Athelnia

My mistress produced from a canvas portfolio a set of illustrations that the captain of the ship that had just returned from the east had commissioned. They showed the prisoners of that country undergoing interrogation. Beautifully drawn and coloured with many different hues they had been put onto fine vellum sheets. The artist clearly a person of great talent.

" I think that they will make excellent wall decorations as well as offering ideas as to how I might entertain myself with you. What do you think slave?"

I looked upon the first of the illustrations. It showed a man, completely naked, his body contorted into an unnatural shape by ropes that both secured him and bound him to a sturdy circular post that seemed to have been a tree trunk that had been cut off at about head height. The scene appeared to be situated in a town square. Buildings in the background had roofs that I now know to be what is known as the "pagoda" style and are most common in that far off land.

The victim, for I will call him that, must have suffered considerable distress. He had been placed on his knees before what is known as the "punishment post". His arms were not visible, having been lashed behind his back. He was balanced upon his knees, his ankles having been drawn up behind his thighs and roped around them in such a way that, with the passage of time, the pain would have been intense. Mistress informed me that, depending on the crime of which he was accused, he would have been left in this position for hours or even days before either release or sentence.

"They are very beautiful pictures mistress, I am sure that you will enjoy looking at them."

Her smile was both inscrutable and enigmatic.

"Oh yes, and I will enjoy even more recreating the scene for my pleasure."

She picked up a canvas bag and took from it a jumbled collection of leather straps connected by metal rivets. Approaching me she said "Open your mouth wide."

A plug made of a thick leather pad attached to leather straps was forced between my teeth, filling my mouth completely. The leather straps buckled around my cheeks. As she secured more buckles the whole contraption gripped my head in a firm embrace. The leather plug tasted pungent in my mouth, not only preventing me from speaking but also serving to stifle any sound whatsoever, apart from a strangled gurgle. Lady Athelnia explained that the purpose of this device was to silence the miscreants so that their cries would not disturb the townspeople during the night as their agonies became too extreme to bear.

Once I had been fitted into this cruel device my mistress set about recreating the scene from her picture. In the absence of a post my arms were bound across my back with wrists secured to opposite elbows. She drew down the iron hook attached to the chain of the hoist and adjusted it so that I was balanced. Finally my ankles were drawn up behind my thighs and tied off with ropes.

She stood back to admire her handiwork, the flickering light of the candles dancing on her black leather bodysuit and laced knee boots. The pain was building already, and I knew would become greater with every second I remained bound in this position. But as well as the pain I felt something else, a great and overwhelming love for this beautiful woman who was torturing me. I wanted her to derive as much pleasure as possible from her acts of cruelty. I felt that it was a unique privilege to suffer for her. I knew that there was no trial or tribulation that I would not accept to further her enjoyment of the things that she chose to inflict upon me.

I am, of course, aware of the unusual nature of these feelings in relation to a person inflicting such an extreme degree of pain but can only say that my mistress has cast something akin to a spell over me in this regard. I am in effect powerless to resist or reject her desires to use me in this way for her pleasure. I would go further and admit that I am fully complicit in her actions. I look forward to the tortures that I endure for her. Paradoxically at the time of their execution I desire nothing more than for them to cease. Prior to her fitting me with the cruel device that prevents any communication of my distress I would beg for her to cease the torments. Such entreaties had no effect whatsoever, indeed they seem to heighten her enjoyment of the things that she does to me.

Sometimes, in my throes of agony, under the duress of her whip, cane, or any of the other devices she would pause and approach me. The touch of her hand, gloved in the finest black leather, would gently stroke my face as she explained, quietly, gently, that my suffering was important to her, providing the satisfaction that other women feel only when being penetrated by their man. I find myself reluctantly nodding my silent agreement to the resumption of her tortures, steeling myself to accept and embrace the pain that she inflicts, knowing the delight she feels within her breast as she watches my suffering. I cannot deny her this pleasure and in this way I am fully complicit in her actions.

And this raises another issue inside my head. In the midst of a torture session, with my agonies at their greatest, I would accept in a heartbeat the opportunity that I so casually spurned to make my escape. But, once the session is over, the idea is driven from me completely. My infatuation with her so total, that I would be prepared to accept any of her tribulations with equanimity just to please her. That rare occasion on which she removed the silver device that keeps me permanently separated from the pleasure that a man so desires, that moment when his seed is expelled from him with the most sublime of feelings, as if his whole body is being ripped apart in a way that makes it the pinnacle of delight, that few seconds of my existence outweighs all her tortures.

When a hard session is concluded the feeling is as if drunk on the very finest wine but, unlike alcohol, sleep comes easily. It is deep, satisfying and the waking without any of the rancour that alcohol produces. Depending on the nature of Lady Athelnia's entertainments my muscles may ache and the tracks of whatever scourge she has chosen to use show wild and vivid red on my flesh, but the satisfaction of having served her, studied her face, the beauty of which is even more evident as she bites her lip, eyes tightly closed as those feelings that are the equivalent to those that I experience in that moment that my seed is expelled from my body surge through her own.

She has told me in private moments that only when inflicting great pain on her subject, in this case me, can she achieve these feelings. They are feelings that other women experience routinely when penetrated deeply by what she has locked away in that silver cage, the key to which she carries on a chain about her neck, quite deliberately on display to underline the fact that her power over me is absolute. When I see that look upon her face, the biting of the lip, those alert green eyes hidden beneath tightly shut lids, I instinctively know the strength of that flowing tide inside her, its magnificence when at the flood. I recall when young boys would stroke themselves to tumescence, causing their seed to fly through the air. The potency of what we do together is an easy match for that heady play of youth, exceeding it in many respects as our brains now serve to drive desire.

She circles me as a cat would its disabled prey, her emerald eyes glinting at the quality of her prize. I have long realised that the day I was paraded on that stage in the town square, a prized asset for sale to the highest bidder, her mind was made up that she would possess me. One thousand and fifty Reals was a high price to pay, higher even than she had expected, but my guess is that she would have paid more. No doubt initially she was attracted by the physical desirability of my body. I am one of the tallest men, honed into near perfect shape by constant exercise. Wide shouldered and relatively narrow hipped, rippling stomach muscles, powerful thighs and arms, a specimen that she would have guessed to be quite capable of handling the punishment that she so desired to give.

Desired in a manner above all else. A woman of rare and exotic tastes, motivated to hurt her man in a way not understood by almost everybody else, her desires so out of kilter with the general run of society, but also a woman of relatively high birth and even higher marriage that allowed her the ability to let those desires run free. And in this alone lies my one single strength in this relationship. I am aware that my willingness to engage in her activities places me in a unique position. While I may beg for mercy when under her whip I never demur when she desires to hurt me. When she says "To the dungeon" I raise no objection. I make my way down the stone steps into that room that she has reserved for her cruel games with something only just short of enthusiasm, despite the fear rising within me at the thought of what lies ahead. The iron shackles and chains that pinion my limbs rattle as I move, a prelude to what she is about to do to me.

And now I have been bound in the manner that she desires. The pain of my weight upon my knees growing with every second. She has roped my arms tightly behind my back. The bonds seem even tighter than usual, the entirety of her strength used in the construction of the complex tie, her booted knee thrust into my back as she hauls on the ropes before tying them off. They have been attached to the hook that is suspended overhead so that my body hangs helplessly from the taut chain. At least this takes a share of the weight from my knees.

My eyes fall on the fearsome leather lash that she strokes lovingly, drawing its tail between gloved fingers as she prepares to administer yet another sound thrashing. It is a stout braided one, the leather of its shaft thicker than her usual whip, the long tail heavy and cruel, capable of delivering a blow of immense power should she choose to use it at full force. I know my mistress well, she will use full force when the throes of delight engulf her as she unleashes its power upon my body.

She extends her left hand and takes a nipple between thumb and index finger. A sharp twist of the flesh sends a searing flash of pain shooting to my brain. She laughs. Girlish, giggling laughter at my pathetic efforts to remove my body from the source of the pain serves only to amuse her. My bonds, tight as they are, allow me just enough movement to make the iron chains rattle. This also seems to amuse her and she twists my nipple again.

Our eyes meet briefly and I see the depth of her pleasure. The thick leather gag prevents even the merest hint of a protest. It isn't important. When she is in the mood to hurt me no entreaty for mercy is going to make the slightest difference, in fact any sign of distress at her treatment of me is likely only to drive her to deliver yet more draconian punishment, serving to heighten her pleasure still further.

I take in her superb body, cocooned in its tight black leather casing, every delightfully gentle curve exaggerated by its lustrous shine. In many ways it is the body of a girl rather than a woman, breasts small and pert despite the fact that she is several years my senior, maybe approaching two score. She raises the whip and cuts the air with it several times, its whistling passage serves as a warning as to what is soon to come. The next stroke cuts the air but culminates with the tail landing diagonally across my chest. Delivered with substantial, if not full, force. The pain her new instrument delivers is greater than her other whips. My scream is strangled by the gag but I can see the effect it has. Her emerald eyes glow as she adds more strokes, my chest and stomach criss crossed by weals that I cannot see but which I know are already turning into wild blue-black bruises that will last for weeks and will give me pleasure every time my eyes fall on them in one of her ornately framed mirrors.

Soon I see the signs of the mounting pleasure she is deriving from punishing me. The bitten lip, the partially closed eyes. I know that the orgasm is steadily building within her like an inexorably rising tide. She lays the whip down as she turns from me, emitting a low growl that builds into a scream that reverberates around the chamber as the orgasm rips through her. It is in these moments that my love for her peaks, knowing that the feelings she is experiencing are a direct result of my suffering.

Quietly, wordlessly, I am untied. She leads me from her dungeon, up the steps and to her private chamber. I am laid on my back on her bed as she proceeds to treat the wild scars that her scourge has created on my body with her ointment. To my surprise she disappears into her ante room and returns, her body completely naked apart from her boots. I have never seen her like this before. She fascinates me. Her nipples, now exposed, are firm and erect, the result of the stimulation. A narrow waist widens to hips that are still slim.

A narrow, vertical strip of auburn hair extends upwards from the lips of her sex. Her inner lips are pink and glistening with moisture. She removes the key from the chain around her neck and slips it into the lock of my restraint. I cannot believe what is happening. My cock springs free as she unlocks the device. Is she really about to have sex with me? She straps a leather belt about my waist. It has cuffs attached that she buckles my wrists into. Now she moves herself astride my hips, positioning her body so as to receive my now rampant member. But then she turns herself around and moves her delightful wet vagina so that is directly above my face. Wet pink lips merge into a darker tunnel. Then my world goes black as she lowers herself onto me. I smell her sweet, pungent femininity and her warm, wet sex envelopes me. My tongue locates the little nub of her clitoris as I begin to stimulate her.

Kissing, sucking, gently nibbling. Hearing her cries of delight from above me as she grinds her sex rhythmically against me, building once more towards another orgasm that arrives noisily. As it subsides she lowers herself once more and I realise that I cannot breathe. Until this point I had barely noticed, enthralled as I am in the throes of satisfying my mistress. Now I need air, I need it badly but her body weight, although not huge, is enough to block off my access to the oxygen I must have. I would be able to throw her off but now I understand the function of the waist belt and cuffs. Without the use of my hands I am helpless even though she is half my weight. The world begins to fade to grey...

To be continued.