A Walk in the Park

I know what is happening at her home.

She hangs up the telephone, her heart racing. There’s so much to do in a short time, but she cannot help thinking about the fact that she will soon see me again. She will soon feel my touch once again on her skin, her body. She doesn’t let herself wonder about the instructions given. Somewhat offbeat, but she knows better than to question or to not obey to the letter.

She walks briskly into the bedroom and starts to peel off her clothing. She smiles to herself when she removes her thong, and realizes that already the crotch is damp.

She steps into the shower. She begins by washing her hair. The conditioner can set while she finishes lathering her body. She runs her soapy hand between her legs, lingering a bit longer than necessary. She is tempted to take a quick orgasm, but decides against it. My instructions mentioned nothing about one, so she dare not. When she is finished washing, she rinses the conditioner from her hair. Next she turns her back to the water spray and carefully lathers her pubis. After very carefully removing every trace of offending hair from there, she does a quick once over on her legs and underarms. As she checks the smoothness of her womanhood, she is once again tempted to linger there. She realizes that she is quite literally gushing. It is as if her body has a mind of its own, and like Pavlov’s dog, the ritual of preparing her body for my use has set off the chain of arousal. She unhooks the showerhead from the bracket and trains the spray on her nether regions. Instantly she is certain that this is a mistake. While it cleans her sex of the telltale moisture, it also massages her nub to the point that she really needs release. Reluctantly she stops, trying to even her breathing, and replaces the showerhead. The water is turned off and she exits the shower, dripping, in more ways than one.

She glances at her body in the mirror while she towels off. She is careful to lift her breasts and dry them. She dries under her bottom and taking a deep breath to distract herself, between her legs, front to back. The harshness of the terrycloth tugs at her again, and she groans. In the mirror her nipples are erect, standing off her breasts like thimbles. She smiles at her image in the mirror as she tweaks them, thinking how much I would like to have them between my teeth right now. And how much she would like that as well.

She dries and rolls her hair. It can stay while she gathers the things I told her to bring, and puts on the clothing I told her to wear. She pulls on a pair of nylon jogging shorts. She knows to pull them tight, so that the seam rides into the slit of her sex. A tight tee shirt tops the ensemble. On her feet, she places athletic socks and shoes. She fetches her small backpack and into it she places some moist towelettes, a towel, a Fleet enema, and a pair of black patent leather pumps, with very high heels and ankle straps. She calls them her hooker shoes.

Her makeup and hair is just finished when the appointed hour arrives. She rushes to her living room and kneels in front of the door to wait.

The sound of my key in her door makes her heart jump. She keeps her eyes on the floor just inside the door as it opens, and she sees my feet enter. The door is closed behind me. She can see that I am wearing jeans, a sweater, and my light hiking shoes. Her heart beats faster. She recalls the excitement of some of our other outdoor excursions. This could be an interesting day.

“Hello, pet,” as I approach her.

“Hello, Sir.” Her eyes demurely averted.

“You look ravishing today. Perhaps I should ravish you right here.” I chuckle at my own lame joke.

“As you wish, Sir.”

I reach down and grab a breast in each hand, kneading the soft flesh. I tilt her face up and she looks into my eyes for an instant before I lean to kiss her softly on the mouth. My tongue licks gently at her lips, and she parts them to accept the soft intrusion, but it does not come. Instead the kiss is gently broken, and she is left with her breath held and her lips ever so slightly parted.

“Shall we go?”

“Yes, Sir.” She rises and picks up the backpack. Eyes still down, she follows me out the door and down the walk to my car.

I hold the door for her. She is careful to enter the car as she has been taught. First she sits on the seat. Then she places first her left foot and then the right into car, so that in the middle of the maneuver, her legs are splayed wide for me. This has also produced interesting results when the door was held not by me, but by a parking valet, and she was attired in a short skirt without the benefit of underpants. She has learned that I am proud of her, and that it pleases me to show her off to both strangers and friends alike.

The drive is pleasant. Although it is November, the weather has not yet turned. The sunroof is open and the breeze is warm on us. The sun beats through the glass and makes the car very comfortable. The drive is brief, and our talk on the way is mundane. How our days have been since last we parted. Our respective jobs. The weather. I turn into a quiet public park. There are only one or two cars. It is nearly deserted.

We exit and lock the car. Two backpacks are retrieved from the trunk, one for each of us. We shoulder them and begin a walk in the park. As we start down the walking path, there is a sign. “Pets must be kept on a leash of maximum 5 foot length.”

“Ooops!” I dig in my backpack and find a collar and leash. “I think this is only four feet. It should do.” I fasten the collar around her neck and lead her down the path.

We walk for nearly a mile. We pass only one lone jogger. He pretends not to notice the leash by which I lead my pet. She has never been in this park, and is unfamiliar with it. Finally, we approach a spot where the path ascends a small hillock. On top of the hill is a wooden platform. It is approximately ten feet square, and built approximately a foot off the ground. There are wooden railings on three sides. It looks as if someone took a ten-foot square deck off of their house and plopped it right down on top of the hill in the park. I suspect that in the summertime, a picnic table sits on the deck. I have other uses for it.

I lead her to the deck.

“Put your pack down over there. Then strip for me, and put on the high heels.” The lead is unsnapped, but the collar remains on her slender neck.

“Yes, Sir.” She glances around nervously. The park is nearly empty, but the key word is nearly, and she does not relish putting on a show for a vanilla audience.

First she pulls the tee shirt over her head. Then the shorts slide down her legs. I think how cute she looks standing there in just her tennis shoes and socks. She fetches the high heels from her bag and sits on the edge of the deck to change her footwear.

I busy myself, opening my own backpack and laying out some of the contents. A rope, a leather flogger, my crop, all in a jumble on the deck.

When she is prepared, I lead her to the railing. If the three railed sides form a “U”, she is on the bottom of the U. I have her bend at the waist, and lay her shoulders on top of the railing. Her arms are stretched out to the sides. Taking a doubled length of cotton clothesline, I first tie her right hand to the railing. Then, I pass the doubled line over her arm and under the railing, repeatedly, forming a spiral up her arm, toward her body. I continue over her body, and then wrap her left arm the same way, until I tie her left wrist to the railing. I stand back and admire my handiwork.

Next, I run a line from one of her ankles to the adjacent side railing and tie the line to a post there. The process is repeated for the other leg. I pull the lines taut, until her feet are nicely spread. Her lovely round ass is nicely presented to me. She knows what is coming.

I fetch a blindfold from my bag and apply it to her eyes. I decide to leave her mouth uncovered.

The many tails of the flogger are dangled in front of her face. I watch her intently. I notice her nostrils flair ever so slightly. She has caught the scent. The muscles in her back tighten. I trail the flogger up over her head and down her back. Then I drag it up the crack of her ass. I very lightly flip it over so that it lies on her back, then let it fall off, again caressing her exposed anus.

“Are you ready, pet?”

“Yes, Sir.”

The first blow lands on her left buttock. Not very hard. Just enough to let her know that it has started. The second blow is no harder, directed at her right buttock. I admire the curve of her ass. The lines of her legs, the way the high heels cause her calf and thigh muscles to tense and define. I stand directly behind her now, and begin the rhythmic application of strokes on her ass. First one cheek, then the other. The flogger arcs in a figure eight. The intensity is increased slightly. At first there are discernible stripes, but soon, the entire flesh field is uniformly crimson.

I stop and check her breathing. She is panting, her breaths coming in short quick bursts. There are tears in her eyes, evidenced by the streaks on her cheeks. Her upper body has started to take on a sheen of sweat.

I lean close to her ear and whisper, “Are you all right, pet?”

“Yes, Sir.” She licks her lips. “Sir, I am very all right.”

I run my hand over her sweet ass, and feel the heat radiating from the reddened flesh. She winces a bit. My hand strokes, smoothes each cheek. Rubbing ever so gently. My hand wanders under her, to her smoothly shaven vulva. The lips are beginning to spread, to blossom like a lovely flower. The nectar of the flower is leaking onto her outer lips.

I stand slightly to the side of her, and begin to swing the flogger easily in a circular arc. I call it “wind milling.” The flogger spins like the blades of a windmill. The up-stroke is when it is close to her body. As I move closer, the tips of the flogger begin to contact her exposed genitals. I move yet closer, and now, the flogger on the upswing is coming into full contact with her sex. The tails wrap themselves under her, and caress her clit. She begins to gasp with each stroke, and to writhe in her bonds. Her knees begin to flex spasmodically. The flogger is having the desired effect.

She gasps in time to the whirling of the flogger. “Uh. Uh. UH. UH!” I can see she is building toward an orgasm.

I stop the flogging, and move close to her. One hand reaches under her, finds her clit and begins to manipulate it. The other hand alternately strokes her reddened ass or reaches under her to knead her dangling breasts. Her nipples, erect in the cool late afternoon air are fully erect, to the point of being painful. I make sure she is aware of that fact.

Her breathing is now in gasps as she grinds her crotch against my busy fingers. She can feel the familiar heat, building in her lower stomach. The wonderful feeling spreads up her body, to her tortured nipples. It is imminent, paused like an ocean wave about to break on the shore. Soon it will be too late to control. The crest rises before her, spume blowing off the top…

“Please, Sir, may I cum now? I’m really ready now, please. PLEASE?”

She knows the danger inherent in the request, but she dare not take one without permission. There is no way that this orgasm could be taken without my knowledge. Her worst fears are realized as both of my hands stop their ministrations, and I step back.

“No, you may NOT cum. Don’t you DARE.” There is a threat clear in the word “dare.”

She fights to bring herself down, sliding down the back of the wave, letting it go, watching it as it crashes onto the beach without her. A groan escapes her lips. She tries to stifle it too late.

“What did you say? Did I hear you say something?”

“Oh, no, Sir. I didn’t say anything, Sir.” She knows the game too well. Now she will be punished, because I took her so close and wouldn’t let her cum.

“I heard you, wench! You groaned. Are you unhappy with your condition?”

“Oh, no, Sir. If you are happy, Sir, then, so am I.”

“I don’t believe you, slut. You wanted to cum, and you don’t care a twit whether I wanted you to cum or not!”

She hears me stride across the deck. The next thing she senses is the unmistakable feel of the crop caressing her back. It slides, the shaft scraping the tender skin of her buttocks as it moves over her ass, then down her legs. Around in back of her knee it moves, then up the inside of her thighs. At last the tab lies on her clit. It withdraws and the slapping of the tab begins. Gently at first. In rapid succession. Covering first one buttock, then the other. Intensity increases. Now it stings horribly. Up and down the ass, then down the legs. Then the stinging moves between her legs and on her most sensitive spot. In spite of herself, she responds to the whipping of her exposed and open pussy. She can feel the dampness that has now spread down her thighs. They glisten in the late afternoon sun.

Once again her excitement is heading unrelentingly toward a crescendo. She cannot help herself she is building. I continue the ministrations of the crop, knowing exactly the effect it is having on her. Her body quivers with each stroke. Her knees buckle slightly and lock again. Her breathing is punctuated by squeaks and squeals.

“Oh, God, Please, Sir, PLEASE let me cum. I can’t withhold it, Sir, PLEEASSSE!”

I stop the caress of the crop, but again, I reach under her to pinch and tease her clit. This is too much for her.

“OH, GOD, Sir, I can’t HOLD it. Please let me cum.”

“NO, Don’t you dare cum. Not yet.” I continue to manipulate her.

“Sir, then PLEASE stop. If you don’t stop, I shall cum immediately.” She writhes to try to escape.

“Not yet, you whore!” With that, she loses it. The orgasm starts as a growl in her throat, then changes to a squeal, and finally a scream. My hand covers her mouth and she sucks air around and between my fingers.

“You shall pay for your disobedience, bitch.” I wipe her juices from my hand onto her back, and back away, as her body is wracked with sobs.

I pick up the flogger and move to the side of her. I start with an underhand swing, and lay the flogger across her dangling breasts. I keep the intensity low at first. I know that she is still feeling the aftershocks of her orgasm. The tails of the flogger tease her nipples. I move to her other side and repeat the process. Her breasts are taking on a nice rosy glow. I work a bit longer on her right breast, intensifying the whipping. Her breasts bounce with each stroke of the flogger. Her breathing is becoming ragged again.

For a change of pace, I lash savagely at her buttocks, hitting her with the full force of the leather flogger. She winces with each stroke. She is breathing hard now, and even in the open air I can smell her sex.

On the path below the deck, a jogger passes, staring curiously, not sure if the spectacle he sees is for real. He doesn’t slow his pace or stop. She hangs her head so that the jogger cannot see her face.

I drop the flogger and walk a short distance. I have spied a River Birch. It has long reaching branches. I choose a nice long one, and use my penknife to cut it off the tree. I swish the air with the switch. It is very supple. Almost like a buggy whip, but without the tail on the end.

I measure off the distance, by extending the switch at arm’s length, allowing the tip of the switch to touch her ass. The switch feels more like a branch from a weeping willow, yet, it is stiffer toward the shank.

SWISH!! I crack the switch-like whip over her ass. She cries out. A red stripe appears across both cheeks of her butt. This will work nicely. I begin flicking her with the switch, cracking it like a whip across her ass over and over. She grunts or cries with each stroke. Between strokes, she is sobbing constantly. But I also notice that the lips of her sex, visible below her buttocks, are pulsing. She may be in pain, but she is thoroughly enjoying this whipping. It is time to make some marks.

I use my penknife again, to cut the switch shorter. The switch is reduced to a branch, about three-eighths of an inch in diameter. Aside from the natural suppleness of the thin green wood, there is no whip to it at all. It is very much like a cane. I plan to use it as such.

I now move to alongside of her again. I start at the bottom of her buttocks, just where her legs meet her cheeks. I lay the switch across her bottom there, to let her know what is coming. She intakes breath sharply. I draw back and lay the switch across her ass with a full force blow.

A scream escapes her lips, and she tries to lunge forward. She is held tightly against the railing so there is nowhere for her to go. She tries to dance, but her feet are fairly well immobilized where they are. She writhes in her bonds, and begins to beg for mercy. There is none forthcoming.

I spend the next ten minutes etching a ladder of carefully placed stripes up her ass, from the tops of her thighs to the top of her crack. I place a tightly packed pattern just where her ass and legs meet. She will be reminded of today each time she tries to sit tomorrow. When the welts begin to crack and bleed just a bit, it is finished.

I toss aside the birch branch, and approach her. She continues to sob uncontrollably. I caress my handiwork, and she winces, and breaks out in crying.

I’ll reward her by giving her a sound fucking, but there are other things to do first.

I fetch the Fleet enema from her bag.

“I need to clean you out, pet.” She knows what that means.

“Here, Sir?”

“Yes, here.” She gasps, then sighs heavily.

I carefully administer the enema to her. Then I walk outside the deck railing and move in front of her. I take off her blindfold, and stroke her face. She blinks, trying to adjust her vision. I tell her how well she took her whipping, and tell her that I am proud of her. I crouch in front of her and kiss her face, licking the salty tears from her cheeks. I stroke her hair, and kiss her lips.

“Sir, I need to… um… go.”

“Ah, yes, the enema. Are you quite sure that you are ready now?”

“Oh, yes, sir, quite sure. Please, Sir, untie me, and let me do it.”

“Very well, pet. Please do not soil this fine deck.”

Careful to stay in front of her, I start to untie her. First I untie her left wrist. Then I carefully pass the double line through the railing, unwinding it from her arms as I go. I take my time.

“Please hurry, Sir. I really have to go.” I continue to work carefully, taking my time. She is dancing in her restraints, trying to hold it in. “Please, Sir,” she begs. At last I untie her feet. She looks around franticly, searching for someplace to relieve herself.

I toss her the box of moist towelettes, and motion toward a tree some thirty feet away. “There’s a trash can over there, to dispose of the towels when you’re finished.” It’s not the first time I have taken her outside to use the toilet. Sometimes she is treated like a dog. This is one of those times. Embarrassed, she goes behind the tree and squats awkwardly in her high heels and does what she needs to do. After discarding the towelettes, she returns, ready for my continued use.

We gather our things, and move to a nearby picnic table. The table is typical wood, but this one is covered. There are four posts, one at each corner of the table to hold up a roof. The possibilities are immediately aware to both of us.

I smile at her, and without having to be told, she sits on the end of the table to await me.

I spread the towel she has brought with her on the tabletop. She lies back, and extends her arms over her head, waiting. Using a double length of cotton clothesline, I fasten each of her wrists to one of the posts at the end of the table near her head. I go to her feet. Her legs dangle over the end of the table, her ass is just barely on it. I take her left leg, remove her shoe, and again using a doubled length of clothesline, tie her foot high up on the post. Then her right leg is tied, as well. I grab her by the hips, and pull her so that her ass just hangs off the end of the table. I am satisfied with the presentation.