Peppermint Ch. 01: Deborah in Pain

Peppermint Ch1.

So, how did we come to this? Neither of us had this in mind when we started. It had been you that was dominant - had made a career from being dominant - and yet it was you who knelt with your wrists cuffed behind your waist, buttocks resting on your heels and your nipples clamped between the pages of the leather-bound atlas that lays upon the low, object-covered table, a large iron kettlebell pressing the pages shut and trapping you in position. I can hear your measured breathing and know that from the depth and rhythm that although you are in pain you have a long way to go before your threshold is reached. The quiet is uninterrupted, the sounds of the outside world remote and unimportant. There are cars in the street, aeroplanes in the sky, but for you the entire world has shrunk to this room. This room at the back of your house, with the patio doors that lead onto your raised deck closed, the clock on the mantlepiece silent. I know how your heart will be beating, measured, steady. Your pulse, regular and strong will be loud in your ears as you wait for me.

It almost seems a shame to disturb the scene, but I do so anyway. I breathe in, deeply, sucking in the warm afternoon air, feeling it fill my chest with an almost indecent enthusiasm. I slip through the patio door, carefully closing it behind me. You don't move, speak or give any indication that you have noticed me; good. Everything is orderly, the room spotlessly clean and arranged how I had ordered it. You are dressed according to my instructions, the straps of your bra loose and hanging down, resting in the crooks of your elbows, your breasts spilling over the small cups to facilitate your capture. Black hold-ups rise to mid-thigh and the leather slave collar I bought you is fastened around your throat. Again, good. You have arranged your hair, darkfire red, to cascade down your back to the tops of your buttocks. Kohl darkens your lashes and eyelids until they merge into black nebulae.

"You are ready for me. You have done well. How long have you been here like this? Nod your head if it has been longer than an hour". My voice sounds too loud, too harsh, for this setting, but I steel myself to it as you nod slowly. "As I instructed. Do you feel pain?" Again, a slow nod. "Are you uncomfortable?" This time a steady, careful shake of your head. "You have your safe word; should you use it, all activities will cease. I do not wish to hear your voice until you use it, is that clear?" In this I am torturing myself, for I love the sound of your voice, but I have been given a role to play. You nod again, still facing forward. I move until I am standing at your right-hand side and rest the fingertips of my left hand on your shoulder. "Look at me, Deborah," I say, and at the use of your name I hear it, that slight intake of breath that gives you away. You turn your head slowly, so as not to rip your nipples free of the atlas' grip and tilt your chin towards me and I see your dark grey eyes dilate slightly. For someone so used to the position of strength you have more tells than you might care to admit to. I know who and what you are and I know how aroused you must be.

"Would you like more pressure?" I ask, moving to stand behind you. There is no hesitation in your answer, and you nod willingly. I lift another kettlebell from the rack to your left, lift it over your head and place it roughly down on the atlas. A whimper escapes you as the pain in your nipples increases and your hands shake, rattling the cuffs. "Too much?" I ask, but you shake your head. I kneel behind you, grip your shoulders and rock you slightly backwards, stretching your nipples away from your chest. "Maintain the position," I order, and trace my hands over the soft skin of your breasts, noting with approval how the puckered skin of your areolae contrasts with the sharp, compressed pages. Your skin is warm, the first sheen of stress sweat beginning to form on it. I gently cup and then slap each breast in turn, first right, then left. Two short intakes of breath are the only evidence that you noticed. I slap each breast a little harder from above and your breathing begins to quicken. I run my fingers through your gorgeous hair from scalp to buttocks, then stand and walk around the table to look you in the eyes.

"It is time to begin. Lean back until you pull your nipples free" I say, and you pause for the briefest moment before allowing yourself to fall backwards, tearing your aching nipples from between the pages of the atlas, which snap together with an audible click. You give a loud whimper of pain as the blood returns, blossoming into a burn which causes the whimpering to become louder and more pronounced. You writhe on the floor for a few moments until I command you to stop and kneel again, facing away from the table. You steady yourself with a few deep breaths and then do as you are bid. I come to stand in front of you again and reach down to take your right nipple in the fingers of my left hand. "Look at me" I say, and as you do so I twist the dark bud hard to clockwise, grinding it between my thumb and first and second fingertips.

Your whimpering becomes a moan of real pain and your body tries to protect itself by pulling away from me. I redouble my grip and tell you to stay still. With effort you comply, and I gaze into your eyes, marvelling at your lack of fear even as the sparkle of barely-held tears gathers. I let your nipple go and watch as it returns slowly to its normal shape, retreating but not defeated. "Nod if you want me to do the same to the other" I say quietly, and, holding my gaze, you nod once. I seek out your other breast and grip the nipple firmly, pinching it as I twist it hard. This time your response is part moan, part sob, but you maintain eye contact throughout. "Good girl" I say. "You're strong and I like that." I gesture you to stand, and you do so, drawing yourself up to your full 1.6m. I slip the straps of your bra up over your shoulders and carefully replace your breasts in the cups. A momentary look of disappointment crosses your face but clears at once as I say "We aren't finished yet, Deborah. We aren't finished yet."

Telling you to turn around, I reach into my pocket and remove the key to the handcuffs, which I unlock and place on the table. I run my eye over the waterfall of your hair, the scoop of your back and the swell of your buttocks. Allowing my gaze to drop lower I note the curve of your hips, your silk-clad thighs and the delicate arches of your feet. Not for the first time I wonder at the luck that has led me here. "Stand with your feet shoulder-width apart" I say quietly. "Remove your bra and use your hands to touch your nipples." Instantly you obey, just as you assured me you would. I play back our previous conversation in my mind, recalling how you'd said that you would do whatever I told you to. I walk slowly around until I am standing in front of you and you look up at me with trust in your eyes. I watch your fingers pinching your flesh, manipulating the pale skin as you edge your excitement higher. I allow a full five minutes to pass; your nipples are fully erect when I tell you to drop your hands. "Are you wet, Deborah?" I ask. You nod and look at me beseechingly. "Do you want to come?" Another nod. "Use your right hand to touch your clit."

With one swift movement you slide your fingers across your belly and between your legs, dipping them into your wetness and finding your clitoris immediately. I see your body shudder slightly as you stroke yourself softly. "Use your left hand to slap your right breast." You follow my instruction immediately and begin to slap yourself, gingerly at first but with growing confidence. An area of reddened skin soon becomes apparent. The sounds of your ragged breathing and moans are now prominently audible in the room, mingling with the ongoing slaps, and the skin across your upper chest is beginning to flush. "Are you close, Deborah? Are you close to coming?" You nod repeatedly and begin to arch your back, pushing your breasts towards me.

"Stop!" The command jumps from my lips and you force yourself to cease your caresses. Again, I hear you sob once and you look at me half in anguish and half in lust. "Cross your arms across your stomach and stand with your feet together". You comply, obviously regretfully. I can tell how badly you want to climax and I am determined to keep that from you for now.

"You can climax, Deborah, if you want to. However, that point will mark the end of our activities. Do you want to end them now, with an orgasm?" Your chest heaves as you shake your head, the pre-echoes of your denied coming reluctant to leave. Nevertheless, you wish to continue, to test yourself against me.

"Good. I would be... disappointed if you were to prove so easily swayed." A hint of a smile touches your lips before being quickly subjugated as you stare once more at the expensive Moroccan carpet on which you stand. "Drop your arms to your sides. Do not attempt to touch yourself. Do you want more pain, Deborah?"

Again, you nod once, confidently.

I direct you to retrieve your bra and hand it to me. Once you have done so I use it to tie your hands behind your back and then turn my attention to the table again. Relieving it of the weight of the two kettlebells, which I replace on the rack, I take the short black crop which you have selected from where it lays behind the atlas. "You are to stand exactly where you are, without moving. I will strike you repeatedly with this crop. Should you want me to stop, you will use the safe word. If you speak, I will stop immediately and our activities will cease. Do you understand?" That confident nod again. "Let's see how much you want, shall we? Remember, Deborah, this is not punishment and that you asked me to do this."

With that, I tap you smartly on the abdomen with the folded end of the crop, just under your left breast. When there is no visible response, I repeat the action underneath the right. Still no response, so I begin to hit you harder, first left, then right, increasing in ferocity until you are flinching before each impact. I move the impacts upwards to the upper swell of your bust and continue to land the blows. I can tell that your strength and will are beginning to battle the natural urge to escape the pain, your bound hands clutching at the air behind your back, your breathing becoming sharper and your legs beginning to twitch. The red patch left by your own slapping of your left breast is now joined by a paler patch on your right, the skin becoming inflamed.

"I will hit you twice more, and then you will kneel where you are." I say, my voice emotionless and alien even to me. You nod, and hold your head up high, pushing your chest out to receive what you know is coming. I bring the crop down hard on your right nipple, the leather tongue licking hard at your erectness. A guttural sound, part scream and part sob, breaks from your lips and your breath comes ragged as you lean forward, spilling your hair forward and across your face. I admonish you for moving, straightening your stance and fixing your hair with a tenderness that belies the viciousness of the blow I've just landed. "You didn't move your feet; good girl. Only one more now before we move on. Nod if you want me to continue." You take a breath and nod again, resuming your confident position with your chest outthrust, your breathing still ragged but confident. "I like your spirit, Deborah. Would you like the same force or more for the second blow, I wonder?" Before you can react I make the decision for you, bringing the crop down once more, this time with the greatest force yet, right onto the tip of your left nipple. You shriek, your first full utterance since I entered the room, and bend forward again, moaning softly to yourself, eyes closed.

"Kneel." A single word, but one imbued with power and menace. You sink to your knees again in front of the table, in a similar position to that which I initially saw you. Your body shakes slightly, a sheen of sweat evident across your shoulders. I crouch behind you and untie your bra from around your hands, seeing slight red marks where the straps have bitten into your skin. "Put it on. As much as you seem to like it, there will be no more abuse of your breasts, for the moment, at least." You use slightly shaking hands to replace the bra, taking care to arrange yourself comfortably, avoiding touching the inflamed areas of skin and your burning nipples.

"At this point, I will assume that you want me to continue. I can sense your strength, your hunger and your arousal. From this point on I will not ask you if you wish me to continue; I will only stop if you accidentally speak, you climax or if you use the safe word. You will now be given the option to choose what happens next, Deborah. If you wish me to concentrate of your buttock and legs, raise your right hand. If you prefer that I work on your back and shoulders, raise your left. Also, following the activity you opt for, I will take some time to see to my own wants, so be warned. Back and shoulders, or legs?"

You raise your right hand, signalling that you wish me to continue my work using your lower limbs as my focus. Before we continue, though, I pour water from the glass jug that stands on the mantelpiece into a tumbler and hold it to your lips. You drink slowly, savouring the cool liquid as it makes its way into your mouth and down your dry throat, settling in your stomach. As much as I am enjoying our activities, I have no wish to cause you lasting harm or see you fail in your role due to dehydration. I tip the glass back to enable you to drain the tumbler, the last drops spilling past your lips and running down your chin, dripping onto your chest and soaking into the blackness of your bra. I allow you to kneel there in silence for a few minutes; your body begins to settle, your pulse slowing and the sheen of sweat drying. I admire your body as we wait, its structure perfect, fit and strong and oh so feminine.

You have the skin of a woman much younger than your forty-two years and your beautiful breasts sit high on your toned chest beneath the hollows of your clavicles. Your thighs and buttocks, soon to be the objects of my attention, are taut and firm in their silicone-topped hold-up stockings. As always, your hair reminds me of fire in the dusk as it drapes your shoulders and works its way down the bumps of your spine. I marvel to myself again; how did I find myself in this position, bringing my will to bear on you, causing you the pain that you want? Will you use your safe word, or allow me my freedom to exploit you fully?

I force these thoughts from my mind and focus on the task at hand. "Stand up. Turn to face away from me and tie your hair into a bun." You do so, using a black elastic hairband that lies ready on the all-providing table. "Lean down and grip you ankles with your hands, keeping your legs straight." You do as I say. "I am going to work on your legs and backside. When you want me to stop, just release your ankles and stand up straight." With that I land a stinging backhand slap on your left buttock, forcing a grunt of air from your lungs. These continue as I make alternate slaps on both buttocks, growing in force until you are panting with the effort of absorbing the pain. I realise that my hand is starting to sting, so I step back from you and reach for the thin leather belt that lies on the table.

I grin to myself as I picture you laying out the objects on the table prior to them being used to bring you pain and excitement. There's a strong irony there, and for a moment I feel cruel but then I remember that you asked me to do this; you insisted that I treat you this way, saying that was what you wanted more than anything, despite your usual position. So, I pick up the belt that you selected from your wardrobe, come to stand behind you again and say, "I think twenty lashes on each thigh will do..." and you moan, either in excitement or fear, and I begin counting the cracks that the belt makes as it lands hard on your thighs. Some land across the tops of your hold-ups, some on the fabric and some on the bare skin above them.

No matter, each is followed a split second after by a whimper of pain. I count steadily "One... one... two... two... three... three..." all the way up to twenty lashes on each thing. By the time I'm finished I can hear you panting, and for the briefest moment I think you're crying, but as I move to check this, I realise that your face is screwed up in pre-orgasmic delight, your lower lip gripped hard between your teeth. The pants are moans of enjoyment, despite -no, because of - the angry red weals that cover the back of each thigh. Smiling inwardly, I praise you for your stamina and step forward, resting the palm of my right hand on your centre and slipping a finger suddenly and deeply into the wetness I feel there. You sigh loudly and press yourself onto my finger, moaning as you do so. I content myself for a few seconds, enjoying the warmth as I gently explore your insides, listening to your breathing quicken.

"Remember, Deborah, the moment you come is the moment this ends." I say quietly, and you hesitatingly rock forward slightly, allowing my slick finger to withdraw from your flesh. I pull you upright and press my finger to your mouth, forcing you to taste yourself. You suck hungrily, making eye contact as you do so, until I remove the finger from between your lips, a trace of your dark lipstick on my knuckle.

"You seem to enjoy tasting yourself. Put two fingers inside yourself and then lick them clean" I say quietly. The hunger remains on your face as you comply, eagerly pushing the middle- and ring-fingers of your right hand between your lower lips and massaging yourself with a gentle firmness. You continue for a few seconds then withdraw them and raise them to your mouth, gratefully sucking them and repeating the process a few more times, each time moaning contentedly as you stimulate yourself. "Do not allow yourself to come. Do not touch yourself in any way other than that which I have given permission for. You will stop yourself before you orgasm, unless you have had enough and wish us to stop - in which case, carry on and come." You groan in disappointment, forcing yourself to abandon your fingering. "Keep sucking your fingers, though. Get them right into your throat."

I watch as you fingerbang your mouth, lips distending under the pressure of you hand as you force your fingers into your throat proper. You gag slightly a few times, and tears form at the corners of your eyes but you persevere, noisily slurping at your digits as you fellate them. "Look me in the eye, Deborah." You do, and I instantly know that your resilience is still high despite your pain, humiliation and level of arousal. You have more in you yet. I resolve to extract it.

When compiling a list of the equipment I wanted you to lay out on the table in order that I may treat you this way I had specified that you prepare the largest dildo you owned. You had not disappointed; upon my first perusal of the table I had seen a transparent, colourless silicone shaft approximately 300mm in length and roughly 80mm in diameter. There were no anatomical pretensions here; it was not designed to imitate. Knowing you as I do this does not come as a surprise.

"Kneel again, and then suck your dildo. I want no pretend delight; you will push it as deep as you can take it." You sink slowly to your knees, slowing your breathing as I place the rubber cock in your right hand. "Your throat must be fully relaxed, Deborah. You will take the whole length in your throat if you wish me to reward you." Without hesitation you begin to feed yourself the silicone shaft with both hands, resisting the urge to keep your tongue to the rear; I watch carefully as you push the shaft backwards and your tongue forwards, stretching your bottom jaw away from the top but allowing the head of the dildo space at the back of your mouth. You pause briefly and adjust your grip before steadily pushing the head of the dildo past your tonsils and into your throat, tipping your head back for better alignment as you do so; even in this situation you manage to maintain your practicality. I watch the shaft slide between your darkened lips, millimetre by millimetre. "Good. Hold it there."