tagBDSMNo Holiday at the Beach Ch. 5

No Holiday at the Beach Ch. 5


XII. Mistress returns

The sound of voices stirred him from his partial slumber. It was Mistress Wendy, he noted immediately, with relief. Not a maid. But there were other voices. They sounded like those of the couple in the units adjacent to the Sundown units.

"No, kidding, he does that?" he thought he heard from a female voice, not his Mistress's. "Well, I'm game," he heard from a male voice. "If you girls want to have some fun, I'll gladly help out."

He shuddered. What was this all about?, he wondered. Was he hearing correctly? He again, briefly, tried to think of a place of refuge in the bathroom.

"Oh, but not tonight," his Mistress said. "I'll see you tomorrow."

The tension which had suddenly seized his body released. He sighed and wondered what posture he should take as his Mistress entered the room. He rose from his position on his side and waited on his hands and knees. He saw himself in the mirror. He looked nothing so much as an anxious dog awaiting the return of his master. It was in his posture, and especially the look in his eyes. Mistress Wendy was now standing under the bathroom doorway.

"So, did you miss your Mistress, slave?" she asked. "You don't have to answer. I can see that you did."

He could tell that Mistress Wendy had had a few drinks with dinner. She was not drunk, surely. Rather, she was merely a little flushed. She seemed just slightly wilder. Under other circumstances he might have found her even more desirable than ever. Indeed she was. But under these circumstances he felt even more threatened, too.

Mistress Wendy kicked her shoes off just outside the bathroom. She braced herself in the doorway and rather gently moved her right foot on his face. He breathed deeply and relished the caresses. She pressed her foot in his mouth and he sucked gently on her black-stockinged toes. He had missed her terribly. He had missed her feet.

"Slave," she said. "I see you have made a mess of your pen. I guess the maid didn't come after all. Not yet, anyway. Thank god there's another bathroom."

She removed her foot from his mouth and added, "You're a mess, too. You shall clean yourself up." With this, she reached in her purse and unlocked the leash from the pipe on the back of the toilet. She proceeded to remove the rest of his restraints. All except his collar. He remembered she had discarded the key to its lock.

"Clean yourself up," she repeated. "I have a wonderful surprise for you." She left him, and he could hear her pass through the door that connected the two units.

He was stiff and sore as he stood up and climbed into the tub that was an unreachable refuge before. He drew the water quite warm, then stood beneath the showerhead. He worried somewhat about the effect of the water on his leather collar—didn't wet leather shrink?, he wondered— and the warm water stung his welts terribly. Still perhaps never in his life had a shower felt so good. He gingerly soaped himself, feeling both liberated—if only momentarily— yet doing the bidding of his Mistress. He could feel his stiff muscles loosening. He did not reflect, to his later regret, how the warm water was softening, tenderizing, his skin.

He wondered what surprise his Mistress might have in store. We worried a bit that it might involve the neighbors, but hadn't she said "but not tonight…" He hoped whatever that was about would at least wait until tomorrow. So what might she have in mind?

"Slave," he heard her voice through the steam of the bathroom. It sounded gentle, almost affectionate. "Slave, I'll give you one minute to get out here," she said.

He snapped off the water and dried himself. The crisp starchy hotel towel stung his sores badly. He started out the bathroom door and suddenly remembered himself. He dropped to his hands and knees. He crawled out to the bedroom without lifting his head. "Rise, slave," she said, "look around you."

He stood and was amazed at the changes to the room. A globe light hanging from a hook in the ceiling had been removed. In its place was a spreader bar, hung upon the hook. The shackles on the spreader glistened, for the room was brightly lit with floodlights. Another spreader bar lay on the floor. On the bed were a French maid's outfit, white stockings, and black patent leather shoes with long heels. Also, a large black leather strap-on dildo. In the corner of the room was a tripod with a video camera. He noted it was already filming and he wondered briefly how the astonished expression on his face would look on film.

It would be quite astonished indeed, he knew, for most astonishing of all was his Mistress. She stood in the glare of the light wearing a black leather collar, wrist and ankle cuffs, halter top with her luscious nipples just the size of ten baht pieces exposed, and garter bottom showing her perfect, down-haired pubis. All of the leather was studded, and small shining chains dangled from the halter-top and garter belt. She wore sheer black stockings, and black, toe-less shoes with four-inch heels. He could not discern, really, whether the effect was one of dominance or slavery. She held a rather heavy leather strap. The rich odor of leather was strong in the room.

"It must be the ocean," she said. "It's so romantic. A man and woman making love. One way or another, this setting demands it." She held the leather strap out before him and said, "I'm going to give you a choice."

XIII. Fair test?

Mistress Wendy walked over and switched the video camera off. The room was quiet, but for the sound of the waves on the rocks below. Near enough to be heard easily through the closed windows. She walked to the windows and drew back the curtain a bit with her hand. She stood there for a few minutes. He stood beneath the spreader bar, afraid to speak and afraid to stare. He did, however, carefully keep his eyes on his Mistress.

"I have a confession to make," she said finally. Her voice was soft and tender, and lacked her previous confidence. As if she was not sure what to say. "I'm lonely. I really do wish I had a real man here with me." She emphasized "do", not "real", as he might have expected.

"I don't know. Maybe it's this lovely spot. The view. The sound. The ocean," she went on. "But I think it's more. I'm sure it's more. And when I say a "real man", I don't mean some stud who just wants to screw me hard. I mean someone sweet and tender, to care for me and for me to care for. Like a real relationship."

Mistress Wendy sounded more like just plain Wendy right now. He loved her all the more for it. He wanted to walk to the window and hold her, but he was confused. He had no idea where this was going. He stood still listening.

"You. I've been thinking about you," she said. "You might be pretty special. I know you are gentle, devoted, honest and sincere. You're pretty good looking, too," she said, then laughed softly, adding, "I suppose I shouldn't say that but I did. As for sex, well I know you're not impotent." She laughed again.

She now walked back and stood before him. She looked him in the eyes, tenderly it seemed, and said, "Maybe we could, well, kind of forget about all of this stuff."

He was astounded at what he was hearing. He thought he should grab her and scream "Of course, I love you a thousand times over." He said nothing and remained standing still.

"We could sleep together tonight. Sleep in tomorrow. I think you've had a long day," again she laughed softly. "Tomorrow walk the beach, holding hands. I would love that. I've never done that, not with a man I really cared for. Then we could have brunch together. I imagine you reading the paper, then. I would read my book. Like a real couple. After that we could come back here…" She went on. She was now almost rambling. Rather, she was just talking to herself. Speaking of how she imagined things could be. "A candle lit dinner at the beach together tomorrow evening." She even knew what food she would order.

She again looked him in the eyes. Maybe even lovingly, he thought. "I long for you to hold me," she finally said, but even as she did so she was fastening one of his wrists, then the other, to the shackles on the hanging spreader bar. Oh how he longed to hold her, too, but obviously that would have to wait.

"I want to take a bath with you. Help heal those sores." With this, she very gently kissed his aching nipples, then dropped to her knees behind him and lightly blew on the welts on his buttocks. As she did so, she shackled his ankles to the spreader bar on the floor. His arms and legs were stretched tight, as he formed a rigid "X" from the hanging bar. What was going on, he wondered.

"I want to massage your aching muscles, and you mine," she added, "You know this isn't easy on me. I'm a little sore myself."

She was now standing in front of him again. He had still not said a word. And he wouldn't, nor for a while yet, because she now placed a ball gag in his mouth and snapped the strap behind his head.

"It could all be so wonderful," she said. "I want it. I want you." She was stroking his hair. He was wild with desire and confusion. His eyes darted, pleading that it could be so.

"But, I have a problem," she said. "As I say, you're a pretty good-looking guy. I have no doubt that you would be perfect for me. Your affection, your—well—your attention," she said, very gently squeezing his balls, "your kindness. "But," she said again, with emphasis, "this problem. I just can't shake this image of your squirming around the floor chasing after my shoes. Crawling around in the yard with a cow-bell on your sack, for goodness sakes. And in the bathroom…" she grimaced. "I don't know if I can forget all that. I fear you have lost your dignity."

She waited a bit and continued, "It's both of our problems, I think. I wonder how you could look me in the eyes with the sort of mutual respect and affection I need. You, too, must remember this day. How can it be forgotten?, I have wondered."

"Well, I've thought a lot about it. Somehow we must purge this from our memories. You must prove your dignity and worthiness of mutual respect and love. I have had an idea. I don't want to, believe me, but I am going to start beating you. If you are the man for me, you can take it, I know. It won't be easy. It can't be easy, we have a lot to forget."

She had now taken the leather strap in her hand again, and was lightly slapping her palm. The strap was about two inches wide, heavy and stiff, but with some play. Rather like a new belt.

"I have a number in my head. I am going to start hitting you and if you don't beg me to stop before I reach that number you will have proven yourself worthy of me. In both our eyes. I will take you down from that ridiculous bar and the first thing I will do—after I kiss you in appreciation, and that will take quite a while—is take care of your welts. That won't be easy, but I have some special Chinese balm. It works wonders, really. You'll be better in no time, and I won't stop taking care of you until you are. Then we'll, well you know," she said. "Oh, I hope so much you will do this for me."

She paused, then continued, "But, if you can't take it. You can beg me to stop at any time," she was again Mistress Wendy in full force. "All you have to do to get me to stop is to beg, and admit what a worthless slut you are. Beg me to stop. Beg me to allow you the honor to dress as my little French maid and be fucked in the ass with my strap-ons. We will have decided what both of us really want. Think about it." Then, finally, Wendy again, she said, "Please don't let me down. I want you."

With that, she returned to the video camera and clicked it on.

She stood before him again and said, "Think about it." And so he did. He was madly in love. He knew he could endure anything for Wendy. To purge this day and start a weekend—a life?—of total bliss. The scenes imagined and related by Wendy had mingled with his own. In fact, his imagination had run amuck. Perfect love. Mutual support and caring. What a perfect husband he would be, taking care of his princess's every wish while pregnant. And their children? Perfect. But mostly he thought about the rest of the weekend. The balm treatment. The hugs. The walks. The intimate dinners. Nothing could stop him.

Whack. A sharp blow on the back of his calves. He would have crumpled right then, but he was held in place by the shackles. Whack. The back of his thighs. Whack. Whack. Twice on the buttocks. He had never felt such pain, and so suddenly. Whack. Whack. His upper, then lower, back. Whack. Again on the buttocks. He was dizzy with pain and she moved to his front. Whack. A slightly sideways shot, singling out his right nipple. Whack. His left nipple. Whack. Both nipples at once. Again on the buttocks and the back of the calves. Then suddenly, straight up from behind, the edge of the strap flush against his scrotum. The pain raced up his gut and he screamed into the ball gag. The ball gag did its job, silencing his scream.

Mistress Wendy stopped the onslaught as suddenly as it had begun. He would have been doubled over on the floor, but for the shackles. As it was, he slumped as much as the shackles allowed, writhing against the restraints in utter torment.

Mistress Wendy removed the gag from his mouth. "I thought a little warm-up would help us both, " she said. "I want you to get through this. Don't worry. It was warm-ups, but those count."

Regretfully, he was beginning to doubt his Mistress's sincerity. But still he vowed to himself to hang on.


After a pause, the blows came again. Fast, furious and everywhere. He had no time to anticipate the next strike. And his best guess would likely have been wrong. He couldn't even flinch, as if that might have helped. Mistress Wendy, like a fury dancing around him, lashed him from behind, both sides and the front, in no seeming order. Hardly any exposed area, and everything was exposed from heel to chin, escaped the sting—and worse—of the strap. He wondered how Mistress Wendy could even keep count, if in fact she was counting. His resolve was fading fast. Tears flowed from his eyes almost as fast as the lashes from the strap struck his body.

After an especially strong shower of blows, she finally said, it was simply Wendy's voice, "You can do it, I know you can! Please!"

By now he doubted these words of encouragement, but still they buoyed his spirits. Every cell in his body was screaming, "Stop. God please stop this." But he still said not a word. She had, of course, stuck some more blows to his scrotum and the cramping pain was rising in his stomach. His legs pulled wildly at the spreader bar, as his body instinctively sought the small comfort of doubling over. The spreader bar, fixed as it was to a table, had no give. His arms were pulling down with full force and the same vain results, striving for the semblance of relief from the pain roiling in his stomach. The resulting tension and stretching of his flesh only heightened the flaming sting when she struck his legs, buttocks, back or belly. He was on the verge of passing out, he thought, and hoped dearly that he would. Failing that, he now realized, he would have to beg her to stop.

Her pace slowed. Dramatically. Perhaps Mistress Wendy had tired. How couldn't she? But the blows, though much less frequent, were if anything increasing in their strength. Whack. On his buttocks. Whack. On his thighs. Whack. On his buttocks yet again, then his chest and belly. After the brutally fast beating, and the overwhelming pain it had caused, these random strikes without rhythm were somehow even worse. When would it end? He knew, he was now thinking, one way to end it. His now almost unimaginable thoughts of being Wendy's lover were so strong they had carried him this far. But he could barely focus on them. The pain—the maddening wish to stop it— had subsumed all other thoughts.

There was, it seemed, though he could scarcely tell, a longer pause than before. Much longer. Had he made it? Whoosh, he heard, and the slap across his buttocks. Not hard, at least not nearly as hard as some, but still he heard himself scream, "Stop. My Goddess, I beg you."

"You shit," said Wendy as she slapped him twice on the buttocks with her open hand.

"But… but… but, please Wendy…" Thwack with the strap.

"I love you—want you—madly… As a man. I want…" His stammering was stopped by a strong blow across the buttocks. She did not say a word.

"I… I …" Another harsh strike. He was whimpering. "I love you…" Thwack again.

"I want you…" Thwack. Despite the continuing pain, his fading visions of a real relationship with Wendy kept him blubbering about his passion for Wendy. But his words were punctuated by the blows from the strap. Still she said nothing. Finally his visions of love died like the setting sun so much earlier in this strange evening. He could take no more.

He could scarcely remember the "safeword", if that is what one could call it. But finally he said, almost in a whisper, "Please Mistress, stop. I am a worthless slut. I long for you to fuck me."

Finally the blows stopped and she spoke. She held his chin up by the strap. "And?"

And what?, he wondered. She swatted him again, though not hard, and grabbing his hair twisted his head towards the bed. He saw his new attire.

"And allow me the honor to dress as your little French maid," he said, almost in a whisper.

"Louder!" Mistress Wendy shouted. "Say it."

He had truly abandoned his soul. "I am your little French maid whore and I beg you to fuck me," he, too, was almost shouting. "I am nothing but your whore. Your toy. Your slave. Nothing more." His voiced softened only a little. "It's all I will ever be," he said. "I am not worthy of the attention you give me. But I crave it, with my life."

"I thought so," Mistress Wendy said. "I must have been crazy to have ever considered otherwise." A pause. You have endured much, I must say. You may worship my feet." As she said this, she was releasing his wrists from their shackles.

"But first, kiss, worship, give thanks, to the hands that revealed your true wants." With this, this placed her right hand before him. He kissed and licked her hand, and sucked on each finger.

"Thank you," he said, and dropped to his knees to worship her feet. He rimmed the strap on her shoe, above her ankle, giving it a gentle tug like a puppy. He sucked her ankles and heels. He licked her arches, smothering his face against the top of her foot and relishing the feel and soft odor of her stockings against his upper lip and nose. Of course he did not neglect her toes.

She said, "At least everything is clear now. We know what you are. What you want. What you deserve. You're a whore and a glutton for.." She paused. "… for anything that I say. I want you to give my heel a blow job. A nice, sensuous blow job." With that Mistress Wendy lifted her right foot. "A really good one."

He did not even hesitate. First he cupped her heel in his hands and blew gently on the shining four-inch heel. Then he ran his tongue the length of the shaft several times, occasionally flicking the tip of the heel. He even spent some time blowing and licking at the base of the heel, where it met the sole, as if he imagined it were the base of a scrotum. Finally he began sucking on the heel. He could not quite deep throat this thin, rigid heel, but he nearly did, as his Mistress began rhythmically pumping her foot. She even sighed a bit as she did so. In his confused state, he thought he might be able to make her—or her shoe—come.

Eventually, she stepped back, pulling her foot away. She now stood behind him. She pushed his ass forward. His ankles, he realized, were still attached to the spreader bar. She pressed his crack open with the sole of her foot, stabbed his scrotum with the heel and then edged the tip into his anus. He could feel it wet with his own saliva. She pushed the heel in just slightly and he trembled. He feared the thin, almost sharp heel, might tear him apart. She left her foot there, barely penetrating, as his body trembled. The trembling, born of fear, had the appearance of desire.

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