14 Days To Redemption Ch. 13

Five cards later he saw the first sign of trouble. Looking down at his bedraggled wife, he could see that she was quickly approaching her breaking point. Harsh red stripes crisscrossed her skin where the ropes had bitten a little too deeply. Sweat stained her face and crevices, as though she had just run a marathon. Her normally full blond hair now lay plastered to her face and neck. And her tits and pussy bore the signs of repetitive punishments. He shuddered as he looked at her. She hadn't complained a bit as he'd put her through hell. She'd acted like a real trooper, with a strength he didn't think that he even had. And now this? He'd written the cards early in the first week, back when he'd been full of hate and anger. But now he didn't feel that way at all. In fact, he wanted to protect her, to honor her for going along so well. So how was he supposed to follow the directions on the card?

"Feel the weight on the Golden Gate," the card read. In this, he was supposed to attach clips to her pussy lips, then link them with a strong chain. Then by adding weight, her lips would stretch down and down, each second more painful than the last. He'd seen pictures of it on the Net, and a couple of chatting buddies had said how much their wives enjoyed the experience. But those women had been hardened S&M practitioners. Not a newbie like his wife. And she certainly hadn't given him any indication that she'd like this particular practice.

He'd read it aloud already, so he decided to improvise. Swinging the chair to the standing position, he attached a clip to each of her nipples, then linked them with a light chain. Two leaded weights pulled her nipples down a bit, but not very painfully. It was much like the position he'd put her in the previous week. Though this time the pictures would look far worse, given the red welts crossing her boobs.

He could go further, adding more weights, but that would serve no purpose. He'd already, once again, made it clear that he could do anything he wanted to her. The next card placed him into even more of a quandary. "Candle, candle, burning bright. Drip your wax all through the night," he read aloud, barely even recognizing his wife's pained look. He'd wanted to try wax works, as it was the kind of thing that provided more psychological results than physical ones. Forcing himself to look hard, cold and determined, he pulled a red candle from the drawer and lit it with a flourish. Though well strapped in, she still managed to shrink from him as he brought the candle over her fully exposed body. He tilted it a little to let the wax build up, then started to tilt it a little more . . . and stopped. He couldn't do it. He couldn't keep up the façade. She had more than fulfilled her obligation. She had earned not only her redemption, but his respect. He just didn't have enough anger or testosterone to keep this going one second longer. He wanted to protect her, not hurt her. He wanted to hold her and comfort her. Most of all, he wanted her forgiveness for this temporary insanity.

He knew he'd made the right decision when he noticed that his hand didn't shake at all. One slip, one quiver, and the bubble of wax would drip upon her soft, vulnerable skin. But his hand was steady as a rock as he withdrew the candle, turning and grimacing as the hot wax dripped on his hand instead.

"Get up. OK. We're done," he told Kelli, quickly walking around the chair and undoing all the straps. He didn't want the time to change his mind.

"We're done? Why?" she asked hesitantly, as though expecting a trick.

"We're done because you've done all I've asked of you. You've redeemed yourself. And I just don't have what it takes to keep going with this."

"We're done," she repeated, slowly, tasting the words on her lips. He helped her from the chair, supporting her with his arm as her legs almost buckled beneath her. "We're done," she whispered randomly, as he helped her up the stairs to their bedroom. Leaving her to sit on the bed, he turned the shower on, then dripped some bubble bath on the tile, so there would be a nice scented foam around her feet when she entered. She let out a squeak and then a sigh as the hot water first bit into her wounds and then began to salve them. He stood outside the shower, watching through the translucent glass as she soaped her hair and body, her hands gently caressing all the parts that he'd not so long ago tortured.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when the door slid open and her face appeared out of the steam. "What if I don't want to be done?" she asked cheerfully.

"What? I mean, I'm not sure . . . What?" he stammered quickly, completely thrown by her question.

"What if I don't want to be done?" she asked again, this time much more forcefully. As his mind groped for an answer, she reached across, grabbed his shirt and pulled him into the shower.

"C'mere, silly," she giggled, pressing him into the corner and then pressing her lips and body against him. Her kiss deepened and became all the more urgent even as she ground her hips into his, her wet bare skin sliding against his soaked clothing as though they were both covered in oil. Soon she was literally humping him as the hot spray rained down on them. He could see nothing save for her face; could feel nothing save for her body; and hear nothing save for her frenzied panting. He tried to reach between them to remove his shorts but she had her legs locked around his body.

To be intriguingly continued...