“Time for a little punishment, number sixteen?” he asks wryly.
My muscles clench at the word and yet I knew all along that there would be as much pain as pleasure in this adventure. The thought is intoxicating.
“Yes, sir,” I say with my new lisp, sending the old collection of drool south between my pegged breasts.
His smile widens as he adjusts himself on the stool. My knees ache almost simultaneously as though they are pleading for their own relief.
“Good, then we’ll start with twenty strikes of the crop. You will thank me for each one of course,” he pauses, carefully observing my expression as he goes on, “and ask me politely for the next. Do you understand, number sixteen?”
His voice is soft and calm and on some base level I find it reassuring. I know I am going to let him punish me. I can feel myself gushing at the prospect already. Yet this knowledge does nothing to quell the panic rising in my throat, because I also have an idea how much it will hurt and I know there’s nothing I can do about it.
I nod and quietly confirm that I understand. Suddenly even though there are probably more than a dozen people in the room, I feel as though there is only the two of us. I can feel Nichols behind me, grasping my leash and keeping me firmly in position but still, only Shaw matters. His face has become the centre of my entire universe and I study it attentively, determined to remember every line and dimple.
He takes a small step towards me and I brace myself, watching as he swings the crop in front of me.
“Keep those legs spread…” he warns me.
I stare, hypnotised, as the black implement is swung towards my left breast. I hear the sound first and then register the pain as it lands on the underside of my breast. It’s not very hard and yet the sting is definite and I watch as the force ripples through the rest of my chest, nudging the wooden claw attached to my nipple. I draw in a breath, but manage not to cry out. Then I remember the rest of my instructions and realise that I am to thank Shaw for my punishment.
“Thank you, sir,” I hear myself say, although the words are barely intelligible. “Please, may I have another?”
I fidget slightly as the pain in my aching knees flares and Nichols responds by pulling hard on my collar, nearly sending me onto my left side.
“Keep still, slut,” he sneers from behind me.
I flush and wish I could tell him to go and fuck himself, but know that’s not going to be an option. I steady myself using my thighs for good effect, but can’t help but pull against my cuffs. My chest rises and falls rapidly as I struggle to regain any composure. I am now all too aware of the wooden implements squeezing my sensitive buds and wish desperately that I could pull them off. My predicament produces panic and excitement in equal measure.
Watching me wordlessly, Shaw draws the crop backwards and moves fractionally to my right before striking me again. It lands on the same breast but on the opposite side of my sensitive pale skin. This time it feels harder and the pain is sharp and hot. I see the red mark it leaves as he draws it away. I can’t help but wince as I watch my breast wobble under the intensity of the hit. It’s as erotic as hell to see my own tits being struck this way and to know that I am completely unable to resist their torture.
“Thank you, sir,” I say again, hearing the marked huskiness of my voice as I strain through the impediment still holding my tongue. Its claw is starting to numb the area. “Please, may I have another?”
Shaw circles me and there is another low rumble around the circle of observers. As he approaches from my left, he whips the crop through the air and lands it directly on my throbbing left nipple. Already imprisoned by the peg, the strike hits the wood more than my skin and sends a new pain through me. I am learning that I can manage the clothespins reasonably well, so long as they are left alone… But this sort of stimulation hurts a lot and a guttural moan leaves my mouth in response. Clearly pleased to have caused me this new pain, Shaw smiles.
I do my best to thank him and ask politely for another, but know the whole time that this only instigates the next strike. I pray that he’ll take pity on my tender left breast and at least find another target. He chooses not to oblige me and the fourth strike lands in the space between the peg and the top of my left breast, causing a new burst of pain through the entire area. I cry out this time and pull futilely against my binds. Nichols laughs at my response and I wish that I could contain myself, but know that the sensations are becoming too intense.
Taking a breath, I thank Shaw again, although my attention is firmly on my agonising left breast, the nipple still tormented by the peg and the tissue around it pink with three perfectly placed strikes of the crop. As I conclude my latest plea for yet another strike, Shaw changes tack and this time lands the crop in between my legs, striking my glistening labia hard. I yelp at the unexpected pain and instinctively try to close my legs.
Shaw growls at me and miserably I comply, feeling my eyes filling with hot, salty water. The intensity of the whole experience is suddenly overwhelming. The uncompromising sting of the pegs pinching into my aching tits, the humiliation of the one trying to gag my pleading mouth, and the indignity of my binds and position seem somehow too much. I try to bow my head slightly to avoid the weight of his gaze, but the rigid collar at my neck holds my head in place. I expect Shaw to scold me at not having thanked him for the most recent strike and yet there is nothing but a few indistinguishable noises from the audience and the soft sound of my own snuffles. After a moment I collect myself and glance upwards.
He stands there in a casual stance, watching me closely and waiting. I realise that he is still waiting for the appropriate reply.
“Thank you, sir,” I murmur pitifully, “please, may I have another?”
He smiles at me tenderly and closes the distance between us. My eyes close, anticipating the smart of a new strike and I am surprised to feel the heat of his hand against my face. I open my eyes and blink up at him.
“How many more strikes do you have, number sixteen?” he asks me quietly.
Relief washes over me as I recollect the number I have received so far and know that I am able to answer him.
“Fifteen, sir,” I say meekly, acknowledging with silent horror the full meaning of this—I have only had five so far and already I am in tears at his feet. I never knew how pathetic I could be until this moment. The bleak realisation produces another sad sob from the back of my throat.
“Shhh, number sixteen,” Shaw soothes, caressing my jawline with his hand. “Look at me, please.”
I duly raise my face to meet his remarkable stare.
“I know that you both want and need this. You wouldn’t be here on your knees now if there was any doubt, would you? Cry all you need to get through this—and get through it you will. Are you ready to continue?”
He sounds so certain and in some perverse way this gives me hope. I can’t be the first naked, sobbing woman who has knelt in this room. My title suggests that there have been fifteen before me and based on what I know of the place, there are bound to be others to follow me. Plenty of women want to play out their subservient desires in the safe, consensual environment of this playroom, even if they choose not to admit it. I take a deep breath and compose myself. Am I ready? Is this what I want? My aching body already knows the answer.
“Yes, sir,” I say after another moment and he says nothing, but takes a step back and flexes the crop in his hands in front of me. I drop my eyes so I don’t have to watch the impact but brace myself for it. It lands hard between my legs again, sending a rush of hot pain across my pussy. I moan out loud at the sting, focusing initially on keeping my knees apart, but then notice that the direct contact with my clitoris is actually rather pleasant. I thank Shaw for the strike and ask for the next, braced but also curious to see if I can manage the discomfort and find any pleasure in it.
The next strike feels so hard that it nearly takes my breath away. It is followed in quick succession by a further three hits directly to my soaking pussy. Low, guttural sounds leave my mouth as my head falls as low as it can in the collar to assess the damage to my most sensitive parts. My labia are red and sore and yet it’s my stimulated, throbbing clit that really gets my attention. My hips rock forward reflexively, apparently keen to meet the crop again.
Breathlessly I thank him for the four strikes and ask him for more. And this time a small part of my mind actually means it. My pulsing bud is suddenly desperate for the feel of the crop. The agony followed by the pleasure. The knowledge that I will endure it for him and by some perverse luck, I might even enjoy it for myself.
The next three strikes pass in the same way. I receive the smack, absorbing the sound and the sensations, before thanking Shaw. Bizarrely I start to relax into the routine. The pain has not lessened. The hard wallop of the crop against my vulnerable clit really hurts. Yet somehow I am learning to embrace the pain and not just for the pain’s sake. I feel safe in this framework of the giving and receiving of penance. I am also unexpectedly enjoying putting on a show—playing the good slut and taking my punishment—and not just for Shaw, but for all of the anonymous observers around me. For all of the agony I feel in my pussy and tits, my pounding clit is testament to the fact that I clearly adore this treatment.
I take another three strikes between my legs in regular succession, Shaw pausing to allow my denigrating speech between each one. By now my pussy is so desperate for the contact that I know I am rocking my hips backwards and forwards as I speak. I can feel the movement below me, almost as though I am not actually in control of it. The act should be a humiliating venture and yet I am so far beyond my conscious thought that it barely registers.
As I ask Shaw for the next strike, I am vaguely aware of Nichols’ voice behind me. Even though I knew he was the one holding the end of my leash, I had somehow quite forgotten that he was still in such close proximity.
“I think she’s quite enjoying the crop now, Shaw?” he says, his voice a mixture of awe and glee. “What a good little slut she’s turning out to be…”
“Such a good slut,” agrees Shaw from in front of me.
I realise that he hasn’t spoken for some time and his voice is like a tonic washing over my sore body. I gaze up at him, wanting to smile and yet unable to form the position with my pegged mouth. I wish suddenly that I could remove the impediment and consider seriously using my teeth and lips to slip it off. But the thought of displeasing him is so hideous that I don’t dare. Knowing that he is happy with my performance is enough.
“How many more strikes do you have to go, number sixteen?” he asks me with that same calm authority in his voice.
“Four, sir,” I say through the peg, determined to make my answer understood.
He smiles when he hears that I have been keeping count and moves towards me again, stroking my hair back from my hot face.
“Very good…” he says quietly. “Let’s have you turn around again so that the gentlemen behind you can get a good view of your abused tits and slit.”
I nod my compliance and slowly try to wake my trembling thighs, realising how stiff they have become in this position. Gingerly I move sideways. With only my legs for movement and balance, I know I must look awkward and clumsy, but this concerns me much less than it might have done an hour ago. I see Nichols next to me moving to accommodate my new location, the leather handle of the leash I am attached to still in his hand. Once I am in place, I splay my knees wide apart for the new audience. I feel a strange sort of pride in my aching body and want these men to see how much I am suffering for our mutual pleasure. Nichols’ grip tightens again and the metal pulls my head backwards, pushing my tits forward for display.
About seven eager faces lean in towards me, studying my red flesh, squeezed nipples, and glistening pussy lips. Shaw begins another circle of me, allowing them a moment to absorb the effect. Then without warning or ceremony he raises the crop again and sends it crashing back down against my right breast. This previously unpunished area now shrieks under the chastisement of the implement. A fresh wave of pain rolls through me and yet somehow I know I can stand it. I know I only have three strikes left and even if each one was even more ferocious than the entire punishment so far, I know I can get through it… Just as Shaw had predicted.
I thank him and almost don’t recognise the croaky need loaded in my voice. The peg that had previously served to humiliate and impede my speech, now sounds sexy to my own ears. I marvel at how my perspective can be so vastly altered in such a short space of time. I love the look in Shaw’s eyes as I speak again, asking him for my next strike. He looks almost proud of me…
The crop hits my swollen right breast another two times. Each time Shaw deliberately clips the wooden peg, which seems to more than double the intensity of the impact. I suck up the burning sensations, drawing in a long deep breath after each impact before thanking him. As the final strike of the crop approaches, the palpable energy in the room seems to increase perceptibly.
“Please, may I have another, sir?” I ask, feeling relieved to have made it this far.
Shaw walks up to me, so that his groin is again right in my face. The smell of him makes me feel heady. He lowers the crop to my face and instinctively I flinch, expecting an unforeseen strike to the cheek. He doesn’t hit me with it though and instead lowers the leather under my chin, using it raise my face up meet his vivid eyes.
“One final strike… for the time being.” He pauses again, assessing me. “How are you doing, number sixteen?”
I blink up at him, so desperately wanting to tell him how I’m feeling. How safe I feel at his feet. How horny I am and how much I want his cock buried in my body. Somehow I don’t have the words at this moment.
“I am good, thank you, sir.”
He smiles and disappears from my eye line again.
“Lean forward now, number sixteen,” he announces to the room. “You can take the last one in a more conventional position.”
I am briefly confused, but as Nichols moves in front of me and pulls my neck forward, I realise that he wishes to smack my ass. I lean forward, hoping that my aching legs can take the strain since my arms are still bound and unable to assist. I flex my wrists in the binds and wait.
For a while there is silence except for the sound of my laboured breathing. And then I hear that tell-tale sound of the crop moving through the air and I know that the last strike is on its way. There’s only a fraction of a second between registering this fact and the impact. The sound as it wallops my ass echoes round the room in what feels like slow motion, as though everyone is holding their breath. The pain though is not so dream-like. A burst of heat and agony erupts from this previously unpunished area. Shaw has managed to target me perfectly, clipping both cheeks and the edge of my hungry pussy in one strike. I squeeze my eyes shut as I absorb the wave of pain and feel a fresh batch of tears pooling in my eyes.
I take a breath and am suddenly very grateful. If Shaw had chosen to give me twenty of those, I think I would have cracked. I know at this moment that he has chosen to go easy on me this morning and appreciate his tender words now even more. Slowly I thank him for the final strike and then pause. Should I still ask for another one? Dreading the reality that he might comply, I choose to do so, knowing that failure to obey may well result in more punishment anyway.
“Please, sir, may I have another?” I ask tentatively.
Unable to see Shaw from my new position, I pray inwardly that this is just a formality.
“Another, number sixteen?” he asks wryly. “It seems our new volunteer is keen to take more punishment for us all.”
I can tell by his tone that he is playing with me and yet the prospect of more of the same fills me with terror. Bent over my trembling thighs, a new stream of drool running from my pegged mouth, I begin to sob again.
Some period of time elapses and I lose myself in my microcosm of despair. How on earth am I going to cope if the crop continues? Or worse still, what if Shaw finds something else to torture me with? Any scenario seems unbearable. I am brought back to reality by the sound of his voice.
“Lean up, number sixteen, let’s take a look at you…”
I can only imagine what state I must be in as I cautiously raise my stinging torso from the protection of my own body. My face must be a hot, red, and wet mess and the rest of me feels like it adequately mirrors my face.
“Look at me,” Shaw orders.
Embarrassed by how I must seem to him, I turn my face in the direction of his voice and see him. Still so tall and calm. He is the picture of authority. He strides towards me and without warning reaches down towards my face. I don’t know what I expect him to do in this moment. Perhaps slap me again, or in my wildest dreams I’d hope for a kiss? His hand moves towards my mouth and I kneel awestruck as he pinches the ends of the peg together before releasing it from my abused tongue. I have no clue how long it was there, but I have well and truly lost the sensation in that part of my tongue. The move takes me totally by surprise.
He stands over me, surveying the wreckage he has created with one crop and three wooden pegs.
“Are you ready for more of my crop, number sixteen?” he asks with cool composure.
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