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Thereafter, visits to the discipline room were added to my weekly regimen. And ironically, when I was returned to my cell after the first ordeal, crawling, the guards had set up a board, the infamous tiger bed referenced by Miss Denise.
I quickly understood the need. I was viciously caned with stroke after searing stroke and there was no way I could sit. Therefore in one corner of my cell there stood the evilly simple device, really nothing more than a sheet of plywood with a large hole, ostensibly for excretions. But in my case because the flesh on my buttocks could not withstand the gentlest touch, the board enabled me to lie without the skin exposed to any surface...and to lie thoroughly restrained... the mandated regimen which brought such continuing distress.
Yes, the woman had been that relentless and exacting, swishing the nasty cane with notably extended intervals between strokes. I screamed, kicked about with feet and legs, and listened to her laughter as my lurching tensioned my only restraint... the ball strap. The concave surface had prevented me from inadvertently rolling off to the sides. And so as I remained exposed to her cruel hand and slowly recovered from each searing stroke, I felt the tip of the rattan tap my testicles in warning. It was a signal to resume the required position, feet well parted, arms extended straight to my sides in mid air, chin on the padded surface to obediently ready myself for another. And another. And another
It was most evident that failure to resume the pose would mean the application of cruelty where a man can withstand very little.
Then as I resumed posing to her satisfaction, she would wait... for what I did not know. But after the third visit to her diabolical den, I realized that the intensity of the collective agony was very much intensified when the pain from the prior stroke was permitted to subside and the mind cleared to face the horrid realization that another would eventually follow and another and another.
I remember mentally urging her to get on with it, speed up the process to get it over with. But, she knew best how to maximum the overall catharsis, the mental trauma along with physical.
Afterwards I had to crawl for my guards. I could not walk. Each session ended with two crisp strokes to each foot, the ferocity causing my voice to give way with the subsequent scream. And I did throw up. What little was in my stomach found its way to the bowl. With the second stroke to my right foot my bladder opened, much to the whipmistress’s delight.
Gratefully, I remained unhooded for the return trip. Thus I crawled with the three guards pulling on the control rods. And of course I had to listen to their taunting comments, the references to my tears, that the whipmistress had successfully broken another male.
“Miss Denise return, you best talk,” was Mila’s simple advice as she emphasized her point by lifting the rod connected to my scrotum.
Later I was hooded and deafened on the tiger bed and found that the clever device was attached to a stanchion by way of hinges in the middle. Thus I was momentarily propped upon my extraordinarily sore feet, my wrists strapped well over my head and my ankles far apart at the bottom. The board was then swung so my feet went up, head down and I rested supine, feet and buttocks accessible for a soothing application of unguent.
Miss Denise’s comments concerning the board came to mind and I understood the profound humiliation such a position would imbue on a woman... urinating and defecating through the hole, the board swung to the upright position so that the condemned had to greet visitors, totally nude, with feminine charms spread for all to see.
Fortunately, I was so restrained only long enough to heal, then returned to four point restraint, the preferred torture for the male. In the chair the slow torment resumed; anally plugged, hooded, deafened. Mila took delight in clamping my tongue for a few hours per day... again admonishing that I should be prepared to use it when Miss Denise next visited.
The British nurse continued her enhanced regimen, ice cold enemas and bladder irrigations came weekly. And I learned that the Dominant female owned me with access to every part of my anatomy both within and without. Miss Denise would soon own my soul.
Yes, I broke. With Miss Denise’s next visit, I assured myself that my tongue and lips would run like a babbling brook. I was prepared to tell her everything and anything, given the opportunity.
But I had to wait. Meanwhile the unending boredom was broken with Mila’s feedings, daily cunnilingus performed for the middle aged guard, weekly thrashings, weekly visits to the calloused British nurse.
“Bobby... Bobby. Are you with us?”
The movie stops. It is the voice of Miss Denise. So pleasant yet so demanding. I blink and turn my head to look into the deep blue pools of Miss Denise’s eyes.
“You’re daydreaming, Bobby. The chair stimulates exotic memories? Your penis is most stiff.”
I smile demurely. Miss Denise playfully presses the puffolator. It is a most insignificant squeeze but I feel the results deep within, as if her very fingers are entwined about my male gland. The psychology of her dominance is exquisite. Such a peculiar manner of communication, but so succinct and effective.
Chapter Sixteen
What is it about power in a woman that so enthralls? That in suffering physically at the hands of such power I celebrate mentally, psychologically, sexually.
&
nbsp; The body seems so eager to sacrifice for fleeting moments of such control.
“You may speak, Bobby.”
Yes, the woman who so wantonly changed my life is suggesting that I speak. Yet I know it to be a command. I certainly learned that in Bangkok.
“What are you thinking about?”
Miss Denise knows very well about what I am thinking. She has duplicated the elements of my Bangkok incarceration right down to engaging an Asian keeper who speaks little English and has complete disdain for the male. But just as I had responded in Bangkok, once one opens to a skilled interrogator, the momentum of the process brings forth a strangely gratifying spewing of things long held inside.
In Bangkok, when given an opportunity to once again talk to Miss Denise, I burbled endlessly, my subconscious seeming to perceive that prolonged discourse would avoid the unbearable visits to the whipmistress and the incredibly demeaning interludes with the British nurse’s tubing filling sensitive apertures.
So there I laid on the tiger bed. Mila reached to pinch my bottom cheeks in a weekly test to determine whether my excoriated flesh could withstand sitting in the more standard four point restraint. As I gasped in response to her touch, the door opened and for the second time Miss Denise visited.
She smiled at my lying stretched out and helpless, a smile of irritating self confidence, as one would smile when winning handily in sports or at cards.
