There was something triggered deep within her. She was sure Freud would have a snappy interpretation from her childhood. Perhaps it was the severe father who reached easily for his belt whenever a delicate line was crossed by her, or her brother. He even kept a 'special belt' for the occasion. It never made it onto his trousers, but lived accessibly in the dresser drawer in the kitchen. Or perhaps it was her deeply devout Catholic mother who would pray as her daughter was disciplined over the father's knee. She would mumble Hail Mary's and finger her rosary as her ass turned from red to blue and she cried out in humiliation and pain. Her mother would gently rub a soothing balm into her ravaged buttocks afterwards.
Even as her femininity blossomed, the discipline continued from the controlling bully of a father. And her mother continued to allow it to occur. Eventually the mixture of pain and humiliation crystallised into a familiar haven in her consciousness. A perverse sanctuary created by tacit agreement with the most important people in her life. And her developing sexuality bled into these powerful emotions, and somehow started to blend together. At times of stress, or heightened emotion, she would seek relief in the familiar territory of submission and dominance and often crave the relief that it brought; welcome it like a familiar, but brutal protector. In her relationships, including her marriage, she secretly longed for the domination and control, and for the savagery of a good hard ass spanking.
So, the shame she felt at having orgasmed under the attention of the intruders made her want to sob, but triggered this place of primal desire. She felt herself slip into this familiar mental space where she became submissive and mute, allowing herself to be directed in an almost trance like state.
Tattoo man pulled her from the breakfast bar. Her legs buckled as her feet hit the tiled floor as her body recovered from the intense orgasm. Her head was down, her hair forming a ragged curtain over her face. He parted the curtain with a calloused finger, revealing cheeks flush with embarrassment and her eyes looking towards the floor.
'There...' he said. 'I know exactly what girls like you need.' he smiled grimly at her. 'You just can't help yourself, can you?'
She could smell her own juices on his hand as he caressed her face and there was a slick film joining his fingers together. He reached for her wrists and pulled her into the centre of the open plan living space. She allowed herself to be positioned in the centre of the room, her heart beating hard in her throat.
'I think we've got all night, boys.' tattooed man said to his cronies, who were sat on the sofa. 'I think I know where we go next with this...'
Her ex-husband had been a fitness fan and he had installed a ceiling hook in the corner of the living room for a boxing bag. There had been an enormous row about it's positioning in the family living area at the time, and she had been delighted and relived when she was finally able to get rid of the bag. The equipment had been easy to dispose of, but the hook in the ceiling remained.
Tattoo man removed his belt very deliberately from his trousers. The action terrified and thrilled her and a low gutteral groan escaped her lips. He brought her hands together in front of her body and used his belt to secure her wrists to each other. He shuffled her over under the hook and indicated to one of his friends to step onto a chair to secure her belted wrists onto the hook. The height was such that she was stretched fully, her feet just flat on the floor. She hung like a piece of meat in a butcher's window. Her attackers all fell heavily onto the sofas and laughed with wicked delight.
Her predicament washed over her like an icy wave. She was strung up in front of her attackers, completely helpless, and their intent couldn't be clearer. Her skirt had been removed and her knickers cut off; her shirt had been ripped open and her tits were exposed, her nipples hardening in the draft of the room. As it sunk in, the humiliation of her vulnerability flushed her face and body. Almost worse than the abuse they had inflicted was the focussed attention they gave her now. They sat, like animals playing with their prey before they enjoyed the feast they knew was inevitable.
Without taking his eyes off her body, tattoo man spoke to one of his friends, 'I understand there should be some toys upstairs, next to the bed...go have a look around.'
Even through she was in a fug of confusion and terror, the statement sounded odd to her. His accomplice dragged himself away and she heard him thud up the stairs. Tattoo man stood up and walked around.
'I know what girls like you want.' he whispered in her ear. 'You may protest, even beg, but deep down, you want to be taken. Used. Controlled. Don't you?' He wasn't looking for an answer. He started to run his hands over her body. Then suddenly, a stinging smack across her buttocks shocked her from her insular state.
'Ahh...' said her tormentor, 'you know that's what you deserved. Don't you?' He took a step back to give himself a better swing. 'You've already been a very naughty girl, and you know you deserve to be punished severely. Don't you princess?' His friend gave a snigger.
'Now...I'm right aren't I? You have been dirty sweetie, haven't you? You do deserve to be punished hard...isn't that what you want?'
