by Nicolas Travers ©
she was still retreating, still drawing him in. "Come in, come in."
Her purr was wholly enticing. "We have a little party for you. Some
festivities." She stopped, and reached out as Martin made to close
on her, and touched him with a black latex-gloved hand, stroking down the
front of his trousers, and Martin realised that he was wholly erect. "Mistress
Cane wants to chastise you a little for coming home late, before we move
on to more satisfying things."
She moved to one side, and Martin hesitated. His livingroom door was half open, and he could see an open bottle of wine and two glasses set out on the table. He felt Angela's latex-gloved hand on his elbow, propelling him forward, and he gulped. Christine lay reclining on their sofa, garbed in a kind of bra and panty set in the same black latex, with shiny suspenders supporting tight black latex stockings, and she was holding a whip, and flexing it between her hands. Martin wondered if he was dreaming. He had sometimes seen fantasy pictures in sex magazines, or out on the Internet, and had often felt excited. But Christine had never shown any interest, though he had hinted once or twice that fetish sex might prove challenging, whilst Natalie had dismissed all fantasies as distracting.
"We're going to undress you, and then dress you up again." Angela's voice was gentle and coaxing, as if she was speaking to a shy child. "Apparently fetish clothing is all the rage, so I ordered some for my boutique. I thought a trial run might be fun."
Now she was close to him, and he could smell the latex of her uniform and a heavier odour, the scent of sexual excitement.
"I'll start with your jacket and shirt, and then we'll lower your trousers." She took his jacket and tie, and began to unbutton his shirt. Martin raised his hands to take part, but she brushed them away. "No, not you. Just me."
He realised that Christine had left the sofa and looked around, but he could not see her.
Angela knelt and began to unzip his trousers, pulling the zip down slowly, and Martin could feel himself bulging hard in his underpants, and then she had slipped his pants down over his thighs, and he was naked, his penis a rodlike pointer.
"Now I shall dress you."
Martin realised that Christine must be standing behind him, because unseen hands passed some kind of black latex harness to Angela.
She held the harness between them. "Now raise your arms."
Martin hesitated. The harness looked like a straightjacket of some kind, and he was wary. But now Angela's latex-gloved hand was caressing him, and a second, unseen, hand was running a smooth latex touch up and down his spin, and he could not resist. He held up his arms, and felt catches being secured behind him.
"Now we have a little helmet for you."
Martin felt a latex mask being slid over his head. He could see out through two eyeholes, and his nose and ears were free, but a kind of solid ball pressed against his lips. He felt trapped suddenly, and tried to move his hands, but they were wholly secured. He began to struggle, because now he was alarmed, and he heard a woman laugh harshly. Unseen hands pushed him against the sofa, forcing him to his knees, holding him down as he struggled, forcing his arms up behind him, and he could feel the harness tightening on him, restricting his movements, until he could do nothing but quiver. Then the hands forced him forward, driving his head in amongst the sofa cushions, so that he was kneeling with his rump out behind him. He heard a whistling sound in the air, and suddenly a sharp hot knife edge of pain cut into him. He tried to twist his body away from the burning, but he was locked into immobility. He heard the whistling sound again, and a fresh wave of pain seared into his back. He began to whimper, it was the only sound he could make. But fresh lashes rained down, each building on its predecessor, and he heard a voice counting, and his mind could hold nothing but the pain in him, and the terror of expecting a new blow, and the pain was beyond belief in its burning.
"That's forty now." Angela's voice was calmly conversational. She looked down with displeasure at the mass of red welts criss-crossing Martin's back. "He's starting to bleed."
"I'd better get something to put under him." Christine eyed her husband's back with distaste. Blood had begun to trickle out of the welts, and she wanted no mess or stains on the sofa or carpet. She left the room, to reappear a moment later with a large plastic sheet. "He can kneel on this."
They lifted Martin, manhandling him together onto the sheet, taking care not to get any of his blood on them, and then looked at each other. His blood had begun to coagulate into dark sticky rivulets, but it was still very messy.
"We need something to stop him bleeding." Angela frowned. "Have you got plenty of salt? I read somewhere they used to pour salt water over sailors when they whipped them."
Christine thought for a moment. "We could try bleach. That hurts like anything if you get it in a cut."
The two women smiled at each other.
Martin barely moved as they wiped his back. He was in agony, but his pain was past caring. He could do nothing but suffer. But in a small, secret corner of his mind he was plotting vengeance. Sooner or later they would have to release him, and then it would be his turn. He would make Christine pay, in suffering many times what she was helping to inflict on him. He knelt, and he was in agony, but it was not an agony that would last forever.
Then, for a while, the room was silent. He could hear the two women talking together, a little way distant, and the sound of glasses being filled, and a small tentative shoot of hope began to grow in his mind. Perhaps the two women had sated whatever crazy lust had driven them to this.
The voices began again, and now they were closer, very close.
"Now we're going to operate." It was Angela's voice again, and she sounded pleased with herself. "Look what we've got for you."
Martin pretended to be unhearing. But he felt himself being manhandled onto his back, and the pain was again almost beyond bearing, and he was kneeling on the plastic sheet in a sticky smearing of blood, with his back now to the sofa, and his legs doubled up under him. Hands scrabbled insistently at his genitals, closing and tightening around his scrotum and squeezing him hard, and a fresh sharp fire of agony shot through his loins. He tried to scream, but the gag in his mouth gainsaid him.
"Look, Martin." He heard Christine's voice, and it was not the voice of the wife he knew, but a hard voice, an unpleasant voice, a cruel sound. He blinked, and his teeth were tight again on the gag in his mouth, but he could do no more than whimper. He could see Angela sitting cross-legged in front of him holding a long black kitchen knife, deftly honing the edge, and all his attempt at bravado, all his hopes of revenge, fled from his mind. . He knew implicitly what she had in mind, and it was wholly beyond believing. He tried to scream again, but he could no more than repeat his earlier whimpering, and his terror was a great black cloud that enveloped him, driving him to the very boundary of his reason. He felt himself pulled backwards, so that he was almost flat on his back, with his legs cramping beneath him, and he began to weep, choking in his mask, and his noise was an animal sound mixing fear, and dread, and horror.
"Christine and I have been talking." Angela's tone was conversational. She might have been discussing the price of tomatoes in the neighbourhood supermarket. "I suggested taking the lot off, right from the root. But she thinks you just need to lose your balls."
"You won't need them anymore." Martin recognised Christine's voice, but it was also the voice of a witch, cold and uncaring. He felt a hand lift his scrotum and pull upwards on his penis, and now it was swollen and hard with a terror that went beyond all sexual experience.
"I'll try an experimental swipe, then saw hard if that doesn't work." Angela sounded pensive, and she might have been talking to herself. But Martin had fainted.
The two women looked at each other. "He isn't much of a hero." Angela sounded disappointed.
"He never was. Just a lot of balls." Christine smiled. Martin was paying a price, in full, and he would never forget.
"We'll need somewhere where blood doesn't matter." Angela looked at the edge of her knife, where some bright drops of Martin's blood pearled along the blade, and then at the experimental red line she had sliced into his loin. "It's going to be messy."
"We could take him up to the bathroom." But Christine sounded doubtful. She was houseproud, and hated untidiness.
Angela sighed. "Is he worth it?" She wiped the blade against the side of Martin's neck, smearing his blood against him, and now they were both unsure.
Christine thought for a moment, and then shook her head. There had been a moment, one moment, when she had wanted to see Martin castrated, and totally unmanned, but his whipping had sated her, and she was full.
Angela stood up. Now she was magnificent in her housemaid's uniform, and it was clear she was a leader. She stood over Christine, and reached down, and her latex-gloved hand touched Christine's cheek. "You can't stay here."
Christine reached up, to intertwine their black-gloved fingers. "He's had a lesson."
"You should come with me."
"Will you beat me?"
The two women smiled at each other, and their smiles made a compact of understanding and support. Now Angela's eyes were tender. "I won't need to." She pulled, tugging Christine to her feet, and for a moment the two women were warm against each other. Then Martin stirred at their feet, moaning to himself, and they both looked down at him. He was something obscene, puffy and blotched across his back, marked with bright red welts, and they both instinctively recoiled.
Angela pushed at him with her fishnetted foot. "What about him?"
Christine pursed her lips. She was already mentally packing her bags, and she wanted no more part of this messy thing at her feet. She shrugged. "We'd better untie him and leave him to clean himself up. He's got the whole weekend ahead of him."
"He's lucky he kept his balls."
"He wasn't worth the bother."
The two women
smiled at each other. Martin Boston had sinned, and signed his own doom,
and they had punished him.
|Another top quality story by Nicolas Travers.|
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