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Abruptly standing back, Britta observed the view critically, thinking that Robin was certainly a well-built woman with physical assets perfect for her needs. Her bottom was well-rounded, the cheeks perfectly shaped, and her cunt seemed larger than some; the cleft full, a rosy color, and beckoning to be punished, no different than the way the rest of Robin’s body cried out to be abused.
Britta landed a number of blows with the flogger against Robin’s back, nearly a dozen landing across the submissive’s shoulders, then she shifted her aim back to the firm, red buttocks.
Robin took in the soft blows, feeling the arousal in her soar. But this was not enough, not this night. She wanted to be knocked out of her thoughts, driven to a Neverneverland on the wings of this leather instrument. If it flailed her for hours, she’d be happy; she needed a long hard session.
Just as Robin hoped, Britta was only warming up. She soon changed techniques and a stream of fiery blows from the flogger cascaded across Robin’s shoulders again. The woman’s aim then lowered to Robin’s bottom for more hard abuse. The mistress made the flogger sing each time it struck, and each time she repeated the beating, Robin was driven deeper into her absent state, the welcoming pain purging her anguish. When the mistress nipped her anal cleft with the flogger’s thin thongs, Robin shrieked, almost losing her balance against the beam as she twisted to the side.
After one particularly vicious blow that almost sent her to the floor, Britta paused long enough to remove the ropes and shackles from Robin’s arms and wrists, retying her subbie’s hands to the bottom of the wooden structure, making it easier to suffer the harder punishment.
Although the repositioning would relieve Robin’s body of the intense strain, it meant a more brutal chastisement. Her desire redoubling, Britta let loose, delivering a thorough beating in the tempo of a march, with a beat as steady as feet in measured cadence.
With each blow, Robin lost a piece of herself, flinging her ego back to its source, where she didn’t have to think of anything at all. This was the bliss she was after. Nothingness, pure sweet fiery pain, then nothing at all. Like spiraling down to the bottom of everything, with nothing to get in the way of her surrender. Only her selflessness remained, rushing over her like an embracing shroud, protecting her, loving her in this sweet abuse.
The mistress paused for a time, only to have Robin sway her forgotten rear as a reminder that she wanted more. Starting in again, Britta increased the tempo and the hurt, until Robin quickly slipped back into her beloved sub-space. The stops and starts became as rhythmical as the blows. As the cruel flogger danced across her bottom, she urged her mistress on, and the hard beating did not stop until a brilliant rash of red stripes were etched deeply into Robin’s flesh. To Britta’s credit, there was not a drop of blood; she could be a prudent mistress if she so chose to be.
When Britta finally stopped, Robin’s mind was blank and free of thought, quiet and at peace.
Pressing her hand against the molten valley between Robin’s legs, Britta gently massaged the steamy flesh, while listening her subbie’s moans of pleasure. For a time the woman alternated her loving caresses with vicious slaps to the sub’s sensitive cunt lips. Then she suddenly shoved the flogger’s handle into Robin’s vagina, and ignited a hard climax. Her victim’s inner muscles tightened around the violating handle, as if she were trying to seize every feeling and hold on to it forever.
When at last Britta removed the flogger, Robin came back to life, almost choking on the smoggy incense. It burned her throat the way hash might.
Robin remained bound for some time while Britta watched the red color fade away and her backside pale. There were marks that would remain for several days, and bruises rising underneath the skin. Britta knew that Robbie would think of her mistress when she saw them.
It had been a pleasing scene for Britta; she’d orgasmed before she let Robbie have her climax. She’d felt the rush inside her body in the middle of the last cadence of blows—the ones aimed right on the center of Robbie’s ass cheeks. Hearing her submissive scream when she brutally lit into the tender flesh set off an exhilarating climax deep inside her belly. The great spasms came in a wave that passed through her—the sensation as psychological as it was physical. Robbie had always been good for this kind of erotic experience.
The unplanned scene had been good for them both. Britta was actually glad that her evening had been interrupted by the needy sub. She’s have to punish her again for not making an appointment in advance but she wouldn’t be that nasty when she did. At the moment, however, she too exhausted to begin anything new.
“So Felicia’s dead, hum?” Britta said. “You are talking about Felicia Roman?”
Robin murmured something back.
“So sad,” she mused. “I once let her be slave to me, but she was impossible to train. Sometimes she’d give herself to me so fully, there was no way I could satisfy her need for punishment, and I’d have to back off because I couldn’t hurt her, not really, no more than I could hurt you. Then sometimes, Felicia would bark at me, the little bitch, her eyes would flash like she had demons coming from them, as if the sky had turned to flames, and then to ash. She’d die on me, act like a baby. I loved her when she was with me, but I could never do anything with her extremes.” Britta’s voice drifted sadly. “Can you imagine that? A woman too extreme for me?” She pondered the thought a moment longer, then came to her senses, noting that Robin was still tied to the whipping bar.
“You know, if you came to me more often, Robbie, I could do more for you. You would make a fine full time servant.”
Being a full time servant was something Robin would never do, so she declined to comment on her mistress veiled proposal. Meanwhile, she heard Britta shuffle behind her, and realized that remaining upside down was becoming painful. Her thighs ached and her head pounded as the blood raced against her temples. Robin wondered for a moment what it would be like to be the woman’s slave, twenty-four hours a day, every day. Once, when she needed to escape the pressure at work, she’d taken three days off and landed in Britta’s den. The woman made her crawl like a slave, then she was ignored for hours and later abused; in time, becoming so selfless that it was difficult to return to the real world. How easy it would be to give herself away to the hard pleasures of sexual service. Britta often talked about her staying, but Robin had the feeling that the arrangement would never work.
The mistress finally undid the ropes that bound Robin to the spanking bench, then she grabbed Robin’s hair and pulled her to her feet. A little dizzy, Robin sank back and rested her bottom against the leather-covered bar to keep her balance.
“Put your hands behind your head!” Britta snapped.
Although dazed, Robin managed to lace her fingers at the base of her neck behind her and open her elbows the way the mistress wanted. Her tits had almost completely popped out of the corset, and her nipples were rock hard. Robin didn’t bother to look down at the previously marked flesh. In a moment, Britta would punish them more—marks like these were Britta’s trademark, what Robin had to put up with to get the rest of what she needed. The next day she would look in the mirror at her wounded flesh and remember being so submissively degraded. She would masturbate just thinking of the harrowing savagery. She would open her blouse to revisit her wounds, and tell herself that as bad as life was on the other side, these moments with her mistress were a private indulgence that satisfied her deeply. If she only had someone to share them with. Leslie maybe? Wasn’t that a silly idea
!
Picking up the thin crop again, Britta flailed Robin’s fair flesh, making it burn and the cuts strike deep. Robin cringed with each one, hoping each was the last. When it wasn’t, she welcomed the next with a wince and tiny screech, feeling the pain rifle through her and settle deep inside her crotch. She would masturbate again soon!
With the last blow, Britta announced, dismissively, “Go now, girl. I’ve had enough of you for one night. I need my rest.”
Freed from the woman’s control, Robin hastily removed the leather bustier and returned it to the wardrobe, neatly hanging it inside while dozens of Britta’s things were still strewn about in one wild mess. Picking up her clothes, she dressed, feeling now a comforting tightness in her body. She was sore where the whip had struck; though now it was little more than a pleasant ache to carry with her. She didn’t say a word as she dressed. They never talked afterwards—an unwritten rule. In truth, she had nothing to say to the woman, her actions spoke more loudly than her words ever could.
It was midnight in the real world. The street was hazy with fog and a harsh orange light that was uncomfortable on Robin’s eyes. Even so, her mind was clear, and her body was at peace. She’d be able to sleep, and then meet Leslie in the morning.
Chapter Three
Robin drove to The Hill as if she was going home, an all too familiar feeling she had to shake. It was a mystery to her that she could remember it so well even after ten years. But then Felicia’s face would often cross her mind, vivid and unambiguous. That had to be the impression everyone had of Miss Felicia Roman; good or bad, it was always vivid.
The house stood as a monument to Victorian bric-a-brac: turrets, front porches, and dank musty smells. Pulling out of her car, Robin looked up at the tower room imagining what Felicia had looked like lying dead in her bed. It was only appropriate that the woman die there on top of her satin covers, between the four posters of her massive antique mahogany bed, inside a room that would be infused with her distinctive aura. Even the bondage wasn’t so strange.
