A Painful Hike

Like most hikers in the Columbia gorge, we three Subs, a man and two women, were wearing tennis shoes and socks. But unlike most other hikers, we were wearing nothing else. We each carried, bunched up in our hands, a long T-shirt. If we were allowed to put it on the shirt would reach to mid-thigh, thus restoring modesty.

Several yards ahead and several yards behind us was a Master. They, in contrast to us, looked like ordinary hikers carrying typical backpacks. Except for one oddity: the rear Master had a riding crop hanging from a hook at the left side of his belt. He had only to move to the left of the path and it would be hidden from any passerby against the rocks or bushes.

The leading Master would shout back sentences which seemed innocent enough, but had special meaning for us. "Move to the left!" meant that we should quickly put on our T-shirts, because other hikers would be passing us on the path. "Let's take a rest stop!" meant that we should bunch up around the leading Master, but unfortunately not for a rest. In fact, this phrase meant that the Master had found a suitable branch, rock, or log which we could be bent over while the other Master used his ridting crop to beat and stripe our bottoms. The leading Master had an altimeter; he would read out the last number from his altimeter. Any number below 6 was doubled until a figure of six or more was reached. Zero was read as 10. I suspected that he chose the stopping place partly based on the altimeter reading because the number 10 seemed to come up more often than expected from random.

Once we had been beaten, the Masters changed places, the riding crop going with the one in the rear.

We had three stops before we reached the summit. There were several large boulders on which we could sit to eat our lunch. But, of course, we first had to bend over them to receive a hard spanking. This made our bottoms very red and made sitting much less comfortable. The Masters brought out surprisingly luxurious sandwiches. Some of their water bottles contained not water but wine. We were all sitting enjoying our lunch when an adult couple also reached the summit. They looked at us in amazement, since we had not been told to put on our T-shirts. They left rapidly to find another site for thei lunch.

Once we had finished our lunch, we were bent over the rocks again, this time for 10 strokes. These were the hardest of the whole day. Our T-shirts were given another use: we stuffed them in our mouths to muffle the screams of pain.

The expedition of pain was over. We were allowed to put on our T-shirts and stroll down the path passing the previous places of punishment without further harm.

When we got to the trailhead, however, we had to remove our T-shirts, fold them and put them in the trunk of the car. We three Subs scrambled into the back seat. As we sat down we discovered that our sadistic Masters had collected some brambles and placed them on the seat They looked round from the front seat and grinned as we squealed on sitting down.

We drove back to the house of one of the Masters. They opened all the car windows so anybody looking into the car could see three naked bodies. They parked the car at the curb and made us get out, go to the trunk, collect, but not put on, our T-shirts. As we walked up the driveway in the nude, a couple, out for a walk, stopped to stare at us.

Once we got into the house, we discovered our troubles were not over. Each of us in turn was ordered to lie stretched out along the top of a of the back of a large sofa. Each was held in position by the other two Subs. Of course, the male sub made sure he was holding the feet of the women, spreading their legs as far apart as he could to allow all the males a luscious view of our vaginas. Again, the T-shirts were used as gags as the Masters each gave our striped, sore bottoms many hefty swats with a paddle.

At last we were allowed to dress in the clothes we had left there and, oh so gingerly, get into our own cars and drive home. Even then we were not free.. We had to send a selfie to each Master of ourselves masturbating. The other woman on the hike sent me a copy of her photograph. I stared at it, then used it to stimulate me to a second orgasm.

The Masters responded to our selfies by messaging us that they had found another hiking trail for next week. This one required the hikers to crawl over a long series of rocks to reach the summit. I can all too readily envisage how they will encourage their naked Subs to get up those rocks.