Cleo kneels before me, silently. She knows she's erred, and that I'm going to punish her, but she just hopes that I don't use my Stimulant, which is ten straightened wire coat hangers tied together at the end with a chain.
"Husk, please...I know I deserve punishment, but please don't be too hard on me, Master." Listen to her whine, my lord.
Having her breasts lashed with the Stimulant can bring poor Cleo to almost hysterical tears, poor thing. She has nice boobs—they showed up well when she was an A&M cheerleader at the Rose Bowl fourteen years ago, and they've not withered since then, though Cleo is now a conservative banker, and only shows her jugs when we're alone.
They're durable breasts, really—they've had mousetraps, clothespins, binder clips and other paraphernalia attached to them. Once I attached Cleo front first to an electric fence on our farm—a plantation, really—and turned it on and off, and her sweet round things were scarred for a bit, but they recovered quickly!
Sometimes when we're in church (Cleo is very into propriety) I'll bring a few centipedes that my little nephew catches in jars to sell for bait. I drop them in her brassiere a few at a time. Then I command Cleo to remain poised and upright. That is most humerous.
But now, I've cut a willow switch from the back yard, and I wave it very close to her nose, and Cleo stiffens. I think she knows that I'd never seriously hurt her, or at least not above the neck. I pull it back and then lash her across her beautiful right breast TWACK! There is a long red mark, and a single tear rolls down Cleo's cheek.
But not a move. She's well trained, my girl. I survey her with joy, her amber curls and sea green eyes...full lips that look like the gifts of a plastic surgeon. She could have any man she wanted, my Cleopatra, but she chose me, the maintenance man of our building, just because she saw me torturing my last girlfriend at the Woodshed, an underground BDSM club here in Fort Worth.
"I recognized you, you clean up around our apartment building" I was nonplussed to see this gorgeous thing rushing up to buy me a drink after I'd been putting fat little Toyah through her paces. "Mr. Husker, right? If you ever have time, please drop by my apartment, I'd love to talk with you."
Now I watch my gorgeous slave girl kneel, with almost perfect posture. I can't believe it, really. She's something else! I swing the long willow again, and it cracks against her other breast, singeing the nipple. But there's no reaction. That's just excellent.
It's such a contrast from Toyah, who howls and rolls around if I give her just the slightest thrashing. To her credit, she always asks for more, but I have to take her down to the garage so neighbors don't hear her roars of pain.
Cleo is much like the first girl I ever got a chance to torture—her name was Phoebe. Phoebe had falling russet hair and a heart shaped face, and nice big boobs, and what an ass...it bounced at you! Until I got a hold of it, that is.
We were at graduate school together (I wasn't always a maintenance man) and one day after History class she told me that she liked my spirited comments on how Nelson Mandela, was indeed a terrorist, and had been locked up because he was going to bomb the government.
"Yeah" I said clumsily. I wasn't too oracular when talking to extremely pretty girls, just when arguing in class. "I'm not saying he's not a great man, and he's not done good things for South Africa, but Mr. Vavasour makes it sound like he was just locked up for being anti-apartheid."
Phoebe had invited me to her room. She was one of the privileged girls who had her own room, and we locked the door, lots of making out at first.
But then Phoebe had put the proposition to me. "My ex-husband used to spank me with this hairbrush" she'd said, showing me this fearsome looking thing. "I-I really miss being spanked by him. It was how he showed his love to me."
"You're kidding. Isn't that abuse, though?" My nascent conservatism only went so far, you know. I was a little leery...but as she put the hairbrush in my hand she basically ignored what I'd said earlier.
"He'd take up my skirt, and pull down my panties like this—"Phoebe threw herself across my lap, and pulled down her panties, and wow, what a butt! "I really need to be corrected, Husk. If you can't do it, maybe I'll ask Horace Antek on Floor Three."
Well, that was enough of that! I swatted her lightly at first. "My daddy hit harder than that. Maybe Horace—"I swatted her harder, soon I was getting into it, and the brush was coming down with encouraging vigor on her round cheeks.
Finally I heard Phoebe crying, and I wondered if I should stop, but the remarks about Horace (who'd ruined my goal shot when we played Andover) had riled me up, so I kept whipping, until I finally felt exhaustion.
By this time Phoebe's butt was red and had little blisters on it, and I pushed her roughly off me, and was going to leave, but by George, the girl tackled me around the waist and threw me back on her bed.
I watched dizzily as Phoebe quickly disrobed and bent down, unzipping my fly, and then my pants were gone, and she was working on my cock quite enthusiastically. Years later, I'll never forget her. I often wonder if she found a Master that could keep up!
When I was in college I had a Sociology prof, a Ms. Washburn who liked to be hogtied, her hands looped together, and then the rope going down to her feet, which were also looped.
I'd put Ms. Washburn behind her desk in the Advisory Office and lock the door, and come back after smoking some joints, and then thrash her small breasts with a yardstick because I felt she'd been "lying around".
Sometimes Wash, as I called her, would take me to her apartment, and I'd bind her naked to the bed, and put a blindfold on, and then fuck with her a little bit. One of my favorite activities was getting her curling iron all hot and burning it on her inner thighs.
I had a pet hermit crab, and sometimes I'd let hit crawl around, pinching her nipples as she shuddered. Wash was easily orgasmic, and I enjoyed teasing her with a feather...a feather on one inner thigh and the hot curling iron on the other! That girl was sure confused.
Ms. Washburn was the first woman I used the Stimulant on...the wires came down hard on her prone body, as she kneeled naked, chained to the whipping post set in concrete that I put in her back yard.
If a whipping post is concrete held, it should stay still, but when the Stimulator lashed Ms. Washburn's bare ass, and thrashed her breasts as she crouched miserably on her knees, her hands locked to the post, sometimes the post moves! I was quite proud that I could get Wash to pull the concrete held post around the yard as I chased her, whipping away with the Stimulator!
Now, Cleo is also rather confused. She knows my capability for bringing her acute pain, and wonders; I'm sure, why I'm holding off. Again I lightly swat her breasts with the willow, and then I grab her ponytail and bang her little head on the wall to make sure she's paying attention.
"Stand up." I order, and Cleo complies, looking a little bit worried. I've found in my time with slaves that half the work can be done without me exerting myself...the psychological torture is lots more fun!
I took the willow and as she is rising, I lash her stomach, and she looks at me with stunned, tear stricken eyes. "I didn't say Simon says" I said, and I laugh uproariously.
Cleo just looks at the floor, kind of pitifully. Master Husk has been too mean to her, this silent message projects. Fuck, what am I supposed to do? How can I cheer her up?
"Dance!" I begin whaling away at Cleo's thighs, and she bounces around miserably, waving her arms and crying anew. But I know what's good for her, and I keep lashing at her with the willow, enjoying the way she prances.
I go to her behind, her glorious full buttocks, and lash at them, chasing her around the apartment until she collapses on the bed, and then I really get going with the willow switch.
When I was in the Marine Corps I had a supervisory sergeant, a tough woman, who found my BDSM magazines during a locker inspection. Sergeant Davis called me in the next day, and asked me about my interests.
After gleaning a bit of information, I ordered my superior to undress and kneel before me, and I examined her tanned breasts—officers have pool privileges—and became annoyed because she'd been going through my shit. "What kind of people are you...invading your private's privacy?" I had said with justifiable indignation.
"I have a South African police baton on the wall there." Davis had said, her face trembling...and I found it. It's like a big hunk of rubber, and I decorated Davis's breasts and ass until she was crying and sobbing something terrible.
Perhaps I was working off old resentments for the inspections, and shining shoes, and all that crap. Davis got all the hard feelings that Company D had ever held, though I couldn't tell the other boys that.
Finally I hung Davis by her pierced nipples through a string that I tied to two file cabinets in her office, and ordered her to stay still while I went out and had a drink with the enlisted men.
