Choices 52

Choices

The knock is soft and tentative and I half-smile as I open the door and usher her in to my lair. I can see the doubts etched upon her pretty face and the worry in her jade-green eyes as she stands in the hall, long legs sheathed in sheer stockings and high heeled boots while I watch her. She shifts uncomfortably under my gaze, fearing what the scrutiny will reveal as my eyes take in the generous swell of her hips and the thrust of her breasts, unfettered as I ordered, under the thin blouse. I give her a nod and she looks relieved at having passed the first test though she knows there is far worse to come.

The bedroom has been arranged for her visit and I lead her up the stairs, tugging on a strand of her long, flaxen hair until we arrive at the closed door.

"Remember, it's your choices that will decide everything," I whisper and I watch the panic flare and her breathing quicken and for a moment I believe that she is going to run but she steels her resolve and nods before she grasps the brass handle and steps inside. Everything that she needs is inside and I retreat downstairs and leave her to prepare herself while my mind wonders just what she will choose.

I ascend the stairs fifteen minutes later and all is quiet. Stillness pervades the air as I listen. My hand settles on the doorknob and I turn it gently and push the door open and I slide in quietly and view her.

I am pleased with her choices; she has chosen to see what is about to happen to her and so she has left the blindfold off. On the dressing table, laid out neatly, are the instruments of her desire and I touch each one in turn while her eyes follow my fingers. She stands naked apart from her stockings and boots, hands on head and proudly displaying her pink-tipped nipples which are swollen from the clamps that she has already applied tightly. I give each one an extra turn and watch the pain flutter into her eyes. She has clamped her labial lips too and I apply an extra two turns there and tears spill out down her cheeks, the first of many. I take her hands and tie them to the silken rope that hangs from the ceiling and hoist them high, pulling her up on to tiptoe then I begin.

The leather strap wraps itself around her belly, curling with her contours to strike like a snake and leave red stripes of raised flesh as I move up and up until the lash flicks the underside of her breasts and she begins to moan quietly, trying to control her desire to scream as the pain builds steadily. I adjust my aim slightly and curl the leather across the softness of her breast and her moans increase in pitch at the cutting bite of the strap into her whiteness. I remove the clamps from her breasts and she knows what is to come but she does not flinch. She has given herself fully into my hands and I take advantage of her bravery by whipping the harsh leather over her soft skin and then across her erect nipples. This elicits the first scream, drawn out of her by the burning sting of the strap and the echo dies softly away before the next rings out. Her body twists in agony under the kiss of the leather and her breath comes faster as the tears fall like rain upon her skin.

Her thighs are next; the soft flesh of the front first as I stand facing her and flicking the strap against her skin before cutting it deeper and harder, hearing the whistling sound increase in tune with her cries. I stare into her soul between each stroke, watching the clouded dark take her as her thighs turn red and then purple with my marks. I move behind her and stripe the rear of her thighs mercilessly, wanting her to be reminded of her offering every time she sits down for the next week or so. Bold weals rise on her skin, empurpled and bruised before I move to my final target-the glorious white expanse of her bottom. I touch it with my palm, feeling the slight warmth and the resilience of her young flesh before I begin to decorate it. Each stroke cracks across her rump and sends it into a wobbling dance that delights my eyes and then her mouth opens and the agony floods out in a scream or gurgled cry before the welt appears as if by magic. Thirty then forty strokes and finally I attain fifty before I lay down the strap and I stroke her tortured body, smoothing the pain with my fingers.

I allow her to rest for five minutes. Time I spend in looking at her remaining choices and working out exactly what and where I shall do with them. The needles are next: two silver swords gleaming in the light and I pick them up and hold them in my hand. I position the first so the point juts out a little bit then I run my spiked fingers down her body. She shivers as the point scrapes across her skin, leaving a trace of pinkness but never hard enough to draw blood as I wend an erratic trail from her breast to her mons and then round and up her back. I settle on my final destination and slow down as I approach then rest the tip of the needle against her soft breast and feel her blood pulse against my fingers. I pinch an inch of skin and then press hard and watch the point slide deftly into her flesh just below her areola before it emerges again along with her cry. She expects the second one on the other side but I place it in her thigh, close to her quim lips, sticking it into the tender flesh there while she twists and wriggles in a vain attempt to escape the agony.

Two choices remain and I pick up the first, a flexible rattan cane, an inch thick and yellowed with age and usage. Her eyes fasten on it like a frightened rabbit's and I can almost taste her fear as I step round behind her and view her well marked buttocks. I am gentle...for the first three strokes, acclimatising her to the raw bite of the rattan and then I use more force, feeling the heavy impact of the wood against her rippling flesh and hearing her cries like soft music as they echo round the room. Thick welts rise to the surface of her skin as I beat her from the top down to the jutting overhang of her bottom, overlaying the strap marks with purple bruises in ruler-straight lines. Thirty score her skin and she hangs limply in her bonds, tears cascading down in rivulets as I pick up the final item.

It is a massive dildo, long and frighteningly thick with ridges rippling on the surface and I oil it with her tears first before I dip it in the stream of juice running down her thighs. I remove the clamp from her lips and watch the agonised writhing of her body as the blood rushes back into her most tender parts. The bulbous head gleams as I place it on a tall stool and then I lift her, splaying her legs wide with my hands under her bottom cheeks before I move her into position so that the tip presses into her quim. She settles upon the ridged dildo, lips split and pink around the head and her face contorted as she tries to accept it inside her. I release her hands from above her and tie them behind her then strap her legs into buckles on the stool, tightening them as she slides further down onto the impaling shaft. I spank her wealed cheeks where they hang over the back of the stool to encourage her and then I burrow my finger into her tight anal orifice while she moans with despair and degradation at her predicament. The weight of her body drags her further down onto the dildo and it slides gradually and inexorably up inside her pussy, splitting her widely while my finger thrusts in and out and I whisper softly in her ear so that she knows and fears what is going to come next.

My cock, thick and slippery with precome, presses against her darkness and I pull down on her thighs and slide into her anus while the thick dildo fills her completely. I can feel its hardness through the thin membranes of her anal walls and I slide in and out gently as I feel her whole body pulse with pleasure and pain. Minutes pass and I thrust harder, feeling my glans ripple up into her clinging tunnel and then comes the exquisite shuddering of her body as her orgasm comes in waves that crash through her constantly.I impale her fully and drive hard and fast into her as she shudders and I feel my seed rise and jet into her tight rectum as she spasms again and again.

I leave her on the stool...to think what her next choices will be and whether she has been brave enough to stay with me this time. Nothing is certain, she knows.