it up.” She looked at me and hesitated. I jumped up, pushed her flat on the table, and gave her ten sharp whacks on the ass; she didn’t resist and immediately after slid to the floor and began to clean it with her tongue. In five minutes, she had polished it to its original sheen. “That’s enough,” I said; “go get ready. You now have fifty-five minutes.”
She tried to get to her feet, but it was too painful. She tried again and again, but was unable to put any weight on them. Every muscle in my body wanted to move to her aid, but I remained seated, watching. Finally, she put the clothes and shoes in her mouth and walked out of the room on her hands and knees, her naked body moving like a cat.
Once she was out of the room, a wave of shame washed over me. What had I done? She had wanted it, but did that make it right? Did anything give me the right to treat her this way? Fuck it. This was no time for moral confusion, for weakness. I was convinced that she was testing my mettle, and there was no way I was going to come up short again.
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