Saturday, July 13, 2013

Midnight - Segment XXVI

Midnight Suffers Divinely

I have rarely watched wife Victoria work a girl. For her, D/s mode involves being immersed, all focus on torture. Therefor during our courting days, we parted ways while visiting Club Le Femme... me to the bar... Victoria to the bad girls ballroom to have a girl dance for her. 

I am thus amazed at the sound, not only the swish, but the sharp crack as firm bamboo strikes more pliant flesh with noted velocity. As Midnight screams into the deep penis gag, the right buttock flesh ripples downward, the blow applied to the top, precisely horizontal to Midnight’s form. The shimmering black body stirs spastically, an uncontrollable reaction which Midnight must strive to counter, nipples restrained, motion between the thighs bringing the threat of the scabrous plank.

Victoria pauses, good floggings seeming timeless to the flagellant, letting the synaptic message of acute pain crash into the cerebral cortex. Meanwhile I watch in awe as the skin reacts... in protest?.. in surrender?.. by rising in the form of a welt.

To Victoria, it’s the beginning of a fine piece of artwork, the first stroke of a master’s brush on a canvass which feels. She turns to me and smiles.

“One can feel the muscling attempt to reject the stroke, Oliver. It’s like no other caning. No soft splat. Instead there is challenge. Yet it will succumb, I will decorate as I see fit, but my hand will need to be heavy.”  

With that, Victoria raises her hand higher, the arm drops, the wrist snaps and the amazing sound increases in pitch. Her eye, her aim, are nonpareil. As Midnight’s muffled yet curdling scream reflects from the barn’s walls, a second welt, a second invitation of truce, flag of surrender, rises. A ridge of black forms, perfectly parallel, not more than a centimeter below the first.

An analytic mind quickly projects, the large well muscled globe will easily accommodate some dozen or more strokes of the master’s brush, the lines never to cross. Victoria knows to avoid subjecting any wounded flesh to a second application of agony. Such can break the skin and bring scarring, as noted.

Pony buttocks need to be pretty. Welts are temporary and attractive to those of our ilk. Disfigurement is not.

Another pause, letting resolve return, allowing the cortex recuperate to best welcome the next searing stroke. Meanwhile the divine muscling, struggling on toes, buttocks and lower back relieving tension for the nose leash yet caring not to tug at the tight nipple cord, starts to quake, the stress already beginning to overwhelm.

With Midnight’s bladder full, I know there to be another element of concern, a need for bodily control. As Victoria’s hand rises again, I conclude something will give way. I thus stroll for a bucket. Barn floors are never pristine with cleanliness, but outright messiness is best avoided lest odors accumulate.

A third sharp crack, then I lean to position the bucket. Urinating while riding the wooden pony is not impossible, but it is sloppy.  Still I suspect most excretions can be captured.

While Midnight struggles to calm herself, the slightest motion enhancing the pain and aggravation, Victoria steps close. The fingers of her free left hand toy with the long right labia, profiled against the fibers of the plank.

“She’s amazingly wet, Oliver. The board is soaked. She’s enjoying.”

Oddly, I know she is. And I know as well that there is moisture forming within Victoria’s sex. Such a charming scene, sadist and masochist striving to so fervently to please each other. 

Victoria steps forward to where Midnight’s face is held in place near the wall hook. The left hand extends and smooths over the hairless cranium, slick with oil. She snickers, a womanly expression of haughtiness, Victoria’s coiffure stylish, Midnight’s follicles long ago vanquished to project her bestial prominence.                

I step to the opposite side, surveying Midnight’s look. There is hate, there is awe that a woman can mete such viciousness, but there is respect. She is mastered... despite her size... the years of physical development... possessing the strength of two men... she must ride the wooden pony and absorb... take whatever is offered... a sponge for the dispensed wickedness of her superiors.

A tear forms, with her nose so tightly bound she cannot shake to hasten its travels. I cannot help wonder whether it is prompted by physical duress or emotional... remorse for so humbly having to offer what her sadist master desires.    

“A tear of happiness, no doubt. They all so much want to succumb,” Victoria’s index finger grazing her cheek to capture moisture, the source given to conjecture.

She leans, pressing her smiling, mocking face to Midnight’s, the nose binding mandating our pony girl absorb the sarcastic look.

“All naked and bound... and you cannot make an intelligible sound. It must be so frustrating. So why don’t I vent that frustration from you? Just a dozen or so brisk strokes of rattan should do it, don’t you think?”  

Victoria steps back, returning to position herself for more wickedness. I know to also step away, Midnight’s bladder sure to symbolically vent at some point...

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