Postcards Ch. 04

These were the breasts that had caused Sheila so much trouble. She hated them. I started by repeatedly flicking them with a finger nail, telling Sheila how they looked so pink and new. They were pink. I doubt this part of er ever saw light. Soon they began to turn red. I took some hand sanitizer and spread it over the blush, giving a moment for the alcohol to cool the skin. Only then did I use the flogger.

Sheila had given me a quick course in the proper use of a flogger. I knew that allowing all the strands to fall together is "thuddy". With a wrist motion I could spread the strands, producing a burning effect. This was the usual method, since the triangle cut leather was intended to mark flesh. For a more stinging effect, a snap of the wrist is used. All of these methods were demonstrated in the bedroom, on Sheila's prone back. The new situation, with Sheila's breasts below knee level, was not covered in our tutorial.

I let the weighted handle provide all the speed. Just before it reached bottom, I jerked my hand against the motion, causing the ends of the strands to snap, barely touching flesh. It was not a full blow, or even half of one, but the flick of the tips on near virgin skin brought a reaction. Tiny red marks were everywhere on the pink undersides of Sheila's breasts.

With a bit of practice, I was able to gauge the fall. There was a red area if they fell together. Producing a spread of individual marks was not easy, but practice makes perfect. The trick was to use the wrist to spread the blow, the pull back to restrict contact to the tips. As Sheila said, the triangle strands marked the skin vividly. I covered the whole area under the breasts carefully, before giving one extra flip to the crotch.

Sheila had long since given up trying to be silent. Only the gag restrained her cries. Even compared to that, when I flipped the end tips of the flogger at Sheila's sex, her reaction was pronounced. However, I did not think she had yet cum. This was as I instructed, but it was time to purge some demons.

I started talking about the night of the muggers. I described them in detail. I talked about the leader and how he commanded my attention with his firearm. I talked of my worries, concerning Sheila and our unborn children. I spoke of my relief when I had an opportunity to take the the leader out. In hindsight, it was a very therapeutic night for me.

During this lecture, I dangled the flogger, letting it brush Sheila's beasts and midriff. While I did this, I drew my secret weapon—three inches of sisal rope, half flared to make a brush. While my left hand was dangling the flogger across Sheila's belly and breasts, my right hand started teasing Sheila's labia with my stiff sisal brush.

Another legacy of Army life is an understanding of natural bristle fibers. Under certain circumstances, refusal to bathe is criminal. It seems obvious, until you consider dessert missions lasting a month and a half. Some soldiers develop a comfort level with the funk and refuse to change. The traditional penalty is scrubbing with floor brushes. I never witnessed one, but stories get around. I investigated. My little brush was makeup sized and stiff as a 90 day sentence.

It did not take long before the flogger was forgotten, so I dropped it. That gave me an extra hand to spread Sheila folds, not that the clamps were not already keeping it well opened. I brushed Sheila's oyster as if I was dusting a computer, trying to cover every nook and corner. Sheila writhed at the attention. I gave it a rest and picked up the flogger.

This was, I told Sheila, the moment of truth. All her hatred of her body had been pulled to her breasts. Could she feel the burn, I asked, giving them a couple of small flicks. That was minor, I said, compared to the weight of anger and guilt toward the muggers and the police. That emotion had been dripping acid into her most tender parts, I said as I brushed her glowing red cunt. It was an important place, I said, since she would soon need it to deliver a baby.

I dropped the little brush. In its place I dragged the ends of the flogger. I removed the clips, allowing Sheila to adjust to the returning blood flow. Everything was coming to a head and I wanted her to know it. I told Sheila that releasing her anger would hurt. Loss of the guilt would burn. Part of her would be severed, never to return, but there would also be joy in the release. I asked her if she wanted release at that cost.

I waited for an answer. On this, I could only ask, not tell. When I had confirmation, my hand lashed out.

Sheila:

It would be dangerous to judge Sean from his failed attempt at Kwajalein. He was out of his depth, fumbling for anchor points. At the cabin, he had focus and defined responses to target. Give Sean a map, then get out of his way. Not only is he strong as his namesake, he is also tricky as hell when it suits him. I never noticed him taking three inches of inner thread from a coil of paracord, nor three inches from a coil of sisal rope. Such amounts were not important to most people. Sean is not most people.

He did a very good job with the warm up. If you want to experience conflicting emotions, try giving pointers to someone using a flogger on your back. Since Sean wanted me able to wear a one piece swimsuit, he used a hairbrush to warm up my ass. I was in not position to complain, but his technique would get passing grades in any venue.

Outside was a slightly different picture. I always have my clients handle their restraints. Sean had me assist in tying me up, or upside down. There was a reason I owned an inverter. It is much simpler to tie them in standing, then flip them over. Doing a five minute handstand was very close to my limits. Having Sean tie off my hands was a relief. For comic value, he struggled with the gag and the blindfold.

It was enough for my professional self to wax derisive, til Sean put a largish ball in one of my hands. That was my safety ball. Dropping it would be asking out of the scene. It was large and heavy enough to require attention. It came to me how helpless and exposed I was. All my preparations, all the foreplay in the bedroom came crashing back. I was suspended naked, gagged, blindfolded, upside down and I had helped every step of the way.

My helplessness was accented by my knowledge that Sean held a very heavy flogger. However, he did not choose to use it yet. Instead he kneaded my tits and put two inch clamps on them. This was the size used to hold table clothes on a picnic table. That was not enough. He pinched my aureolas and used potato chip clips on the smaller section. At least there was nothing smaller for the nipples. As it was, gravity was pulling my breasts into unfamiliar shapes.

Sean moved on. He pulled at my cunt's outer lips, using more small clamps on each side. That was bad enough, but he hung weights on both sides, with every sign of leaving them there long term. It was becoming a very difficult to stay still and be quiet, though I doubted it mattered. Sean was not doing a behavior modification. He had something more essential in mind.

That said, Sean started by testing his control of the flogger. I had given him some instruction, but the position was ideal and my concentration less then perfect. In any event, it had been a short primer. Sean would need to adapt to less perfect conditions. He did. His first attempt bathed my left breast in fire. I could not hold silence, but this was not a time for counting demerits.

Intellectually, I could tell exactly what he was doing. He was using a wrist twist, coupled with a snapping motion. It caused a spread of the strands, but allowed only the tips to make contact. It would work as warm up for a more normal whipping. Since he was attacking some of the most tender skin on my body, it was like sheets of fire. I almost did not notice he was also working my ribs and belly. The torture of my tits was all consuming—until he hit my sex.

Sean knew I had issues with my oversized tits. He was punishing them for me. There was a symmetry there. In other circumstances, I would have admired it. Here it was foreplay for the main event. Sean's flip of the flogger against my pussy brought that whole part of my anatomy back into focus.

Long before, Sean had used clipped weights on my outer lips. The tug was never gone, but now it was center stage. I could feel the ends of the flogger against my torso, but it was unimportant. My labia was getting my full attention.

At first I could not figure out what Sean was doing. He had never stopped, but the lull allowed me to pay attention. He was talking about anger and guilt, about the muggers and the police. This was, he said, an acid dripping into my cunt. My cunt burned in sympathy. It would pool, Sean said, so it could all be purged at once. He stood so close I could feel his body heat through his clothes.

He was not wrong about the burn. Sean poked and prodded the outer portion of my sex in great detail. Everywhere he touched, fire followed. It was like being painted with flaming napalm, though there was clearly nothing chemical applied. When he mentioned my baby—low blow Sean—I was reminded of my priorities. Sean wanted to know if he could burn off the acid. My head was in a strange place, because I eagerly agreed. Sean used the flogger again and I passed out.

When I returned to consciousness, I was lying on the seat of the shower area. Sean had removed the restraints, including the gag and blind. He was rubbing lotion onto my poor breasts. It was the first time I could remember feeling sympathetic for them. From the condition of my privates, he had probably done them first.

My heavens I hurt, not just my tits and cunt, but my legs and head. Hanging from your heels also costs. I was in bad shape, but there was a languor that defied belief. It had to come from a massive endorphin release. I remembered nothing, but it must have been an orgasm for the record books. I could hardly wait to tell Christine. She would be so jealous.

Sean pulled me to my feet, then pushed me under the shower. He was still fully dressed, but he washed my hair, then put a robe around me and guided me inside. I was out almost before I hit the pillow. What is it about Sean that helps me sleep?