Thumper Ch. 05

"Beautiful," said Damian. "You should see yourself."

* * *

"These are the tools of the trade," said Britt, pointing to an array of canes, crops, and floggers.

They were in the attic, accessed by an ancient set of stairs that Britt had pulled down from the ceiling. The attic was starkly white with black baseboards and a rich hardwood floor. It ran the length of the house and was illuminated by two skylights. George gauged the peak of the ceiling to be nine feet high. Several steamer trunks lined the floor where the short walls met the sloped ceiling. The ends of the attic featured two dark wooden cabinets, one of which was open and before which they stood.

"What trade? Piloting a slave galley?" asked George apprehensively.

"Ha ha. You're a funny guy. Drop your pants."

"What?"

"You heard me. Drop your pants. You're not going to lay so much as a blade of grass on me until you know how it feels."

George hesitated. "I don't want to lay anything on anyone."

"I said drop them!" Britt picked up a crop and smacked it against the wall.

George's pants fell to the floor.

Britt placed a sturdy wooden chair in the center of the floor. "What shall we start with?"

"Nothing," suggested George.

"Don't be a sissy."

"Why are we doing this? I've thought about it again. I have no intention of hitting a woman."

"Oh, yeah. I forgot that you're a sensitive guy. Bend over. Let's see how sensitive you are."

"No."

Britt threw her hands up. "I can't believe that you are giving me trouble! Me! What the fuck? Did you grow a pair all of a sudden?"

She studied him, hands on hips, booted toe tapping, and then sighed. "Okay. Let's skip the lesson. We'll do something else."

She wandered around the room. "Let's do a trust exercise then. Would that suit your sensitive disposition? Close your eyes and put out your hands."

Reluctantly, George did so. Before he could react, Britt closed a pair of handcuffs over his wrists. His eyes shot open.

Britt grinned. "Gotcha."

She pulled him to the chair by the chain of the handcuffs. With his pants pooled around his feet, George shuffled quickly lest he fall. At the chair, she pressed her hand to the back of his head, bending him forward. What was the point of resisting? George thought grimly.

"Are you going to stay there, or do I have to tie you down?"

"I'll stay."

Britt wandered behind him, swiping the flogger against her leg. "The first thing you should know is that flogging is not necessarily about inflicting pain or enforcing discipline. It can be, and often is, but doesn't have to be. It can also be used to stimulate the skin, and the severity of the flogging is dictated largely by the degree to which the subject is stimulated by pain. Got it?"

"I'm stimulated by mild breezes."

"Then you should like this." Britt limp-wristed a blow that landed against George's buttocks with barely a sound.

George breathed a sigh of relief. "Okay. That I can handle."

"Good, that was level one. Here comes level two."

By level three, Britt introduced a rhythm to her strokes in which she struck both sides of his buttocks, alternating both the direction and target of the stroke. The flesh grew warm and tingled. George grew curiously relaxed.

By level six, Britt had abandoned the rhythm. George squirmed, twisting his body to avoid the blows but uncertain as to which of his tender bits he should sacrifice.

By seven he was grimacing and struggling not to cry out.

Nine made him gasp.

He gritted his teeth against ten.

"Here it comes," warned Britt in a singsong voice.

Ten was a gentle hand against his butt, the gentlest of taps.

"Had you going, huh?"

George nodded.

"Let's move on to the cane."

"The cane is most commonly associated with discipline and is usually applied to the buttocks. But you can use it more lightly in other spots, like the insides of the legs, the feet, or wherever."

Britt rubbed the cane across the taut skin of George's ass, and then surprised him with a quick tattoo. The sensation wasn't unpleasant. She moved from there to his inner thighs, rapping the cane rapidly from side to side, uncomfortably close to his scrotum. He rose to his toes, and the flicking cane followed. The skin was more sensitive there, and George soon felt the skin tingling under the repeated blows that ranged up and down his thighs.

Britt returned to George's buttocks. "Tapping is interesting and does make the surface more sensitive. It prepares the canvas for what is to come."

"Oh," said George uncertainly.

"Are you ready?"

"No."

For a few seconds, nothing happened. George allowed himself to relax when a quick whoosh occurred, followed by a lightning crack of pain across his cheeks. His cry of surprise was cut short by another crack, slightly lower, which overlaid the heated glow of the first. The third blow crossed the first two, adding a slightly different flavour to the first two blows. George bit his lower lip. His cheeks were on fire, each blow heaping flame atop the embers of the previous ones. When Abby stopped, George could not tell how many blows had landed.

"For a professor, you're a good student," Britt quipped.

George still leaned over the chair. The pain subsided, but the incredible mental focus remained. That and an electric thrumming that coursed through his body. Must be an endorphin rush, he thought.

Britt had resumed her gentle tapping on George's now tender flesh. George closed his eyes.

"Are you enjoying this?" she asked.

"Enjoy isn't the word."

She struck him with a medium strength blow that interrupted the soft, hypnotic taps, sending an electric jolt through his being,

He noted a curious untethering of his body and mind, a mental relaxation that stood in contrast to his bodily pain, as though a filter had been inserted between the two.

He lost all sense of time and only noted that Britt had stopped when she rubbed his tender and scored buttocks with her hands.

"That was remarkable," he said finally, standing up.

Britt unlocked the handcuffs. "Now you understand."

* * *

But for the horse nickering softly in its stall, all was quiet. Motes of dust danced in the light that streamed in through dirty windows. Abby couldn't see Damian. Had he left her alone in the barn, or was he behind her enjoying her predicament? She had no idea.

Through the growing discomfort and strain, Abby lost track of time. Minutes felt like an hour, and only the slow progress of the light across the dirt floor of the barn indicated that very little time had passed.

Every movement caused discomfort. Abby attempted to ease the strain in her neck by bending it ever so slightly forward, only to be rewarded by an ungentle tug on her hair and the hook that was firmly embedded in her ass. Her calves burned, and lowering herself from the balls of her feet served only to increase the strain on her shoulders.

But for the growing pain, her position was exquisitely diabolical.

For the first fifteen or so minutes, Abby was confident that she could pass this test. She abhorred the thought of giving Damian the satisfaction of having broken her.

Her right calf suddenly cramped. Reflexively, she lowered herself on the one side to stretch it, only to feel a wrenching in her shoulders. At this moment she cried out as she tried desperately to elevate herself to gain a modicum of comfort.

Abby prayed desperately for Damian to release her.

How long was that bastard going to keep her here like this?

Minutes ticked by. By balancing carefully on one leg, she managed to stretch the calf muscle of the other. She closed her eyes and concentrated. Sweat broke out on her brow and saliva dribbled down her chin. What she would have given at that moment to have had her arms unbound to enable her to massage away the painful knot.

In answer to her prayers, her arms gradually descended. She groaned in relief as her bound wrists lowered and finally lay against her back. She straightened her back and settled fully on her feet. However, she was forced to gaze at the ceiling, chin upraised, as the hook was still buried in her rectum.

By lowering her eyes, she could make out Damian's head and shoulders. She looked at Damian with gratitude, and started at the incongruity of it, for hadn't he put her into this position in the first place?

Damian placed his hands on her shoulders and massaged them gently. In spite of herself, Abby moaned in gratitude.

"I feel terrible for having made you suffer so. I really do."

He removed the bit and gently wiped her chin. Abby worked the soreness out of her jaw. "I bet you do," she said bitterly.

"But I plan to make it up to you."

"You can start by untying me."

Damian shook his head sadly. "I'm afraid not."

* * *

Britt tied a large, overstuffed pillow to the back of the chair. "You need to practice."

"This is silly."

"It's not silly at all. Injury happens with sloppy technique. Sloppy technique is not only careless, but a breach of trust."

"It's one thing to have it done, but another to do it. You're assuming I'll ever do this to anyone."

"You're assuming you're not and you're wrong. Besides which, we're not talking about anyone, we're talking about Abby."

"Maybe that's part of the problem."

"Consider it another tool in your toolbox then. You won't use it every day, perhaps never, but it can't hurt to know how to do it."

Britt walked him to the chair. "You'll be doing it to me by the end of the day, and believe me, I've been flogged by the best and don't take well to amateurs."

Britt straddled the chair and leaned her arms on the back, facing George. "If you get any wraparound and hit me accidentally, I'll be very upset with you."

Britt instructed George with the use of the flogger, where and where not to strike, and technique. "Loosen your shoulders and wrists. You're moving like a clumsy marionette. Pay attention, the movement has to be fluid and graceful. Concentrate on having only the tips of the falls strike the pillow. Don't look at the falls; look at the target."

The instruction continued with frequent suggestions and occasional praise. She encouraged him to vary the intensity and direction of the strokes. To approach a scene with a strategy. To think before acting. Over and underhand, spinning strokes of various speeds, figure eight. George concentrated on the tips of the falls and observed the effect on the pillow, the impact, the sound, the follow-through.

"Remember," said Britt after several minutes, "using the flogger to strike is only one option. You can use it lightly to mentally and physically relax you're partner. You know that effect yourself now, right?"

George nodded.

Britt continued. "You can use it to stroke, tease and arouse. You can dangle it above the flesh and let the ends lightly touch your partner, draw it slowly across the skin. Use the handle. The possibilities are endless. Above all, consider your partner and the sensations you're evoking. Consider where they want to go and how best to get them there. Flogging is not about you and your perceived power. Yes, you can inflict a great deal of pain. Always consider where the line is. Get close, but stay on the right side of it. Above all, listen and watch. The reactions you evoke will tell you how far you can go."

All the while, George struck the pillow, from various angles and with different intensities. His arm was growing tired. He pictured Abby as the recipient of his efforts. Was it possible?

"Alright, let's move to the cane." Abby walked to the cabinet and selected a three foot cane with a leather handle.

"This one will sting, as you know. It can also break the skin, so it's important to be aware of the force that you're using. With a long cane like this, you can easily strike both cheeks at the same time..."

* * *

Abby rolled and stretched her back and shoulders while Damian rummaged around at the bench behind her. As the burning discomfort began to ebb, she thought of asking Damian why he was doing this. What, in the context of her broken marriage, did he hope to achieve by abusing and humiliating her? The obvious answer was that he was taking advantage of her vulnerability to satisfy his own depraved tastes. For all she knew, he'd been snapping pictures that would eventually appear on the internet. She knew, however, that this was a misinterpretation. He didn't need her. He'd revealed no ulterior motives.

Abby was exhausted from the first round, despite the fact that it had lasted no more than fifteen or twenty minutes. Her limbs felt gelatinous and her mind languorous.

"Ready for round two?" asked Damian.

She should be able to figure it out, deduce Damian's hidden motivations. She'd been so focussed on withstanding the stress that she hadn't considered her predicament in the larger context.

"You're trying to break me, aren't you?"

"You mean, like a horse?"

Abby nodded.

"It's an apt analogy, but not entirely applicable in the way you intend."

Abby wasn't so sure. "You won't, you know."

Damian grunted noncommittally.

Abby's ankles were still fastened to the eyebolts on the stage. Damian walked around her, lightly trailing his fingertips from her hip, across her taut abdomen, and around to her buttocks. Damian untied her wrists and, for a moment, Abby had freedom of movement. She considered striking him for the pain she had inflicted on her, but quickly realized that it would do little good. He had her captive in more ways than one. She couldn't run, for one thing. She'd promised George that she would do whatever it took. Admittedly, she'd made the promise without fully knowing what it entailed. Finally, she was curious. She now knew that Damian meant her no harm, and that knowledge was supported by the beginnings of trust. As humiliating as his treatment of her had been, he hadn't taken advantage of her mental and physical vulnerability to satisfy himself. That was a line, she knew intuitively, that he would not cross.

But still, she would not make it easy for him. She could bend, after all, and not break.

He fastened the rope around her right wrist, tightly but not uncomfortably. He threw the other end of the rope over a wooden beam that ran the width of the barn above Abby's head. He pulled it until Abby's right arm rose, stretched out at a right angle to her torso. He fastened the left arm in the same way. He stepped back into Abby's line of vision.

"Are you okay?"

Abby bit back a rejoinder and glared at him. "Yes."

Damian rummaged around the workbench and presently returned with a length of wood, roughly two feet long. He inserted it into a hole between Abby's feet so that it pointed like a finger to her vagina.

What now? Abby asked herself. She tingled with nervous anticipation.

Damian then returned to his bag and said, "You may want to close your eyes."

"And if I refuse?"

Damian shrugged. "Suit yourself."

Abby wished she had closed her eyes, for Damian pulled out of the bag a dildo of monstrous proportions. It looked not unlike a large candle that sat on a cone of molten wax, narrow at the top and flared at the bottom.

Damian stepped under her line of vision. Her attempts to observe him served only to remind her of the hook still impaled in her ass.

The tip of the dildo touched the folds of her labia, back and forth, until it found the entrance. Damian inserted the dildo quickly and without preamble. Abby gasped and tried to pull away. Inexorably it disappeared within her until she was forced to rise with it as she met its width, standing on the balls of her feet. Damian fastened it to the post he had inserted in the stage and stepped back to admire his handiwork.

Through the thin wall that separated her vagina from her rectum, Abby could feel both the dildo and the anal hook, arousing and uncomfortable in equal measure.

Abby peered through her lashes at Damian, who leaned against the workbench with his arms crossed and a slight grin on his face.

Her calves, strained from the last position, quickly tired. Her stance weakened and she lowered herself in increments, only to impale herself more deeply on the device that now strained her vagina. The muscles in her legs quivered with exertion, each vibration communicated to the length of silicon embedded in her pussy. Twin trails of fluid tricked down the insides of her legs. Part of her traitorous body seemed to be enjoying this punishment.

An animal whimper escaped her lips. Her body rose and fell, seemingly of its own volition, allowing the dildo to penetrate her even more deeply than before, simultaneously stretching her and pressing uncomfortably against the walls of her vagina.

A delicious tingling blossomed at her clitoris, and Abby noted absently that Damian had approached her. A vibrator? She couldn't see. Not that it mattered. She bore down on the dildo and swept her hips in an unconscious circle. She leaned her head forward, causing the hook to embed itself still more deeply.

Her entire focus narrowed to that single electric area. Gone was the barn, Damian, her bondage, vulnerability, and humiliation. There was nothing but the growing heat and a body piloting itself automatically to climax.

It came upon her suddenly, a great all-engulfing wave that crashed to the accompaniment of an animal growl that rose to a shriek.

She was making noises that she never had before. Whimpers, groans, and barely comprehensible words. She sounded like a porn flick.

It was as though her body sought revenge for so many years of denial, compressing the years of lost fulfillment into a single violent crescendo.

Her body bucked and trembled, as though possessed by an angry spirit given free reign after a long confinement.

Oh please stop, she commanded her body weakly. Please stop.

Any semblance of control left her body, now trembling uncontrollably and moving in quick jerks upon the shaft that impaled her.

Abby finally managed to marshal her remaining shreds of determination and self-respect and commanded her hips to cease their punishing grinding on that silicon parody of a man.

Her gut clenched and her chest heaved. Her sweat mingled with tears. She was spent, completely and utterly. She straightened her legs and that impossible length receded slightly from her abused vagina.

She noted dimly that she her ankles and wrists had been untied. She was able to stand normally.

Damian gathered her up in his arms and carried her to a vacant stall, strewn with hay overlaid with a blanket. He lay her down.

"Stay here," he said. "Rest."

If Abby almost laughed. For the moment, controlled movement was impossible. She lay back and closed her eyes.

* * *

"Are you ready to apply what you've learned?"

"I think so," George replied.

"In that case, I'm going to leave you for a few minutes to prepare. I've shown you the basics, but it's up to you to put together the elements into a scene. While I'm gone, think about what you're going to do and how you're going to do it."

With that, Britt descended the stairs and disappeared from sight.

George wandered the attic, inspecting the various whips, floggers, paddles, and crops arrayed in the cabinets.

Soon Britt returned, dressed in a light robe.

"Just stand there and close your eyes," he said.

Britt smiled and the dimple played on her cheek. "I like it."

George shushed her. In truth, he felt more confident being unobserved.

He selected an assortment of canes, crops, and floggers from the cabinet and leaned them against a wall. He wanted them close at hand.

George regarded Britt for some moments, standing within a square of light thrown by the skylight overhead. Not for the first time, he doubted the reality this moment and all that had led to it. By any measure, the previous weeks had been surreal. This very moment seemed imbued with the stuff of fantasy.