I saunter into the Torture Palace, I nod to the subs cuffed in the dungeon pit. My eyes resting on one, I nod, he walks to me and I escort him to my chair, where he kneels at my feet. "Please would you be so kind as to bring me a teapot of boiling water, a tea strainer, a silver spoon and a cup and saucer? I prefer the white fine china service."
My full deepest red lips curl into a contented smile as I set the wicker basket down on the table. Carefully arranging the white starched linen cloth to cover it's contents. Nonchalantly I look around the room, smiling and nodding to Dom/mes I have met previously. My long, icy cold fingers curling around the armrests as I wait for his serve. Carefully I lay out the following: Stanley knife, 10m of black silk bondage rope, a roll of insulation tape, a small flask filled with boiling water, a bowl, some lavender essential oil, some witch hazel and a soft, clean, towel.
I reach inside the wicker basket, admiring it's golden brown patina as I extract a handful of fresh, heart shaped, finely toothed leaves. Dropping them in the teapot. "Thank you boy, now, sit between my knees with your back to me, you may chat freely in the room whilst I brew the tea." Searching again inside the wicker basket I collect a black, long, fine quality silk scarf. Wrapping it around my index finger to stroke long, lazy lines, gently up and down your spine. "Urtica Dioica is an interesting plant boy." I whisper as I strain the brewed herb tea into the teacup.
I smile warmly, raise the cup to my lips, testing the temperature, taking a small sip, then tapping your shoulder, placing it in your hands. "Please drink it all. Druids consider this to be a sacred herb." I unwrap the silk scarf from my fingers, I lean forward, covering your eyes meticulously and tying the ends in a reef knot behind your head. "Urtica Dioica was commonly used in Victorian England, particularly in the brothels to prepare the customer for erotic play. Urtica is Latin, derived from the word 'uro' which means 'to burn'."
Seeing the cup is empty, I take it from you, placing it back on the tray and refilling it. Tapping you gently on the shoulder, 'stand', watching, amused as you stumble blindly to your feet. "Urtica Diocia was frequently used in Victorian BDSM practices to stimulate the skin prior to caning, the practice is called Urtication; Flogging with nettles. Sadly, a dying art." I lament. With the cold icy pad of my thumb, I press hard on your bottom lip, pushing the soft, pulpy flesh down to open your jaw. Picking up the Stanley Knife placing the handle between your lips. "Careful! Knife! Sharp! Bite, then remain perfectly still." I instruct. I walk silently, barefoot, around the high backed chair, carefully assessing it for suitability. Satisfied, I smile.
"Uritica Diocia is covered in tiny hairs; minute hpodermic needles. When skin touches these minuscule hairs, it breaks off into the skin, the venom is then pumped into the skin. The ones I have are fresh and young ones, they will contain a lot of venom at this time of year." As I talk, I busy myself, tying a bloodknot on the chair's front leg, pushing it up tight at the top, then forming a loop, twisting the loop to reverse it and pulling it tight, working deftly to cover the leg with half hitches.
"The active parts of the plant are interesting, because they are all naturally occurring in human bodies. The histamines makes you itch, it is the acetylcholine that is responsible for the burning and stimulating nerve actions." I wrap the rope through to the other front chair leg, tying it's surface with half hitches. I turn the chair back upright, my voice a heavy whisper "Open" carefully taking the knife and cutting the rope. I raise the cup of cooled Nettle tea to your lips, instructing you to 'Drink!', tilting the cup carefully as you swallow the amber liquid.
"Good boy. Nettles really are fascinating, you must watch Les Misérables by Victor Hugo, he describes some of their uses. They are diuretic of course" I refill the cup, raising it to your lips, instructing you to 'Drink!', tilting the cup carefully until you finish it. I tie a bloodknot at base of the back of the chair, decorating it with half hitches then tying off. Pulling on a thick pair of gardening gloves, uncovers the basket of nettles and tucks bunches of them into the bindings on the chair legs and the back of the chair. "Have you ever been stung by nettles? Was your reaction 'normal'? I assume you don't have allergies?"
I smile warmly at your affirmation, then expertly bind the stalks of two bunches of nettles with the insulation tape to make stinging-whip handles. I pour out another cup of now cold Nettle tea, raises the cup to your lips, instructing you to 'Drink!' tilting the cup carefully again as you drain it. "Take three small steps backwards and please do sit down." My voice light, encouraging, belying the menace in my eyes. My big blue eyes widen, darken, my stomach churning with excitement, watching you sit in the nettle decorated chair. Thrilled anticipation bubbling in my stomach.
"Good boy. I can do whatever I want to you and you are going to love it!"
Nerves jangling with exhilaration. Knowing as you move your legs or sit back you will be atrociously stung and you won't know how or where the nettles are. I laugh heartily as the nettles bite into your tender flesh, as you move in shock, fear etched into your face. Your yelps and squeals of pain making my nipples tighten into hard, painful puckers. Your movements slowly becoming more and more tentative as you finally understand that you are stinging yourself.
