She said, "This is going to sound fucked up."
That got my attention, since things we had done to this point, things I had done to her, could get me arrested in a different context. Given what was acceptable to us, fucked up by our standard had to be fairly intense. We had neither of us been shy about pushing limits or experimenting with pain and rope.
"I want you to break me."
Her words made my heart pound. I told her that didn't sound fucked up at all, and that I would have The Chair ready for her when she arrived. The Chair is blue, armless, made of cold, unforgiving wood cut in straight lines. It's slatted back is tall, rising almost to her shoulders when seated, and nearly vertical. It's not made for comfort, and in fact there's something almost brutal about it.
She arrived, and I took her upstairs and undressed her. She resisted, playfully, as I put my arms around her, and kissed her with teasing feather brushes of my lips on hers. Her usual multiple layers of shirts came off with a single pull over her head, and shortly the bra joined her shirts on the floor, then her pants and panties.
The sight of her body is always something I have to brace myself for, and this moment was no exception. Her skin is flawless and touchable, her shape perfection, that ideal feminine blend of firm and soft. her dark hair was loose, hanging to her shoulders. Her eyes were large and soft and anxious, always following me as I moved. Her firm, high breasts, capped with nipples pink and pierced and hard with excitement, rose and fell with her breathing.
I guided her into the chair with my hands on her shoulders, and uncoiled my rope. She watched with an expression of wide eyed expectation, and perhaps a touch of fear. She drew her body together, hugging herself and legs squeezed closed. I started with her left ankle, pulling it back nearly to the rear legs, and bound it in place with a single column tie. I moved to the other leg, but she resisted being exposed, keeping her knees together. I forced her thighs open to expose her smooth pussy, pulled her other ankle back and tied it efficiently to the leg of the chair with another single column tie.
She watched me move behind her and take her hands. I tied her wrists behind the chair back in a locking slipknot, and then used the remaining rope to wrap around her head in a rope blindfold. On a sadistic whim, I pulled her head back so her chin was pointed at the ceiling because I knew it would make it hard for her to breath, heightening her fear. She tried to swallow and couldn't. I leaned next to her cheek. "Breath," I said. "You're okay."
"I won't be able to stay like this for very long," she whispered. "My neck already hurts."
I relented and loosened the rope so she could lower her chin. I wanted this to go on for some time. I didn't want it to end prematurely because of something like that. I wanted to test her, and myself.
I started with the flogger.
As floggers go, mine is relatively kind. It's tails are broad and flat and light, not narrow enough to cut nor heavy enough to bruise. I chose it because, in part, that all means I can hit her harder with it.
I rained blows on her legs, her lower belly, her arms. She gasped, and tipped her head back, trying to recoil as I flogged her. Her arms and legs pulled at the ropes that held her vulnerable as her skin flushed a wonderful pink. She cried out, and I relented, pausing. With my free hand I touched her softly, running it over her skin, over her arms, breasts, thighs, feeling the flush of warmth rise as she breathed deeply, her eyes hidden behind the rope blindfold.
I then took up the flogger again.
I continued like that, a series of blows until she started to buck and squirm, and then roaming caresses over the parts of her still stinging from the flogger tails. Each time I hit her harder than before, gradually building with the goal of letting her endorphin levels rise before the real breaking began.
I mixed in slaps with my hand, still my favorite tool for tormenting her. My hands are hard and callused and strong, and I have learned how to curve them just right to deliver a stinging impact on ass and thigh. Of all the toys I have used to hurt her, she says my hands still hurt the most.
When she was flushed and panting from hard slaps from hand and blows from the flogger, head hanging, I started with the clothes pins.
I began with her left breast, pinching cruelly thin bites of skin between the wooden jaws of each clothes pin. She couldn't see with the rope over her eyes, and the first one took her by surprise. She gasped and jerked. "That's going to make it hurt more, if you can't hold still," I warned her.
For the rest, she held still. I applied four to each breast, top, bottom, and one on each side. They dangled from her like tiny vampires with teeth dug into her flesh. Every time she moved, they would swing and bounce, pulling at her painfully, and I could see her trying to keep still. Her lips were parted, her breathing quick and shallow, trembling.
The last two clothes pins went on her nipples. The pain had to be exquisite, as she jerked with the application of each one, her sensitive buds crushed around the hard barbell piercing.
I brushed my hands over the ends of the clothes pins, flicking them lightly, and she whimpered. She was in beautiful agony, suffering for me, giving herself for my release. I had never felt anything as deep and powerful for another person as I did in that moment.
And then I took off my belt, slowly, letting the hear the belt buckle and hiss of the leather through my belt loops. It jingled as it dangled from my fist. "Open," I said.
