TWENTY SIX
Last Welcomers
I hand out the controllers to each of you.
"It is entirely up to you, now. Do as you will. She will feel it."
You all immediately push the 'ON' and dial up to 'peak'.
The office door opens and you all cut your eggs.
I dial mine back to 'low'.
Your mother is led into the office by the woman that lives in the small house set well back from the street.
The yard is surrounded by a two and a half meter tall fence made of barked ash branches, weathered to a greyness of timeless beauty.
Apparently, she has never talked to anyone in the neighborhood - she rarely even leaves the house.
Every ten days a black box truck pulls up and a strong young man wheels in a load of boxes. And leaves.
She wears a white, mid-thigh sleeveless bodycon.
And wears it well.
She is very tall, even wearing flat-heeled sandals she stands at nearly two meters.
She is imperious.
She moves to sit in the overstuffed chair, regally crossing her legs.
"Undress. Perform for me."
Your mother very deliberately, slowly undoes the bottons on her muslin peasant blouse - before untying it from the knot snug against the bottom of her tits.
She opens the placket and holds it wide, displaying her rope-enhanced torso, our handiwork augmented by the Professor's butchers markings.
"Very nice. That must be hurting quite a bit by now. Is that permanent or merely for the celebration today?"
Your mother says nothing.
As is appropriate.
The woman laughs.
"Can't say, eh? Guess that's part of your instructions. You are doing well."
With a soft, yet insistent voice, she serenely confident, "Step to me. Stand here."
Your mother moves, an automoton, to stand before this woman.
The woman taps your mother's thigh with the toe of her sandal dangling from her crossed leg.
"Shoulders back. Further. Come now, dear, you're not even trying."
Your mother's shoulders could not go back further if her elbows were bound together, but her efforts cause a sweat sheen which the woman from the small house seems to approve.
She reaches out to delicately trace the ropes and cords with a long forefinger. Examining a valuable work of art.
"I like these mats," She slips a finger under the one lying over your mother's left tit.
She pulls it out, which tightens all connected lines.
Your mother sighs, moans.
The woman slaps her tit.
"Sweet." She is delighted to see the extreme reddening of the bulging rows between the deep grooves cut by the cords.
She pinches one of those protrusions and tugs.
Your mother makes a sound I've never heard, I don't know what it means, pleasure? pain? both?
The woman laughs and slaps her face softly.
"OK - finish undressing."
The muslin top slips down her arms to the floor.
She turns her back to the woman from the small house and undoes her skirt.
She wriggles to get it over her hips and ass and as she lowers the skirt, she bends at the waist, stiff-legged.
The woman fondles the twin globes and notices the rope splitting that peach.
She digs it out and tugs it.
Your mother screeches in pain at the effect of those cords on her clit and cunt lips.
The screech of pain mellows into a lustful moan and she wriggles her ass in encouragement.
The woman laughs and pulls your mother closer by the crotch ropes.
"Stand up straight."
Your mother obeys.
"Turn around."
Your mother obeys.
"The butcher's marks are also a curious enhancement. Are we to carve you up for the feast?" she laughs.
The woman uncrosses her legs, grabs the waist rope under the navel and jerks your mother to stand closer to her.
The woman grabs the ropework between your mother's tits and uses that as a pole to pull herself up to stand, bodies pressed together.
"Undress me."
Your mother peels the tight, white dress over her tits, which, unsupported, stand high and firm.
The woman cups her own tits and diddles with her nipples.
Your mother peels the tight, white dress over her hips, exposing her ass, high and tight.
The woman turns her back and lays a hand on each of her own ass cheeks.
"Kiss me. Kiss my ass."
Your mother leans down, takes a step back and tenderly kisses the beautifully full ass.
On her own, your mother works her face between her cheeks and obviously is tending to the woman's asshole. And leans in deeper and kneels to work her cunt.
The woman spreads her legs and leans forward, giving your mother easier access.
Your mother eagerly answers the implicit request.
Or was that her demand?
The woman steps forward.
Your mother shuffles to keep her face embedded.
She steps again, she shuffles.
The woman gets to the overstuffed armchair, turns and sits.
Tapping her lap, she says, "Assume the position."
Your mother drapes herself over the lithe thighs, legs hanging loose, hands on floor.
The spanking is as rapid and hard as any hand spanking I have witnessed.
Harder than any I have administered.
Your mother howls out her grateful pain.
A song I enjoy.
You clutch at my cock and dig into your own cunt with three fingers.
Charles has flipped Saisha to kneel between his knees and she lunges repeatedly onto his cock, turning her ass to the scene on the big screen.
Your mother's ass goes quickly from scarlet to a dark violet.
Her howls have changed to pure screams of delight.
"MORE. PLEASE! HARDER, HARDER, PLEASE!"
She breaks the code I've laid down.
This pleases me.
I take note of this for her future punishment schedule.
The women (from a sense of cruelty?) stops her brutal spanking and lifts your mother to her feet by the ropes laced across her back.
"Go the desk, press your thighs against the top and put your palms in the center of the top."
Your mother, of course, complies eagerly.
The woman strides imperiously across the room, walks around the desk, searching.
She unplugs the computer power cord from the wall and the tower.
She stands beside your mother and folds the cord in two.
She lashes her back, ass and thighs viciously with the cord, laying down red stripes, raising welts and, in the crossings, occasionally tearing small openings in her skin.
Her high keening moans become continuous and very much louder.
The woman releases the loop of the cord, shortens her grip and uses the tower plug to pummel your mother's flaming ass, raising a dozen or so square bruises.
She tosses the cord away.
She moves around the desk to search the drawers, finds a box of thumb tacks and dumps them onto the desk top.
"Turn them all points up."
Your mother, realizing the end, trembles, whimpers and complies.
The woman dumps the pens and pencils out of the porcelain keg holder.
"Lay your tits down onto the desk. Note where they touch the desktop.
"Group the tacks into those two spots."
