I can’t say that he wasn’t fair.
He did say a week before tonight that I should start exercising, perhaps catching up on my sleep if I felt drowsy. Besides which, I’d seen him tinkering with the porch for weeks so I knew he was up to something. In fact, he’d been so busy with his amendments that he’d neglected to punish me all month, and the usual pattern of welts on my bottom, breasts and rest of my body had cleared.
All in all, it had been an easy month for me. Until tonight that is.
It began, as Jeff had promised, in the dusk of an early autumn evening. The only preparation I’d had to make was to put on my corset and my thigh length boots. I love the boots, but they take an age to put on. Although they are used almost exclusively in our bondage games, and do have buckles for chaining up, they only have one special feature – adjustable heels. By unscrewing the heel you could replace it with a higher one or a shorter one. This way, Jeff could see me stand still in 7 inch heels, normally unwearable, or I could switch to a more manageable 4-5 inch. This would be used when I had to walk a lot in a short period of time.
"Tonight, however, dear Stacy," Jeff said as he unscrewed the left heel, the second, "there will be no need for heels at all."
He led me to my feet, and I stumbled briefly. The sole of the boot wasn’t meant to be worn flat on the ground and it was a strange sensation. I felt like I was wearing clogs. It wasn’t uncomfortable, I could walk, but I was puzzled. Jeff normally likes me up on my toes.
He moved to the corset, which wasn’t much more than a waist cincher. At its top, it was an inch or two below my breasts, and it’s bottom left a lot of room for panties, skirts, what have you. As a waist cincher, however, it’s one of the best. I’m normally a 23 inch waist, 24 if you insist, but after my grunting and Jeff’s assistance, it sliced me down to a 19 inch waist.
"Arms up behind your back."
I was prepared for Jeff’s signature piece – the hammer lock. It’s the one thing I DO always do stretches for, as even for our standard games it’s the norm to have my wrists dragged up the centre of my back until my elbows touch. This makes my 37DD breasts, my best feature if I say so myself, jut proudly stand out like balloons. I’m petrified of them sagging as I grow older – they’re heavy enough at the moment! So I’m not too distressed by the hammerlock at all. He’s even made a glove for my forearms, and apart from tighter lacing than normal, there was nothing special about this particular constriction. I was disappointed.
Fortunately for me, or was it unfortunately, everything else was new. First up was a pair of panties with attachments galore! I couldn’t make out what half of them were until he slipped them on. Then I made out a short, stubby butt-plug, and a thin-based, bulbous dildo. That puzzled me – I was used to uniform, cylindrical devices, not one whose girth changed. As soon as everything was in, everything was removed.
"I’ve forgotten something," said Jeff before adding pointlessly, "wait here, love."
He rushed off to the bathroom and return with my enema.
"How much do you think you can hold?"
"About two pints I think, darling," I replied. It was so nice of him to ask.
"Three pints it is then."
I shan’t bore you with the intricacies of the enema, suffice it to say that duly, I had three pints of warm water sloshing around inside me, held in by a plug so tight it could have saved the Dutch boy a thumb. Turning round to check for seepage, I noticed there was a wire coming out of it.
"Love," I began with a moment of concern in my voice, "is that electrical? Won’t that be dangerous next to all that water?"
"No, it’s alright Stacy," he soothed, "the inside’s insulated from the outside. You’ll be fine. Well, you won’t, but you won’t be electrocuted. Go up to the toilet and try peeing."
It was an unexpected order, but not one I wasn’t going to disobey, even when he followed me. I stood astride the bowl, not knowing where to aim, and let rip with the most perfectly straight stream of pee. It shocked me, but pleased Jeff.
"Perfect."
I realised that the panties were designed this way, with a small hole at the base of the dildo that could aim straight down. Why this would be useful I could only guess.
There was no need to wash my hands, so I followed Jeff downstairs and mentally prepared myself for the next, unexpected part of my bondage.
He produced a pair of studded dog-collars, and approached my tits, still defying gravity due to my arm lock. Carefully avoiding catching any skin, he looped the first of the collars around the base of my left breast, and began to tighten it. At first, I thought he was having a little trouble.
"It’s inside out," I said helpfully.
No response.
"I said…" and then I realised. I’m usually much quicker than that, honest! The studs were (deliberately) pinching painfully into my bosom, and it was the first painful part of my experience. My only question was why it took so long in coming.
He spent some considerable time checking the tightness of that first collar, releasing it a half inch, feeling underneath it, tightening it again. Not once did he ask me whether it was too tight. Not once did I expect it. I was starting to get a warm glow as my constriction increased. The right collar was in position a lot faster, as the left indicated my tightness threshold.
"This will hurt," he suddenly said.
He was right about that! My right nipple exploded with pain as he snapped on a clip. I looked down and saw that the clamp grabbed my nipple from all angles, not just at the side like our normal clothespins. Whether that was the reason for the pain, I just don’t know. Firstly, I didn’t have time to ponder as he snapped on the second one, and secondly, it hurt!
"Time to gag you I think."
Again, he had me off balance. I was expecting a gag, indeed a deep one, but he fastened one on me which, not only being smaller than expected, had a hole running through its middle. I normally love the grunts I produce from a really filling gag, and adore the sensation of having to breathe through my nose. I looked at him with a puzzled glance. That couldn’t be it, surely?
He moved around my back and started to work on my hammer lock. First, he checked the circulation, just as a final precaution, and then he tied something to the glove – a lead weight of about four pounds or so. It was on a long string, and he pulled it between my legs, getting the length right by leaning me backwards and forwards. He took an age to get this right, but seemed to be happy and let it hang. It puzzled me intently! What could it be for?
He had made one attachment to the string, however, by threading it through the middle of three foot-long pinwheels, fixing it in place so if I bent forwards, my bottom would be teased by the sharp metal of the pinwheels.
The pain was increasing.
He seemed to be running out of items, for which I thanked my lucky stars – there were still a few areas he hadn’t touched. Not many though.
The next constriction was pre-empted by his amateur hairdressing skills. Actually, all he did was tie my hair in a firm knot, he wasn’t too sophisticated, which he then fastened, via a short rope, to my hammerlock. There was a little give in the rope – I didn’t have to look straight up in the air, but I certainly couldn’t look down.
This meant that I couldn’t see him creep between my legs, gradually shoving them apart two feet until he had enough room to work. It was now that I found the reason for the narrowness of the base of the dildo. It was so he could get at my labia! He teased them either side of the panties, tugging them down (how I missed my silent gag! here I had to hold my tongue) until there was plenty for him to get hold of.
This time, I was expecting the clamp, but it still hurt as he slipped on a purpose-made peg. As he slipped on the second one, I heard a little tinkle of chains colliding. Where would he attach the chains to?
I expected my nipples, but I was wrong. Instead, he fastened it to something between my legs which I couldn’t see. All I knew was that it was a container of some kind – and I only found this out when he dropped the lead weight into it. This time, I fear even a tight gag would have been useless as I let out a huge growl of pain.
Be fair to him, though – he got his measurements pretty much right. If I bent forward at the waist, two important things would happen – my arms would go up, and my bottom would jut out. (One less important thing is that the pinwheels pricked my butt-cheeks with added vigour.) This meant that the weight would go up, indeed it would be lifted off the base of what I imagined to be a light tin bucket. On his order, I raised myself briefly to tiptoes, still leaning forwards, and the bucket was lifted off the floor, mercifully light. He seemed a little smug with his achievement. Well, why not? I would be.
"You’re just about finished, Stacy, let’s have a drink to celebrate."
It was an unusual toast – he had a glass of wine, I had a half-gallon of water, poured slowly, via a funnel, into my gag and on into my mouth. He didn’t want to drown me, so this took about half an hour, and as he dropped the last of the jugs I was already bursting to pee. He knew this.
"Don’t you dare go yet, young woman."
I wouldn’t pee after a warning like that.
"We’ve got to get you outside where you won’t make a mess, first."
I yelped a protest, but could physically do nothing to stop him opening the front door, nor stop him guiding me out onto the porch, where he had made his amendments. He positioned me in front of a sturdy cylindrical post, about six inches in diameter, supporting the porch roof.
"This, dear Stacy, is the fruit of my labours. Here is where you will stay tonight."
"Ung-unnng?" I asked.
"Yes, all night. Once I get you tied to it, that is."
The beginning of the end of the anticipation was simple, as he guided my feet to a set position, a foot either side of the pole, with the toes level with the front of the post. I could hear buckles and chains, and guessed I wouldn’t be able to move them much.
"Lift your heels," he said, and I did so.
"Move your feet," he said, and I did not do so. Only my toes were restrained.
Next he reached up above my head, and grabbed a small, curious tube. I knew that it would be going into my gag, but I didn’t know how far, nor what the little ‘umbrella’ at the end of the tube was for.
I didn’t have to wait for long – he guided the tube inside the gag, just enough to hear a ‘click’. Then he warned me to brace myself before trying to jerk the tube loose. It would not be freed – the umbrella had jammed it on the inside of the gag. He could put anything down the tube and I would be compelled to drink.
Next I heard him between my legs, working with the bucket, explaining himself as he went.
"I’ll tell you this now, Stacy, not because you wouldn’t have learned anyway, but because I want to see your face when I tell you. This bucket <see! it was a bucket – I was so pleased> between your legs is threaded to the floor, as smoothly as the tube in your gag. Anything you pee will, as you’ve seen, go straight down into the bucket, where it will slowly go down the tube into the main element of my work. There’s a series of pumps that will take what’s in the bucket and pump it all up to a tub that’s above your head.
"Now, the tub won’t automatically empty into your gag, in fact you have to push your gag against here <he indicated a valve about two inches up the tube> and that releases the flow. Drink up, young Stacy, that’s one of the keys. There’s a water meter below, and I won’t release you until either you’ve drunk twenty four pints, or if you drain the tub. That will be unlikely, however…"
He broke off to fasten something else to me. It was a waistband that had a four inch cube at the front, wires leading off. He flicked a switch and it began to vibrate, right against my bladder. The bastard! I couldn’t hold it in any more and peed almost instantly, letting a strong jet rattle against the bucket’s floor, and I heard a murmur of a pump,
He continued his speech as though nothing had happened. "but if you choose not to drink then it will eventually let loose a trickle automatically, just to prevent overflow, you understand. Right, if you’ve quite finished, I’ll return to the base of the bucket. It’s not on at the moment, but there is a switch underneath the bucket where if it is NOT raised off the ground, you’ll feel a growing pain in your butt-plug and dildo. I know you think that’s the wrong way round, but it isn’t – trust me."
You see, he hadn’t finished. There were two key items left – my nipples. He attached a long metal rod to each of their clamps, which he then pulled upwards. He kept pulling until I felt I had to stand on tip-toe, before linking them over a hook on the outside of the post, pulling my poor breasts either side, tightly against it. I turned my head as much as I could, pleading for a release of some kind. Not a hope!
"Hmmm," he mused about something for a moment. "Yes, in for a penny, in for a pound, that’s what I always say!"
He unhitched the rods and, grabbing the pole, he turned it round. And then he pulled me up again. I was on tip-toe when my breasts again touched the pole. The shock made me jerk back, and only an expert save from Jeff prevented a loud crash. There were tips of pins jutting out of the post – that’s why he turned it around! This time my urgent moans were filled with disbelief. "Um Ung GnGGnt Mm UngrSSs!" meaning "Oh you cannot be serious."
He tightened the rods securely to the hook, raising it about an inch in the process, which doesn’t sound much, but believe me it is. An epiphany struck me – that’s why the butt-plug and dildo would shock me when the bucket was not down, because if the bucket WAS down, my nipples would be stretched unbearably. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.
"Hmmm," said Jeff, knowing I always hated what happened when he did that. "There’s a lot of biting flies OUT tonight, aren’t there? That could be unpleasant. Let me get something to keep them away."
I suspected that he would pull out the light-fly-killer that would give the neighbours more chance to notice me, should they happen to look out their windows in my direction. He wasn’t so subtle.
"Here’s some honey. Let me pour some on your breasts."
I couldn’t believe it! There were already a few biting me, and the honey would make it a hundred times worse. He had a strange interpretation of ‘some’ too – he actually gave them a good glazing!
"I’d honey your legs too but syrup should stay up better."
I wondered what all the syrup in our cupboard was for! He coated what small part of my legs were visible, pouring the remaining (but considerable) amount down my boots.
"What else? Oh yes, the joke shop," he said, scuttling inside.
The joke shop?
"I only went in for itching powder," he said, coating the rest of my body, my arms, the top of my chest, inside my panties, everywhere but my face, with the powder. "But I also discovered that they had some sneezing powder! Isn’t that great?"
He sprinkled just a pinch under my nose and I let rip with a wonderful sneeze that rattled everything and almost killed me! My head cocked forwards, tugging my arms upwards as they were tied to my hair. This pulled up the pinwheels on my bottom, sharply and violently. I remained on tip-toe, so my breasts weren’t too affected, but as I leant back in a recoil, the lead weight slammed into the bucket, tugging the clamps on my labia more severely than I thought I could stand.
"Alright, just a few more things – nothing too serious – provided you want to remain private that is. You’ll know that you can make a little noise as the gag isn’t too tight. Well, there’s a reason for that – I’ve arranged a microphone, linked up to an amplifier with speakers facing out to the neighbourhood. It’s not on now, but when it is – bless you, by the way, you should get something for that cold – it will pick up any noise you make and transmit it to all our neighbours.
"The final item is this – well, hat." It was an unattractive thing, like a tight cap with a tall, light metal spike sticking out the top. "You can’t see it, but the spike is going through the middle of a hoop about a foot wide. Should the spike touch the side of the hoop, spotlights will come on from the garden, lighting you up like the Fourth of July. Just a little incentive there. Oh, remember I told you to that if you stopped drinking that bad things would happen? Well, that’s one of them – the lights will come on."
That’s ONE of them? I thought as he went through his mental notes, trying to think if he’d forgotten something.
"Right, I think that’s it – have a nice night, Stacy. Twenty-four pints remember – it’ll get light in about eight hours, whether you’ve finished or not…"
And then he was gone. I heard him lock the door, and then waited for him to turn it all on – at the moment only the pump at the bottom of the bucket, and the vibrating box, were on. I wanted everything on so I could see if there was a position I could maintain where I wouldn’t be too uncomfortable.
I’ll never forget the moment – he teased me for a while, turning off all the outside lights and leaving me to stand on tip toe for ten minutes, doing nothing, when suddenly about five thousand different sensations hit me at once! I’d never felt such pain inside me! The electrical charge inside the dildo wasn’t too bad, and there was a little vibration – perhaps an oversight – but nevertheless, something which may give me pleasure, but the charge in my bottom was unbearable! It felt like someone had jammed a cattle-prod up me! I tested to see how long I could last on tip-toe, how long I could stand the pain. I tried to get comfortable – or at least less comfortable, but everything was against me.
To remove my breasts from the pinpricks on the pole, for instance, would involve me arching my back. This dropped the weight into the bottom of the tin bucket, still filled with a good amount of my piss, draining away. My labia felt unbelievable pain and my eyes began to tear up under the strain. That wasn’t all, of course – by pulling away from the post I increased the tension in my nipples, and also freed up some more of my flesh for the gnats to chew. Most of them were dining on the honey, and hadn’t reached my skin, but my cleavage was free, and a few courageous flies tried their luck in there. It was more of an annoying itch at the moment, but one that would get worse as the night went on – at least I could get used to the itching powder.
I sneezed again, and managed to control all parts of my body, save for my head, which jerked forwards. There was a loud, amplified snort, as though I hadn’t tried to mask a thing, and as the stake touched its hoop, I was bathed in light for five seconds. I panicked. It was an elderly neighbourhood, and goodness knows what they would think of someone like me in something like this! My eyes glanced around to their windows, but fortunately all was still black. I relaxed, the light went off, and I could breathe again.
And that was just the first five minutes.
I wasn’t at all comfortable on my toes, so I eased myself down gently, careful of the post-pricks and biting the gag with the pain of two absurdly stretched nipples, before finally sighing with relief as the bucket touched the switch to turn off the butt-plug’s charge.
The nipples were the main problem – they felt as though they were an stretched to an inch, at the end of conical breasts! As I said, I love my bosom, it’s full and round, and it takes a lot to make it conical!
It was then that I realised there was something Jeff forgot to mention. Whilst he wasn’t lying when he said that the switch turned off the butt-plug, he didn’t say that it would put a charge through my nipples! Already taut, they felt like they were now glowing with the electricity pouring through them. The surprise meant a shake, another five seconds of light, and the pain took me to my tip-toes once more, returning my breasts to the spikes. It was hell, but unforgettable, invigorating hell at the same time.
I just got comfortable, when all hell broke loose – the light went on AGAIN, my butt-plug charge got even stronger, and the nipple charge kicked in. I couldn’t understand what was happening, until I felt something trickle down my throat.
I’d forgotten to start drinking.
He had warned me to keep drinking – I remember now – so I started. To reach the valve I had to push myself upwards and outwards, arching my back (that damned weight) and shoving my bosom into the post. I pushed the valve, and the liquid came into me.
And then I realised the final irony of the loose gag. It meant my tongue was free, and my tongue had taste-buds. Had it poured the liquid straight into my gullet, I wouldn’t have had to taste the foul liquid coming through.
There was definitely Tabasco sauce in there, as well as strong curry powder – perhaps madras, but more likely vindaloo. I couldn’t be sure, but there may have been pureed chilli too. That was the spicy part. Mixed in with that was pure lemon juice, a fair amount of (drinkable) antiseptic, and orange soda. I hate orange soda. All of this was dissolved in an amount of urine, which, thanks to my corset scrunching my stomach, not to mention the vibrating box and the general disorientation, meant that the urine content was growing. I didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing. If I didn’t like orange soda the first time around, how would I like it the second?
Twenty four pints.
I’d forced myself to push until close to fainting, and got out perhaps two mouthfuls, and my mouth was rather small at the moment. Two mouthfuls equates to – about ¼ of a pint, and it would be a good twenty minutes before I could summon up the strength for another two mouthfuls. Still, the charges on my nipples stopped, and the lights went off. I was thankful for small mercies.
A long night stretched in front of me. I remember thinking – ‘eight hours – that’s the time it would take to watch a marathon on TV. THREE times. I’ve never watched a marathon – in fact, I’ve never done anything for eight hours with no break.’
After a while, I became angry with myself – I couldn’t understand why – it just seemed as though everything was conspiring against me. The gnats had reached my skin on my breasts, and were beginning to dive far, far down into my boots. I noticed also, for instance, that Jeff had put syrup at each of my armpits, as well as the inside of my elbows – fleshy areas now being eaten by these little buggers.
My nipples would never live again, I was sure of that much – they’d been abused so much – stretched, twisted, bitten, shocked – they’d suffered so much for me I cried a silent salute to them. I realised that the clamps increased in tightness the more they were pulled – it wasn’t just the stretching that made it more painful. So I had to stay on my toes as much as possible - that was the decision I came to, but it was not as simple as that – my itchy calves were trembling mere seconds after lifting up my heels, and my weak bladder was filling the bucket far faster than it could drain, straining my labia something horrendous. But that part of me seemed further away than my nipples, so I tried that.
All the effort was useless, of course – the tub above me would fill to the point when the overflow, or trip-switch, or whatever arrangement he had up there kicked in and started the ‘big parade’ as I called it, when the lights went on and the fireworks began.
I cared less and less of the neighbours, leaving the lights on for five minutes – although it meant that all the electricity was running through me, it did increase the amount of liquid I was drinking. I estimated that I drank about four pints in each of the second and third hours, urinating it in the third and fourth hours in joyous releases of urine.
Small things began to hurt more and more. The pinwheels for instance, which I thought were an afterthought, now became an old enemy – I knew what would happen, where it would hurt, at each of my possible movements.
But Jeff had been fair – he had warned me that I had to be rested and exercised, and I was. I’d never been more awake at 4am, despite my exertions. I got my second wind around then – the flies had mostly gone around my breasts, although my boots felt as though they were full of ants – not a pleasant thought but I had plenty of distractions.
What I hadn’t thought was that someone would be awake at this time. I still left the spotlights on for as long as I dare, as my neck was cramping up something rotten even though the spike atop my cap really wasn’t that heavy.
And then a jogger went past.
The jogger stopped. I could sense someone was there but didn’t know who, how many or their sex. I hoped for a shockable prude who would run away in terror – as if I could be that lucky.
I WAS that lucky, I’m pleased to say – the jogger turned and ran from whence he came – at least I though it was a man – not many women reflect moonlight off their bald spot.
I was making a mental note to be more careful, when the bald-spot returned – this time he approached the porch and quietly mounted the steps. He’d clearly plucked up more courage this time.
Besides which, Jeff had left a sign on the base of the porch, inviting anyone to help themselves to ‘Stacy, wretched slave girl, age 23. If you don’t like torture, just squeeze her breasts and leave.’ That was only fair – he didn’t want me to get bored.
"Hello," said bald-spot. "I’m Danny. You must be Stacy."
I hadn’t seen the sign, and was furious with Jeff for inviting one of his friends over to see me. Danny realised this and told me of the sign; he even asked me to nod if I agreed with the description ‘wretched slave girl’. I nodded, although I am only 22, actually.
Danny noticed immediately that the nod meant the switch, which meant the light, so asked me to keep my head back so he could examine me closer. I refused initially, until he noticed my reticence and grabbed my hair, tugging it back.
"Like you could stop me."
Strange, but he said it warmly – it was a fact, not a threat, so I wasn’t worried at all! I was more concerned at that moment, of another ‘reminder’ to drink. Danny watched me reach up and push the valve, wondering what sort of thing would happen if I didn’t. All he could see was the fact that I was pushing myself into the post, into the spikes, and lifting up the bucket! He couldn’t see the pain that I was feeling when I refused to drink the urine!
He brushed his hand against my breast.
"Urgh!" he said as he realised it was a bit sticky. He wiped his hand on my hair to stop me from giggling. It worked. I’d be washing that for a week now!
Knowing me to be sticky all over, he reached out and grabbed my left breast roughly, then the right. He pulled me away from the post, checked how sharp the pins were, and then let me go. When I immediately slammed myself back into the post and reached up to drink more (this reminder was from me pissing myself, like a horse this time as I’d tried to keep it in for longer), Danny was duly impressed. To be honest, there was a little of the showgirl in me, but it was mostly for my benefit, I have to say.
"That’s some trick you do, Stacy. Why can’t I meet a girl like you?"
I smiled at his comment.
"I’d love to torture a sweet lady like yourself – I’d never let you out of my sight!"
Smile – stopped.
"’Scuse me, Stacy, I gotta take a look at this bucket here."
Then he did something for which I will never forgive him. He removed the clamps on my labia. As the circulation returned there, five hours of pent-up pain surged through me. I let out the most enormous roar, startling every pigeon on the lawn, and bringing up a few lights in neighbours houses. Like it could get any worse.
It got worse.
Not content with giving me circulation, Danny rubbed life back into them, rolling them between his finger and thumb. I didn’t scream, but he went off my Christmas card list, I tell you that.
What was worse was that the bucket was sitting merrily on the switch, shoving volt after volt through my nipples! And I had no way to tell Danny this, except to plead with my eyes for him to reinstate the bucket. He complied, eventually.
"Look, Stacy, I’ve really enjoyed my time with you, but I have to go to work. Fortunately, the person who did this to you has left some things for me to do to you. He – is it a he? <nod> He’s even left instructions! I brought a few things of my own too, I hope you don’t mind."
So, after seeing off the scourge of the gnats, I was applied a second coating, this time just syrup, and in more areas. I think Jeff had avoided getting any actually inside me, worried of the consequences – he IS a fair and just man, as I keep saying. Danny, on the other hand, poured half a tin of syrup down my panties. Hardly just – certainly not fair.
"Here’s a rock for your bucket," he said. Well if that was what he had for me then I could cope with that! It wasn’t, and unfortunately, nor was the action of reaching above me and raising the hook, on which the bars attached to my nipples were held, by an inch, or in my term of reference, three miles.
"He writes that you may have adjusted."
He’d made it a thousand times worse (worse – was that possible? perhaps I had adjusted!) and still not reached his surprise.
"I saw this once in a magazine," he said, reaching for my breast. It was a big disappointment – after all the build up – when he just attached clothes pegs to my breasts. It did increase the pain, but not as much as the hook raising, for instance.
"You don’t seem perturbed by that – perhaps I can think of something else?"
I tried to look in more pain, but it was too late. He racked his brains beneath that bald spot, trying to think of something else. I couldn’t see what he was up to, but I could hear him messing with some stuff that Jeff had left beside my feet. It was about ten minutes before he’d finished – I took the opportunity to drink some more urine as my bladder wasn’t bloated (that was the cue I needed!) Despite everything happening to me, I was able to reach up, stand the pain, and take a full half pint at a time.
He’d dug deep, had Danny, to be fair.
"Your boyfriend has restrained you well, Stacy, but he’s left a few areas uncovered. This is a half-brick."
He placed a brick on top of my breasts and one last time, I yelped out a huge cry of pain, snorting some urine out of my nose. I could stand the brick, but not when he’d sellotaped some drawing pins to its base. They dug into my breasts, getting deeper in, second by second.
I shook myself, trying to get it loose, but he warned me of the consequences whilst adding a matching one to my other.
"I’ve tied these bricks to the tail-end of the dog collars that circle your breasts. Should you manage to shake them free, the brick will drop and tighten the collars."
That was all he said. He watched me in silence, balancing the bricks on my breasts, before pouring the rest of the drawing pins down the back of my panties, giving me a quick slap, and leaving for his home.
I thought I’d reached a stable level of pain, but Danny had brought me to a new one. Jeff would be pleased, and I imagined myself beside him, lying down, smelling fresh with no restraints. I was hitting the wall, where I feel I just can’t go on.
It’s this part of my restraint that is the worst – I cried for half an hour, watching the sun rise. Eventually I will get my second wind, but until then I just want it all to stop, yet know my position is helpless and hopeless.
When I finally decided that I would take my chances with the bricks off my breasts, I found that I had a hard job shaking them off. The bricks had wedged the drawing pins inside me. Goodness knows what my breasts looked like! They must have been red with gnat bites, speckled with all the pins sticking in them, orange with the syrup. All I know is that they hurt like hell, so I summoned up strength I didn’t know I had, and shook myself, not caring what happened to my nipples, nor the bucket’s clamps, not the charges running through every part of me.
The bricks fell.
I’ve a short memory when it comes to pain – I can never assess whether the level of agony I feel at time A is more or less than at time B. But I do know that the fresh wave of suffering caused by the dog collars tightening so much made me wince. I didn’t cry out – I was so pleased of that, but it was expected so perhaps that wasn’t so brave. But as the bricks swung back and forth, they tightened the loops still further. It felt as though my breasts were restrained by a child’s wristband, it was unreal.
Also, perhaps by accident, maybe by design, but the bricks came to rest at the tops of my thighs, where there was no covering. Two inches lower and they would have been rattling against my boots, but no – they had to stop THERE.
It was now rather bright out – perhaps 7am or so, but there were few people outside – I saw perhaps two in the time it took me to drink two pints. Neither saw me, thank god.
I knew that Jeff would be up soon, so I took a final moment to reflect on my situation.
Reading from bottom to top, my hells included:
- feet that were sticky and bitten, soaked in sweat that went up past the ankle.
- legs that were cased in leather, sweat and ants (who feasted on me from the sweat-line upwards)
- thighs speckled with holes from drawing pins being bashed into them
- a pussy that had suffered relatively little, actually! I was thankful for that
- but made up for by labia stretched down an inch
- and a bottom that was groaning under the pressure of the enema, the fierce butt-plug, and butt-cheeks tortured as though I’d been sitting on a bed of nails
- my bladder had had so much pass into, through, and out of it, it felt like a dam in a power station
- my waist was still 19 inches – that hadn’t worsened!
- but my breasts had suffered so much torture that to restate everything would defeat the object of a summary
- my arms had never been so restrained for so long – they were only now starting to ache, a fresh hell to add to the pile
- most of my body’s skin had been gnawed and bitten and reddened by powders and insects of all kinds
- and finally, my mouth had taken the foulest substances one could drink,
and yes, orange soda is no better the second time round
I’d thought about the orange soda whilst taking another desperate gulp from the tube. I was sure that I hadn’t drunk twenty four pints, but perhaps if I drank enough, Jeff would have mercy on me. After all, that was the only thing I had to do…
"…and you failed," he said.
That finished me off. I knew now that I would get no reward for my efforts, no cuddle from him, no love for another week. The weeping started again, but he was right. As I said at the top, was fair: he had set the rules and I failed to follow them.
"Come on, let’s get you down," he said. There was no anger in his voice, just disappointment. As he removed the gag, I asked him how short I’d been. "Four pints."
He left the metal bars attached to my nipples, and the bucket to my pussy – in fact, all he removed was the gag and the toe-restraints. I discovered why when we went in.
"I think five strokes on each nipple, and five on the pussy."
"No, please Jeff, not there! Anywhere but there!"
Useless. He removed the four clamps from the four clamped bits, quickly and efficiently, knowing that too much time would dampen my reaction.
Remove left nipple clamp, remove right nipple clamp, remove labia clamps, strike with a riding crop on the left nipple, just as a little feeling returns, ignore my primal scream and strike the right nipple, and then the pussy. I didn’t have to stay on my toes, but that last one made sure I did!
He carried on, and it was all I could do to stop running away. Fool that I was – I thought when he came out, it would be over.
"I think another five each for screaming. Be a little quieter – it IS
Sunday morning, you know."
After the fifteen worst moments of my life, my arms were untied and I was allowed to shower, bathe, disinfect, and whatever else I felt I needed to get myself clean. I thought I’d have treated my breasts first, perhaps the twisted, stretched nipples, but as I lay back in the bubble bath, my hands kept returning to my calves, which now felt as thick as my thighs.
I had to run a second bath (Jeff hadn’t told me to be quick so I had all the time I wanted) and as I sank in, he walked in on me. This wasn’t unexpected – he rarely gave me any privacy (one occasion when I was sitting on the toilet, he came in and pissed all over me! I can laugh about it now.
"I was cleaning up outside, draining the tub into a bowl that you’ll drink later on <oh no!> when I saw this note wedged under that sign I made for passers-by. Who’s Danny?"
I explained what he had done, showing Jeff the still-visible impressions the collars made upon me.
"Sounds like a nice guy. Listen, you’ll never believe it but he’s offered £1,000 to have you over at his place for 24 hours sometime."
I was gobsmacked, then flattered – a grand for one night?! I could earn £365,000 a year! I’d be dead by February, but even so! Visions of luscious designer underwear, latex sheets and diamond-studded collars filled my mind.
"I thought about this for a while," said Jeff, "and wondered if it were illegal to hire you out for money. So you’ll be going for free. Oh, and I wanted to discuss the situation you were in a little more – I’ve rigged up a duplicate in the garage – it’s much better there. Alright, you won’t be outside so no insects, but to make up for it I can whip you, knowing that any sound will not escape. I can leave you bootless and use pinwheels on your calves – that’ll be fun! And because I’ll be there to monitor you, I can use a larger enema, a larger dildo, a larger everything! It’ll be great! Actually, I think I should have tightened up the nipple restraints in the way Danny did. Although I’ll have to go further as he seems deviousness. But you won’t mind, will you – you’ve always said that you were worried about your breasts sagging…"
That was fair comment, I reflected, massaging my left calf.
00.00.07