Several minutes later, he came down the stairs again, carrying a box of items she couldn't quite see. Her arms were aching and her legs shaking with adrenaline and fear and desire. He set the box aside and stepped in front of her, with a handful of clothespins. He slowly held a small one up to her face, and clipped it to her nose, pushed in a little squeezing her left nostril. He pushed another one into her right nostril, making her breathe more raggedly, through her opening mouth. He attached three to her lower lip, dangling.
More clothespins, plastic and wooden, small and large, colored and plain, clipped here and there all over her body. Two very pinched ones on her pussy lips, first pulled taut before pinned, pulled a grunt from her. He glanced up, rose to stare into her eyes. She stared back. "Are you ok?" She just breathed, looking at him, a little spit dripping from her pinned mouth, her expression haunting, daring, insolent, heated, falling into sub space already. His lips curled and his fingers did the same, an animal lust washing through him. His bag of clothespins was exhausted, covering her body. He returned to the box, pulled out a drugstore box of lances, little surgically sterile needles for drawing blood. Her eyes widened when she saw it; he smiled. The first one was intensely painful. He pulled it from the box, held it inches from her eyes as he slowly twisted off the cover, gently waved one-inch lance across her frightened eyes. He lifted her right breast, gripping the clothespin on her nipple, and with obscenely slow motion pushed the lance into the softest flesh, an inch below the nipple, through the top couple layers of skin, and out again like sewing thread through a thicker cloth.
It took him over thirty seconds to push it through, and she screamed hoarsely through it all. He stepped back to admire her, feet kicking slightly in agony and lust, stomach clenched and heaving, breathing rough, eyes dancing wildly, screaming dying down to little moans timed with the breath, finally calming to even breathing, eyes locked again on him. He pulled another pin from the box, repeated the whole process on her left breast, and she obliged him by screaming the same way throughout. He didn't stop at two pins. He scattered them round her body, from the hollow of her neck to the delicious curves of her calves, but not symmetrically. Randomly, so she never knew where the next lancing pain would blossom. Her screams became grunts as her voice gave out. Sometimes he paused to look in her eyes, which closed now and then, but came back triumphant, staring. He caressed her cheek, before slapping it hard and returning to the needles. Some dug deep enough to call out some blood, most were shallow, scratching at nerves not blood vessels.
The last one from the box went through her clitoris. He told her where it was going, in a low measured voice, showing her the merciless metal, before crouching down to push it in. Again this one he did slowly, and stepped back to enjoy her sobbing and twitches and the sway of her intense beauty hanging submissively from the rope. He sat on a chair a few feet in front of her, and just watched calmly, expressionless, as her tears quieted to sniffled breathing.
From the box, he pulled a leather flogger. She had never seen it before. It had a long black wooden handle, and a half dozen black leather flails, a couple feet long. Rough leather, heavy, meant to hurt. Holding the handle to her mouth, inserting the fingers of his other hand to pull out the panties, he said "Kiss it, pretty toy, and beg me to whip you. Tell me how long a whipping you think you can stand. Maybe I'll stop after that many strokes or minutes. Speak."
She took a few panting shallow breaths, closed her eyes and reached forward to kiss the handle lovingly, long and sensually. A deep breath, then in a quiet voice: "Master, please whip me. Please don't stop whipping me. Please whip me until ever pin is torn from my body, until my blood covers your whip. Then please keep whipping me. I will scream for you, my body will try to kick and stop you but ignore it. Even if you hear the safe word, please keep whipping me. Never never stop." Then she moaned and cried out in sudden fear, her eyes wild, her stomach clenching in agony and lust. He stared at her.
He stood in front of her, walked around her once, twice, flogger swaying loosely in his right hand, swishing through the air in practice swings. Behind her on the second tour, her tired face turned away, he reached with a long backswing and flogged her bottom at full force and follow-through. Her back arched and her jaw constricted, a scream caught in her throat with clenched breath that could not come out, and he started an onslaught. Arm swinging hard, back and forth, he repeated blows on her bottom, down her back thighs, up her back, one per second at a hard heavy weight. Finally her breath caught up and her screams came out again, wrenched higher when he hit the medical lances or smashed clothespins into her skin.
He started aiming methodically at the pins and lances, swiping horizontally to knock them off. Her screams became grunts and a nonstop keening moan. Her skin became a mottled red of tortured skin and bloody streaks. Some of the pins wouldn't come out. He whipped at them harder and again. One of the lances on her calf finally tore out, caught on the end of a flail, skin ripping and blood dripping. Her leg convulsed and kicked and she screamed, but it wasn't very loud as her throat was hoarse. He reached in and started yanking the lances out by hand. He stood in front of her, face to face. "Lift your legs around me, pull me in." Gone in subspace, eyes unseeing, legs shaking, she complied, clumsily lifting her ankles around his thighs and weakly pulling him. He reached down and grasped her pussy lips with his left hand, the lance on her clitoris with his right, and staring into her eyes, slowly pulled it out. Strange sounds came from her mouth, breathing with vocal chords in chaotic tired agony.
He stepped back, tossing the bloody lance aside, eyes not leaving hers. His breath as rough as hers. He reached for the garden shears, reached up and thrust through the rope, cutting just above her fingers, so she dropped suddenly to the floor, moaning. Rushing with manic hunger, he pushed off his jeans, fell down on her curled body, thrust her onto her stomach, pinned her with all his weight, knees digging painfully here, forearms crushing into her back, positioning himself, lunging forward. Inside her, hot and pulsing, inchoate grunts, vicious pushing, back and in again, starting to pound. He imagined the pooling blood and sweat and every other human liquid. He roared a cry of lust and adrenaline. He felt his groin clenching electric bolts of heat, he felt it rise and come too soon. Impatiently, animal roar of rage and hunger, he squeezed everything, his hands wrapped around her throat, his whole body racked in spasm. And collapsed.
Moments passed. She cried, quivering. He breathed slower and slower, weight still fully pressing down all over her. He began to gently rise. Kneeled beside her. Caressed her back, fingers trailing within a hair of her skin, from calves to temples. Gently rolled her over, cupped her face, reached in to kiss her lips. "Are you ok?"
She looked up with half-lidded eyes, voice catching, tear stained face, drew a breath. "More."
He cocked his ears, wondering if he'd heard. "What do you mean?"
"More" she said. "Hurt me more. Do me."
He stared down at her, heart burning, pounding. Shook his head. "I... can't." Lowered his head, gently kissed her lips again, brushing along her cheek, nuzzling down to her neck. Sitting up, he began a feather massage, fingers slowly streaming over every inch of her body, hovering so close to her skin she could feel them, although they barely touched. Stroked her up and down, top to bottom. Sighing, she sank into shavasana.
Minutes later, he gathered her into his arms, and carried her up the stairs. She clung to him, whimpering; he gently avoided the door jambs, brought her another flight to the bedroom. Flicking the cover aside with his foot, he lay her on the sheets. Walked to the bathroom and returned instantly with lotion. He warmed it in his hands, and began gently rubbing it into her skin, massaging again, every surface, every cut, every stripe. She moaned, winced, but didn't move. She absorbed the ministrations, eyes closed. When he finished, she continued to lie still. He touched his cheek to her cheek, whispered in her ear: "I love you, too much for words, too much to ever prove. I love you." She didn't move.
Kenner rose, turned off the lights, left the room. The hint of a smile passed through Faith's face, and she drifted to sleep.
