Unblocing Carole

Chapter 3: Carole's Correction Begins

'I must be out of my friggin' mind to be doing this,' Carole told herself. 'This' was having stripped in her own living room in front of a man she'd only met in person an hour or so ago, allowing him to bind her to a whipping bench that he'd driven down here with in the trunk of his car, and taking six searing lashes on her ass with a very thick and supple leather strap.

Oh, sure, Carole had often fantasized about undergoing such a punishment. Hell, she'd written stories about women such as herself undergoing exactly that type of treatment in a prison or punishment center. And she knew she wasn't alone in having such fantasies-her stories had been very well received with quite a few positive comments from both male and female readers.

But, suffering such painful and degrading treatments in fantasy was one thing; experiencing them in real life was quite another. The first lash had stunned her with its force, driving her waist into the end of the bench. And then, after a few seconds delay, had come the fire, like a hot poker across her poor butt cheeks.

The pain had been made worse by the immobilization. It was a normal human reaction when experiencing pain to want to move and/or rub the injured part. Like hopping up and down and shaking your leg if you dropped a heavy object on your foot, or rubbing your arm if you bumped it against a hard surface.

But Carole was afforded no such relief. Her torso was pressed tightly against the padded top of the bench, her legs immobilized and her wrists secured. All she could do was grab the bar in front of her for dear life and flex her ankles and curl her toes.

As bad as the first lash had been, the second had been worse-fire on top of fire. It had truly taken her breath away and it had been seconds until she had been able to moan her distress.

James had been taking his time, letting the pain from each stroke crest and then slowly ebb, before delivering the next. At the fourth stroke she had called him a 'fucking bastard', which hadn't seemed to bother him, though he did comment that she had quite a mouth on her. 'Would she suffer extra strokes for that indiscretion?' she wondered.

After the fifth and sixth lashes, she had responded with wordless howls, safer than curses and really all that her pain-addled brain could produce.

Now they were having that 'brief break' he had promised her. She imagined it was at least as much for his benefit as for hers, so that he wouldn't slack in the force of his blows on the next set. The relief it provided her, while not unwelcome, was fairly minimal. Her ass was in burning agony and the sensation was barely diminishing as the seconds ticked by.

Now, James was standing in front of her, the awful strap dangling from his hand. "How are we doing, Carole?" he asked.

'We?' she thought to herself. He seemed to be doing just peachy; her, not so much.

"It hurts like hell," she said. Then remembering her orders, added, "Sir."

"Well, it's supposed to, of course, Carole. That's what will drive those negative thoughts out of your head and get you writing again."

Carole wondered whether James was subjecting her to this treatment in an honest attempt to cure her writer's block or just to satisfy his own desires. Right now, the pain was so overwhelming that the thought of writing was nowhere in her head. But, perhaps, the fear of getting a repeat dose of this terrible pain would motivate her to write again.

Also, he had promised her a good fuck if she produced work worthy of her talents. And truth be told, the burning in her ass was producing a certain heat around the front side of her nether regions. Unfortunately, she wasn't able to move her waist enough to get stimulation on her clit from the bench, and manual stimulation was, of course, impossible.

"Are you ready for the next, six, then?" he asked.

"Please, sir, is that really necessary? I'm not sure I can take any more."

"It is absolutely necessary and you absolutely can and will take them. We have an agreement and learning to live up to your agreements is part of your emotional growth."

Carole felt tears welling in her eyes. Maybe he was right. He was, after all, a good writer and perhaps this method would work. But she was scared shitless at the prospect of more pain. Nevertheless, she took a firm grip on the bar as she watched him walk behind her and felt the leather of the strap lying on her poor, bruised ass as he prepared to deliver six more doses of agony.

The pause must have refreshed James, because the next two lashes seemed to bring a whole new level of pain. Carole could only wonder if her ass looked as bad as it felt and how long it would be before she would sit comfortably again.

The ninth stroke may have been particularly hard or may have landed on a particularly sore spot, because she felt the room spinning around. "Ohhh!" she groaned, feeling like she might pass out.

But there was no such mercy, and, if she had fallen unconscious, she imagined he would revive her somehow. So, having no other option, she gathered her strength and endured the last three lashes.

Carole couldn't believe she had made it through. Twelve lashes. Twelve journeys to hell and back. She took several deep breaths, filling her lungs now that the strap was no longer driving the air out of them.

He was looking down at her. She knew that she looked a mess-nose dripping mucus, eyes red from crying, hair plastered to her forehead with sweat. Not to mention how her ass must look. And how she must smell-she was bathed in sweat, a reaction to the pain and fear and the shame of being naked and helpless in front of him.

And, on top of that, much to her shame, she could feel that wetness seeping between her legs. She knew it wasn't pee, because she had, wisely, taken his suggestion to empty her bladder before being strapped down. No, it was arousal. 'God, I'm a sick puppy!' she thought to herself. And she was fairly sure that he could tell.

He brushed a few wet strands of hair out of her eyes. "We're done with the strap now, Carole. You took it well."

"Thank you, sir," she managed to croak.

"Now all we have are a few with the cane, plus a couple of extra for failing to address me properly a few times."

"Oh, God, sir, please no!" she begged. "I think I'm cured of the writer's block, now."

"Sadly, Carole, I'm afraid it's necessary. Two months without writing is a long time. You need to experience the cane so you will know what awaits you if you don't get your act together and start writing again. It's the best motivation there is."

"But, sir, my ass is on fire! Please, I'm begging you! Look, I'm really wet and bent over wide open for you. Couldn't we just fuck, sir?"

"Oh, Carole, you can't imagine how badly I want to fuck you. I'm hard as a rock," he said. He unbuttoned his pants and lowered them. She could see the bulge in his underpants.

"Then, please, sir, take me now," she begged.

"I wish I could, Carole, but that must be the carrot to dangle in front of you for when you start writing again. For now, I'm afraid it's the stick."

"Oh, God!" she moaned. "My poor ass!"

He moved around behind her. "It does look rather sore," he remarked. "And very red. No cuts, but you'll likely have some very nice bruising." He reached his hand out and ran it over the aching globes of flesh. "And it's quite hot." She moaned, mostly in pain, but perhaps a bit from the desire to be made love to, a desire which she would have to wait to have fulfilled.

"Well, I'll tell you what I can propose, Carole. I feel I must give you a little taste of the cane on your ass, because that's where one normally applies it. But perhaps, I could give the remainder of the strokes, elsewhere."

"Elsewhere, sir?" she asked, nervously. She imagined many places that would be exquisitely painful-her boobs, her pussy.

"Don't worry," he said. "I intend to leave you in position, so your boobs are off the table for now, since they are in fact on the table." He chuckled at his own joke.

She felt his hand on her feet, tickling the sensitive soles, which were hanging off the ends of the platforms she was kneeling on. She wriggled her toes in response to the stimulation. "Do you know what bastinado is?" he asked.

"I think I've heard the word, sir, but I'm not exactly sure what it is."

"It's a punishment applied to the soles of the feet, commonly used in the Middle East and a few other places. Once you've experienced it, you can write about it after you've rid yourself of the writer's block."

Carole didn't have anything to say in response.

"Well, good then," he said. "The sooner we get started, the sooner we're done." He placed the strap carefully into the duffel bag and rummaged around inside it until he found a cane that suited the moment. It was a straight, rather thin, rattan, about two and a half feet long, wrapped with tape at the thicker end. Not the most severe one he had, but more than adequate for a first session.

He showed it to Carole, swishing it in front of her face. She looked at it for a second, then looked up at him imploringly, a few tears running down her cheeks. "Please, sir," she begged.

He didn't reply; he just walked around to the back of the bench. She felt the cane tapping lightly against her butt cheeks. Even that was painful on the inflamed tissue. "The first one will be high on your buttocks," he said.

She felt the cane lifted from her skin, then heard the "Whoosh!" and felt the explosion as it sliced deep into her flesh. "Ooooh!" she yelled.

He waited until her struggles against the straps holding her in place abated. He admired the nice line that was rising up, red and angry looking even on top of the redness from the strap. "The next one will be lower, near the center of your lovely ass." He drove it home. She screamed and pulled even harder against the straps.

"Last one, Carole," he said, after he could hear her breathing more regularly. "This one will be low, near where your ass joins your thighs. It may hurt a bit more than the others, but then that will be it for your ass for today."

Carole couldn't believe how much the two weals were throbbing. "Oh, God help me," she said, to no one in particular. He struck home. She shrieked in agony.

"There, you made it, Carole" he said. She moaned weakly. "You'd like a little rest, I suppose."

"Oh, please, sir."

He stood back admiring the three raised lines. "Those are really nicely spaced. Almost a work of art," he said.

Carole shook her head in amazement. They didn't feel much like art to her.

After, a few moments, he said, "Three on your feet and we're done, Carole."

She shook her head, but was seemingly too weak to protest. She felt the cane tapping across the insteps of both feet. Then it struck. The pain shot up through her legs like a bolt of lightning. The room was swimming around her.

She desperately tried to move her feet to avoid the next blow, but it was useless; the straps held them too securely. He struck again and she howled.

"One more and we're done," he said.

She moaned. He struck on the ball of the foot. She howled again.

He came around to stand in front of her, looking down as she shook her head in disbelief at how much it had hurt. He stroked her head and bent down to kiss her sweat-soaked hair. "We're all done, Carole. No more for today. Tomorrow you will write and then we will make love. That's my fondest hope, not to have to punish you again, OK?"

"Yes, sir," she sobbed.

"Would you like some water?"

"Yes, please, sir," she replied. He could tell that she was very thirsty. He went to her kitchen, which was small, but well appointed, found a large drinking glass and filled it at the sink and brought it out to her.

"Here you go," he said, holding it out to her.

"My hands, sir," she protested, "I can't hold it."

"Ah, yes, of course," he replied. "Let me help you." He held her head up with his left hand and placed the glass against her mouth with his right and tilted it slightly so that some water flowed into her mouth. "Drink it slowly," he counselled. Over the next few minutes, he fed her most of the contents of the glass, which seemed to revive her at least a bit.

"Thank you for the water, sir," she said. "Would you mind untying me, please?"

"Yes, my dear, in good time. But first there is something I need you to do for me."

She looked up at him. She wondered what she could be expected to 'Do for him' with her hands and legs immobilized.

"You see, having you naked and helpless and suffering at my hand has gotten me rather excited," he confessed. "I would like it if you could help me out a bit." He unbuttoned his pants and lowered them, along with his undershorts. His cock sprung up at full attention.

"Oh, sir, if you're asking to fuck me, the answer is 'Yes, please!'. I'm very wet and you should slide in very easily."

He shook his head. "Carole, I told you that is for when you write a good story. No, I want you to take me in your mouth."

She groaned. 'Ugh! First he beats the shit out of me, then he wants a hummer?' she thought.

"Now, now, remember, we agreed you would follow my orders without question or be punished. Surely, you don't want another dozen with the cane?"

"Oh, God, no!" she cried.

He moved closer so that his pelvis was right next to her face, his cock brushing against her nose. "Well then, I suggest you open wide. And no hands. Oh, of course, they're currently unavailable," he said, chuckling.

'Now this would be the moment of truth,' he thought. Once she degraded herself to pleasure him after he had punished her, there would be no backing down. "I'm waiting, Carole," he said.

Slowly she lowered her jaw. He grasped her face in both hands and slid his erection into her mouth. It felt incredibly good. "Now, Carole, swirl your tongue around the head."

She made some sounds, possibly of protest, but he couldn't make them out. All he knew and all he cared about was that her tongue was against the underside of his cock. He began slowly sliding in and out, relishing the sensations.

"That's very good," he sighed.

"Mmmm!" she said.

"I'm glad you like it, too, Carole." He could feel the juices rising in his balls. "I'm getting very close, Carole. I want you to take it all in your mouth."

"Mmm!" she said.

He closed his eyes and held his breath. Then he thrusted forward twice, yelled "Oh, fuck!" and emptied himself into her in a series of intensely pleasurable spurts.

He stayed inside her for a few moments, savoring the dying contractions, then slowly withdrew. He saw that she had indeed taken most of it in her mouth, though a bit of his essence was dripping down her chin. He gathered some of it up with his finger and fed it to her.

"That was fantastic!" he told her.

"Thank you, sir," she mumbled, not sounding much like she meant it. Then she looked away.

James pulled up his pants, collapsed onto the sofa and drained the remainder of his wine.