Authors Note: These chapters will make almost no sense if not read in order. If you haven't, I strongly suggest you go back to the introduction and chapter 1.
Warning, this is the most sadistic and graphic chapter yet. I actually surprised myself, I'm not usually this dark. Enjoy.
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Fred went looking in George's old tools. He found what he was looking for, a large carpenters hammer and four very large nails. He laid these at the base of one of the barn's support posts then walked back to the house. Fred again gathered things in a plastic grocery bag. He picked up the four pieces of rope they had used yesterday from the kitchen counter. He also grabbed four of the empty water bottles from yesterday and refilled them from the sink. Gran was running out of water bottles in the refrigerator and Fred was feeling guilty about how much of their stuff he was using anyway.
When he returned to the barn, he found Clair hard at work and handed her a water bottle. Then he walked over and studied two of the support posts in the barn. There was a row of posts down each side of the barn. The barn had three sections, a tall center section and loft with two side areas. The poles made a row between the large center section where Gran stored equipment and hay, and the side areas that contained the stalls, workroom, tack room, and storage. The support posts were massive, roughhewn six by six at least and Fred estimated they were 10 feet apart.
Fred selected two poles that were largely out in the open with nothing close to them on either side. He went on the outside of the poles, stood on an old wood box, reached up as high as he could and drove one of the nails in. He drove another nail into the same side of the post but right at the dirt floor. Going to the other post he did the same.
Clair heard Fred hammering and peeked out of Henry's stall to see what he was doing. She had a pretty good idea, and it made her shiver.
Fred uncoiled the four ropes and tied one around the top of each pole, above the nails. He then made a loop near the top in each of the top ropes using a bowline, a knot he had learned in Boy Scouts. He doubted this was a use his old Scoutmaster had in mind. Fred then tied one rope around the bottom of each pole, below the nails. He was done for now, so he went out to the exercise yard, retrieved the old metal chair, and sat where he could watch Clair work. He pulled up xHamster on his browser and intentionally chose some old NuWest whipping videos, turning the volume loud enough that Clair could hear the whip cracks and the screams.
Fred was watching his smartphone, but he frequently looked up at Clair working. Her hair and makeup, the burlap dress, the dirty feet, watching her bend and pitch hay. Fred reflected on just how lucky he was to have moved to this state and met Clair.
As Clair worked, she would try to hold the burlap away from her chest with one hand when she could. As she brushed Henry, for example she could grab the dress between her breast with her free hand. After all, Fred hadn't told her not to. But most tasks took both hands and that left the burlap to brush back and forth across her raw and sore nipples. In fact, the whole dress was extremely irritating. Clair was starting to sweat just enough to wet the burlap which made it scratch and irritate her skin all across her back, her belly and especially under her arms.
When she finished, Clair looked around one last time, stroked Henry's nose, put the pitchfork, shovel, brushes and other tools away and kneeled in the middle of the barn. She had no idea what time it was, but she knew Fred was watching so she had no need to ask. It felt good to rest for a minute. Her work had been strangely satisfying, and not that hard, although the burlap was killing her nipples again. But she was still sore in so many places from yesterday and from sleeping on the dirt, in bondage, that she relished a few minutes rest.
Fred checked his watch, 12:14. Well, he didn't need to tell her, let her kneel for a few minutes then he could deal with the grumbles in his stomach.
"Clair," Fred said suddenly. Clair was in a bit of a trance, relaxing on her heels and his voice jolted her back to attention.
"Yes Sir."
"I want you to walk to the kitchen, but I want you to stripper walk." Fred said slowly as he unlocked the barn chain from her ankle.
"I don't understand sir?"
"You've seen fashion models walk the runway?" Fred asked. "I want you to walk like that, slowly, one foot directly in front of the other with your hips swaying with each step. But first, I want you to raise the burlap to your waist so I can see your ass, hold it there by putting your hands on your hips and your elbows straight out. Look straight ahead. Every two steps, stop, shake your tits back and forth then take two more steps."
Clair rose to her feet, giving Fred a look that said "seriously?" but her mouth said, "yes sir."
"What in the hell had given him this idea," she thought as she strode across the barnyard doing her best exaggerated impression of a vaudeville stripper. The chain still locked around her neck swung back and forth with each step and the burlap tortured her nipples every time she had to shake them. As she approached the porch steps Fred said, "Go pee, then fix me a bowl of canned Clam Chowder with oyster crackers and a coke. Be quick, I'm hungry."
On hearing the word "hungry," Clair's stomach growled at her, she hadn't had much to eat the last two days and this morning's cereal hadn't been that filling.
Fred enjoyed his lunch with Clair sitting on her heels beside him on the floor. A couple of times he could swear he heard her stomach growl, but he had decided not to feed her. Clair just sat there submissively. The kitchen floor was hard on her knees but at least she could rest.
After he finished the chowder, Fred again turned to Clair to check in with her.
"Again, with the check in?" She thought. Clair was getting irritated, which was probably not wise while kneeling in front of your Sir, almost naked. Perhaps the nagging hunger and the smell of Clam Chowder was making her irritable.
Clair had enjoyed the interludes of what she thought of as 'Boyfriend Fred," in those moments of vanilla sandwiched in between 'Creative Sadist Fred.' This morning had been almost normal, the two of them, each working on their own projects in the barn. Now Clair wanted to get back in masochist mode. But Fred's insecurity was threatening to kill the mood.
When Fred looked into her eyes and again said, "Clair are you doing OK, you still want to be beaten?" Clair's temper flared and she answered angrily, "No SIR, I would prefer that you hand me your belt and bend over so I can beat YOUR insecure ass!"
Fred slapped her.
It wasn't a playful tap, it left a bright red handprint on her cheek, smearing her makeup.
It shocked them both. Fred was about to sputter an apology; he had never hit anyone in anger before and certainly not Clair. This was exactly what he was afraid of, he was becoming abusive.
