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On all fours, naked apart from her shoes, she crawled after this man, feeling humiliated and degraded, yet so deliciously aroused. She was learning that obedience to him, unquestioning and instant, brought its own reward...a fire that burned between her legs, and an ache that told her that her orgasm, when it arrived, would be deeply satisfying.
He led the way to the stairs, (which, thankfully, were carpeted), and up to the first floor. There, he opened a set of double doors and led the way into what could only be described as a dungeon. She had suspected that he was pretty experienced, but he had the kind of equipment that wouldn't look out of place in a top class fetish club...and she knew from experience what they looked like.
There was comfortably room for at least 15 people, there were padded benches, a Saint Andrew's Cross, a suspension frame and other pieces of furniture she could only guess at. Below the suspension frame, he told her to stand.
She did, her arms hanging loosely by her side. She watched him carefully as he picked up some pieces of leather with buckles.
He placed them on a near by bench, then picked up a wide posture collar. As he fixed it round her neck, her chin was lifted up, and its presence made her stand even straighter than her casual dancer's pose. He fixed her wrist cuffs, then attached a short metal pole from the back of the collar. The wrist cuffs were fixed to the bottom of the neck pole, keeping her wrists fixed behind her, but clear of her naked arse cheeks.
He knelt and fixed on her ankle cuffs, and then attached an expanding spreader bar. Gently, firmly, but steadily, so she didn't over balance, he pushed her ankles until they were about 80 centimetres apart. Not difficult for her, but with the potential of becoming uncomfortable over time.
Finally, he attached a rope to the back of the collar and then onto the wrists. Should she fall, she knew the thick collar would and the pole would carry her weight, but she also had no doubt it would be extremely uncomfortable, and even temporarily restrict her air supply.
All this time he had said nothing, setting her in place like some display mannequin.
He walked round her, testing the cuffs, ensuring that the rope was securely tight, happy that she was safe, if slightly nervous and on edge.
Standing in front of her again, he cupped his hand round full breast and weighed it. His use of her was so casual and yet right.
She gave a low cry as he brutally twisted the hardened nipple in his finger and thumb, yet made no attempt to stop him, feeling her cunt drip even more.
The hand that had been torturing her nipple moved south to her spread cunt, and without any hesitation, forced two fingers into her.
She couldn't help it...her orgasm burst through her and she shuddered and jerked like a puppet...held by the ropes and his fingers in her sex.
His dominance, her humiliation, and an act that had seemed only a step short of rape had triggered her climax, and she realised just how much he had primed her, opened her, aroused her without trying. Unconsciously she tried to thrust her breasts at him, wanting him to take something, to show her that he desired her with even one tenth of her lust for him.
Instead, he had waited until she had calmed, then pulled his fingers from her and wiped them casually on her face. She felt intense shame as she felt the moisture dry on her skin, and the fires of her lust started to build again.
He walked away, and came back with a thin cane and a set of clover leaf nipple clamps connected with a silver chain. She breathed heavily as the rubber grips bit onto her nipples, focusing on the discomfort to find her equilibrium.
He stepped away, He used the cane to tap the chain now swinging under the curve of her thrust forward breasts, and she expelled the air through her nostrils at the sharp tugging on the sensitive points.
And then the caning began.
Many people have the entirely false impression that a cane is about brutal strikes, six of the best applied as corporal punishment...or belaboured over arse cheeks to raise instant welts.
He was more creative, and so more cruel. He flicked the thin rod over and around her body, and each blow felt like a hornets sting, a cut that flared briefly, and then dulled to an ache. He didn't rush the beating, taking his time to mark her thighs, her arse, her stomach, her breasts.
Raven struggled to process the pain, feeling almost but not quite overwhelmed with the sensation. She started off grimly keeping quiet, determined not to give way to any display of discomfort.
But as he worked her body over and over, so his strikes became more and more intense. As they did so, he f
ocused more on her thighs and arse cheeks, knowing that he could strike those areas with much more force and not do permanent damage.
Raven's mouth opened and she started to cry out, a low keening at first as the fire burned across her skin, and then louder...punctuated with louder screams as a particularly harsh blow struck a sensitive area.
She needed this so much, this dark intensity, this absence of play, just a beating that became fiercer and fiercer, breaking down her pride, breaking through her self control, demolishing her will.
And then, he struck her bottom with brutal cutting blows than lashed her and made her jerk forward with each impact.
With each one she screamed in pain, and after the fifth, the tears started, tears of pain, of anguish, of remorse, of grief, of cleansing.
And still he struck her with the same intensity, fifteen more times, driving the tears out of her body and soul and onto her cheeks where they rolled to the ground.
Never, in all her time, had Raven been so thoroughly broken, so comprehensively taken apart and shown her vulnerability, and in pain and release, she cried and wept and howled her agony.
After the twentieth stroke had seared across her flesh, he threw the cane to one side.
