7 comments/ 58451 views/ 21 favorites Crossing the Threshold By: trismegistus There's nothing like a woman in leather, especially when that leather consists of straps binding wrists and ankles. Naked and spread-eagled. Damn. It's even better when the woman is a submissive like my savannah, already wet and glistening from mere anticipation. She'd been building for two months, and it showed in the breathlessness of her glistening face, in the pleading of her rock-solid nipples, those raspberries of flesh spiking upward from her full, graspable breasts, in the enticement of the shining fluids that coated her inner thighs and freshly-shaven loins. Each wrist was stretched nearly to its corner of the king-sized bed in which she was centered, a D-ring in each restraint providing purchase for the rope binding; her ankles were held spread wide by a black spreader-bar adjusted to its full 3-feet, her ankles locked in its leather restraints by tiny but highly serviceable padlocks. She wasn't going anywhere, and the extent of that reality was just beginning to settle into her psyche and shine forth from her face. She'd known this was coming since our last weekend. That's when I'd discovered the potential, when I'd lit that fire in a slow burn of preparation. I'd felt her hunger, her yearning, from across the country, felt the images of her desire, known what she came desperate to discover on this occasion. It had been electrifying. Such possibilities! I had to control the potential tremor, the vibration of exhilaration, running through my body. I heard savannah gasp as I ran the nails of my left hand along the inside of her left leg, slowly, sharply, from just above her ankle to within a breath of the hunger between her thighs. The glistening slit that punctuated the meeting of those powerful thighs twitched as her body grasped for the eluding digits, and her tiny cry tightened my chest. "Ah, yes," I purred as I slapped that shining slit sharply with the finger-tips of my left hand. "Yes," I repeated to the moaned, guttural "aahhhhh" that followed my act, and finished by slapping my cupped hand solidly upon that twitching vaginal mound. Time to take a moment, I thought as I stepped back and reached for my coffee-cup on the institutional bedside-table that was this hotel room's unremarkable furnishing. Time, in fact, to begin documenting my handiwork on this evening. Establish a baseline, as it were. I smiled as I drew the digital camera from the drawer. "Just for me," I cut her off as she opened her mouth to object. "Just for me. And you. A before picture." The flush extended from the cheekbones of her broad, luminous face, framed by the flowing mane whose color seemed to shift subtly every time I saw her - existing somewhere in the badlands between red and brunette - down the delicate throat to the broad plain of her chest and the impressive swells of rose-tipped flesh that beckoned upon that pale tan expanse. She was strong, as tall as me and fuller, dangerous in her own right, a powerful frame whose wide, sensual waist and hips branched into well shaped, firm, defined and trembling legs that were currently spread into a wide, shallow "V" that shone forth from within the camera's viewfinder. Ridding myself of the camera, I reached across the bed, running my hands upward across both shivering hips, waist, upwards to settle with clenching fingers upon each strawberry nipple as I lowered my face toward hers, savoring the sharp intake of breath as I lifted the weight of her ample breasts against her swollen, pinioned peaks, as her chest arched upwards in response. My hands rose with her until she was at full arch; I braced my hands to hold her there as my mouth fell upon hers. I felt the shivering of her body through her nipples and her mouth as the muscles of savannah's chest and back slowly fatigued, as her weight began to settle inexorably upon the suspension offered by my fingers. She moaned deeply and opened her mouth fully to my probing tongue as she surrendered her weight, and I could feel the twitching of her hips through the nubs of flesh that I held. I held her there until I could feel in her quivers, could hear in her whimpers, that we had reached her limit. I held her there just a bit further, just to that point ... and released her, rising to view and savor the "Aaahhhh,", the choked cry as blood rushed back into her tortured flesh, watched as her hips threshed and twitched without any shred of decorum, without thought of the slow puddle taking shape between them. Soak, rinse, repeat, I thought as my hands found purchase once again upon purplish mounds of flesh and I pulled her chest slowly but firmly from the mattress by those nubs, held her trembling and swaying there once again, her mouth parting in nigh-forgotten act of inhalation as I gazed down upon her, held her until whimpering held just that coloration of suppressed pain, of acceptance tested and yet found good, lowered her slowly once again, a now sinuously-writhing mass. My gaze turned slowly from the gripping spectacle upon the bed to the formation of floggers, clamps, paddles, and assorted less well-identified items that lined the floor near the room's window. One breast- and pussy-flogger of thin, flexible rubber strands, one of thin leather lashes, one of braided and knotted cords. One medium-weight flogger with half-inch falls or tails, one medium-flogger with thin, heavy leather lashes, long and potentially cutting. Elk-hide heavy-flogger, wide, soft tails descending in a supple dried-blood red-brown wave from a fine burnt-red wooden handle. Spring-loaded black leather riding crop. Such were the honored implements of this weekend, along with various apparati of clamping, of suction, and of electrical stimulation, each with their supporting roles to play. Ah, the look on her face when I'd pulled them carefully and deliberately from their traveling bag. "Let's start by increasing the blood flow and sensitivity of some of my favorite tissues," I murmured, running my fingers and nails with full ownership across the freshly-shaven dampness between her legs. I smiled appreciatively at my quivering companion's visible attempt to spread her bound limbs yet further in response, to invite my hand in rather than to suffer its titillating withholding. Little did she know. Stepping to where the implements lay waiting in their formation upon the floor, I made a show of my contemplation and decision, though the outcome had never been in any doubt. Savannah's face actually jerked -- started and startled -- as she saw me rise from my considerations with an odd and ominous looking artifact of rubber and clear plastic hanging from my right hand: a vacuum-pumping ball at one end, an oddly-shaped transparent cupping arrangement at the other, flexible rubber hose in the middle. I purred as I returned to the bed, watching her eyes as she attempted to translate the object I held. A sharp intake of breath emanated from her as I placed the transparent plastic cup, molded to fit this particular area, upon her pussy, sealing her already-glistening loins. With a quick clenching of the ball in my left hand, the cup was vacuum-sealed upon her flesh. "We need to wake your pussy and your labia up, my love," I said, running my now free right hand up her body to settle with rolling tightness for a moment upon her left nipple before returning to the task at hand. She gasped as I spent many long seconds creating a vacuum within that cup, seconds during which her entire genital mound was pulled upward, outward, expanding its tissues to fill the towering hollowness of the cupping device. The skin within glowed, aflush with blood, and I could watch as her labia thickened and extended, as her body attempted to extrude itself into the vacuum. Holding her there, I watched her squirm from the vacuum-induced sensation, somewhat like being clamped except that the direction of force is outward and equally distributed rather than inward and localized as with a clamp. "The nice thing about this," I observed, "is that it provides yet another handle. Quite effective," I concluded, as I took the vacuum-locked cup in my left hand and pulled slowly upward against it, releasing my grasp before I broke the vacuum-seal but not before pulling several more moans from my shining submissive. Her genital cleft had grown massively into the vacuum-cup, and savannah's growing heat and moistness had steamed the inner surface into opacity. "So damn hot and wet, I can't see a thing anymore," I chuckled, watching my love's face closely as I spoke to see her react to having her body's eager responses drawn clearly out for her. Ah, yes, the delicate edge of discomfort, of taboo ... the dawning self-recognition of and by a pain slut. Oh, but not just any pain slut. A specialist. "Yumm." I pulled hard against the plastic cup, lifting her hips to a music of unprotesting groans as I pressed the vacuum-release and allowed the apparatus to pull away from the flaming, swollen, engorged tissues that awaited beneath. "Now, I think your pussy's awake." I ran my left hand, fingers, nails across the fiery flesh, savored the contrast between the scorching heat of her skin and the bottomless steamy pool that beckoned from deep within the engorged cleft, felt her hips buck as she cried out when my middle finger sank a knuckle within that liquid embrace. Tight bands wrapped my chest as I took another photo of my project, for posterity. This was a rare treat, and I suspected that my dusky companion had a lot of potential. I didn't know the half of it, and I was already in heaven. Hands empty once again, I returned to savannah's bedside. "Let's start with a pussy-spanking, shall we," I said, smiling and savoring the conflict of emotions and sensations that were still running through her. Swinging myself onto the bed, I knelt on my knees, straddling savannah's waist with my back to her, her widely-spread pussy exposed helplessly before me. "First, however, we need to make your pussy even more sensitive," I continued, taking her outer labia in a tight pinch between the thumb and middle knuckle of my right-hand's index finger and pulling hard, turning her labia into a long, stretching handle of flesh that I rolled mercilessly for long minutes between my pinioning digits. Kneading the intimate flesh, I pulled until I heard a moan of near-agony as her hips began to rise in suspension from those delicate tissues. Hearing that moan, I pulled harder for a moment, passing her limits just a bit for just long enough, then released. My companion's hips were slowly convulsing as her pussy melted. Having gone suddenly from an excess of stimulation to none whatsoever, her body was yearning, grasping, for more, a fact attested by the pleading moans and whimpers that came to my ears as I watched, entranced, the shining loins dancing before me upon the bed, helpless hips thrashing involuntarily. With a sharp "thap", three fingertips announced their slapping presence to the pussy that gaped beneath me. Her pubis bucked as that impact fell, and then it trembled before me with anticipation in the quiet moment that followed as I relished her expectation of the spanking to come. Extending the moment, the fingertip-paddle fell again, and again I drew out the expectation that followed. With the next blow, a fourth fingertip joined the paddle and we initiated a slow, solid rhythm that danced upon the surface that spread itself between her gleaming thighs. Several minutes of slow, steady rhythmic spanking, and she was writhing beneath me. She was anticipating, riding it, and the gasp that was torn from her when I delivered five blows in quick succession was, shall we say, breathtaking. Fast, slow, clustered, individual blows ... tempo, rhythm ... it was time to start to really play with the glowing, flowing instrument unfolded between my legs. The chorus of gasps, moans, quiet cries that crept to my ears from the bed behind me bore witness to the effects that my play was having upon my beloved, the background vocals for our little performance. Soft, sensual, sharp, stinging, slapping, spanking, steadily-deepening tissue impact-massage. Regular refrains emerge, repeated rhythms, building in range of intensity, rising to a sharp, slapping, devastating crescendo, followed by cessation and the convulsions of a body grasping vainly for the stimulatory overload that has just been withdrawn. There's no instrument quite like it, and this lover was the most amazing pussy-torture aficionado I'd ever seen. The hips beneath me quaked and writhed, light gleaming in flashes from drenched, shaven skin as the ruby cleft opened and closed, shaking spasmodically between quivering thighs, and a long, low, keening wail of pleasure and need and sudden void came from the mouth hidden behind me. I swung slowly from my saddle across savannah's waist and moved to my feet, alongside the bed and its moltenly erotic tableau. Savannah squirmed between the bonds that spread her limbs snugly. Her eyes were open but unseeing, mouth gaping wide in a face arched toward the headboard, chest reaching desperately for the ceiling above. A smile spread across my face mirroring the expansive elation in my chest as I realized, from my partner's response, what was to come. "Oh, my goodness," I purred, reaching forward to rake my fingernails across the hot, glowing tissues that had become my playground. "I'd suspected that you were a pussy-pain slut, my dear, from our last visit, but I don't think I knew the half of it. Until I leave, my love, we will be exploring your pussy's love of torture. What do you think?" I waited for a long moment, then brought my full right hand slapping hard upon her still-trembling pussy. "Tell me what you want. Now." I barked. "Why do I need to say?" she whispered, pleading. "Because I want to hear it, and I won't continue until you ask for it." I punctuated my statement with another sharp spank that splashed within her aching, hungry loins. "Whip my pussy," she whispered, pleading. "Please whip my pussy." "Good girl," I said gently. "You needed to hear yourself ask for it, so you have to confront how badly you want this. Now, you have to live with having asked for it, and have to accept that you want it and that it's you." I scraped the nails of my right hand slowly but firmly back and forth across her labia, savoring the gasps that I drew forth. Shifting, I scratched firmly up and down the length of her dripping vaginal cleft, scraping the delicate inner labia. Savannah's hips rose toward the biting edge of my nails, and I had to move with her to keep her from seizing control over the intensity of sensation, denying her that control. A "mew" of desire came from her thrashing head, and I chose that moment to attack a clitoris already swollen by vacuum and punishment, flicking my insistent nails back and forth across its surface. A long, keening wail burst from my love's broad, shining, thrashing face, glowing with the fires that had been kindled within her flesh. "I think we've gotten your pussy woken up, don't you?" I asked rhetorically as I tugged my eyes from the glorious spectacle. "Hmmm. Now, what?" I knelt near the assortment of floggers, clamps, and assorted other instruments that covered the floor near the room's heater. (As if I didn't already know the answer, as if it hadn't been predetermined.) The short black leather genital flogger, its tails hanging like enormous black earthworms, came easily to my hand, the steel ring chiming from its handle. "I think this is what's called for next, my dear," I announced, rising and turning to display for my lover the object, with whose hot, stinging bite she was already familiar from our last encounter. Her mouth pursed soundlessly as shining eyes dripping with desire fell upon the lashes, as she anticipated their sensual burn. Returning to the bed, I knelt beside savannah and began by laying the flogger gently upon her vaginal cleft, drawing its tails slowly upwards, letting its weight and its myriad edges announce its presence as it stroked her delicate tissues. I lingered upon the act, making tails no longer than my hand seem to stretch on forever as they traveled the length of that steaming vale. The gleaming and bloated ruby labia to either side of that vale twitched as the abrasive sharpness of the ebony leather strands brushed across savannah's hot pink clitoris, the latter already larger than I'd ever before seen it and protruding obscenely upwards from the puddle of steaming intimacy within which it was set. Lather, rinse, repeat, I thought as I slowly reprised the process, and again, and again, relishing the anticipation being kindled within her and flickering from her face, eyes, mouth, hips, pussy ... throwing off sparks of desire like an electrical charge building within the moist battery between her legs. The first strokes were slow, light, lazy, beginning with no more impact than high grass in summer, more pet than flog. My target rocked gently from side to side as savannah's buttocks clenched spasmodically in response, in eagerness. "My, my," I observed, "this little pussy can't wait. What do you want? Tell me. Tell me, or I'll stop right now," I commanded. "Whip my pussy," came the choked reply, breathless, panting. My rhythm became slow, cadenced, regular, sharp impacts landing flat against the length of the cleft that shone dark and carmine against the flushed, engorged labia that framed it. Many long minutes passed without a break as blow after blow fell, regular as a metronome, sharp and stinging, exactly along the line of that cleft. The incoherent sounds from the full-lipped mouth behind me could have been pleasure or pain, pleas or hosannas - at that moment, any of the above were one and the same coin. It was a sweet music, I thought, but time to change the channel. With a sharp swat, the tails landed hard on the delicate, heretofore untouched flesh just to the right of that soaked, angry ruby smile, and my lover's powerful body surged as she cried out with surprise. Hard and fast, now, from side to side, leaving pink lash-lines as vertical framing for the pussy that now gaped, forgotten and orphaned, jealous and yearning. The shrill, choked cries were a steady stream, the musical accompaniment for our performance. I've been a pussy-torture specialist for years -- ever since I got my hands (and fingers and clamps and quirts and clothespins and ... you get the idea) on my first willing pussy. I've found that nearly every woman, with notable exceptions, loves some degree of pussy torture. It's the psychological aspect of it that's hardest for most of them. There's something absolutely primordial about being ruthlessly tormented through the agency of one's vagina, tortured through the most intimate flesh that one possesses. It's the ultimate victimization taboo, and to force a woman to embrace that she craves it is the most amazing and rare of pleasures. Here, spread before me, so to speak, was the most powerfully responsive pussy-pain slut that I had ever met, it was clear -- responsive enough that I took a moment to spread a towel beneath savannah's pussy and hips to contain the wet stain creeping beneath her before continuing. I built the pace and intensity of the flogging that her labia and loins were receiving, increasing the length and speed of the strokes, climbing to a crescendo which was reached with a strong, sharp, full-swing blow upon the gaping, enflamed central cleft, a blow which tore forth a shriek from the panting throat behind me. And then, there was silence as I rose from the bed, admiring the handiwork that twisted and squirmed before me upon that padded platform. A moment, now, for posterity, to photographically document the condition of the pussy that gaped and grasped blindly between glistening thighs. Another long moment followed, to linger, theatrically but silently, over my choice of toy for the next round (again, as if there were any real choice to be made, but my dusky companion didn't know that). A wolfish leer spread across my face as I rose with my choice and turned to display it to my nervous, wide-eyed victim, her expression torn between fear and fascination with the craving she was just beginning to discover. It was a long, thin, braided flogger, starting out as a single braid, then branched to two and branching again to four thin, biting, knotted lashes the length of my middle finger. The entire flogger, handle to tip, was the length of my forearm, and it's apparent fragility, delicacy, and lack of substance was a magnificent illusion. Those long, thin, knotted braids, all innocence and safety, hid a secret that my lover was about to discover. Crossing the Threshold Ch. 02 There's nothing more delicious than a submissive who has surrendered to her yearning for pain, who has accepted that the deepest pleasure lies within the most intimate of tortures and who has surrendered herself to the embrace of that pleasure. And when that submissive is my savannah ... The breaking of day had been wrapped in gauzy soft-focus, like the drowsy warmth that follows the inevitable exercise in holiday gluttony, the lingering slowness which echoes aching desire once long-pent when it has been shrieked, spent, exorcised, when last night's perfumes wrap the day's beginning and set its tone. I'd reached for her as I'd woken, and our joining had possessed that sensuality that comes from a total lack of impatience, of rush, of need. The satiety had lasted through my trip downstairs, returning with a tray of coffees and another of corn muffins and bagels, just a bit of a bite to get the blood moving once again. And then ... Caffeinated, awake, I saw savannah's chestnut eyes creep across the basic but spacious hotel room to where her DVD recorder watched, cyclopean, from atop its tripod, its mission to record the high points of this weekend, giving her something to hold onto once I'd left. Anticipation began to glint from those eyes as they settled upon our waiting digital witness, and I knew it was time to begin our final session of the weekend. Rising from my perch upon the end of the bed, I moved into the middle of the utilitarian room's surprisingly expansive central openness, looking theatrically about in the visual equivalent of a stage whisper. After a long moment passed in silent, exaggerated contemplation of the chamber's possibilities, I turned a sly, appreciative smile upon my companion. Savannah sat cross-legged at the head of the bed, glowing in the morning light that stole in through the chamber's windows. Her frame was broad, powerful, and she delighted in the fact that she had half an inch or so in height on me. She was a woman who was dangerous in her own right, though never to me. Only in summer did her coloring even hint at the Cherokee that lurked within her, darkening her light perpetual California tan. The hair that cascaded past the middle of her back was a reddish-brown, this time -- her color cycled in variations of red and brunette and dark blonde, both due to sun and to the wonders of modern coloration. Her naked form gleamed where it was licked by the buttery morning sunlight. Raspberry nipples jutted high from her full, expansive breasts, quislings betraying her interior state as she sat quietly watching me, anticipating what was to come. Secure in the knowledge that I had her undivided attention, I turned toward the over-stuffed, chestnut-brown easy-chair in the far corner, near the exterior wall, its color a deeper variation on the mid- dirt-brown that grew upon the chamber's floor, a color chosen because of the impossibility that it might "show dirt" -- being the color of such, normally (classic Hotel Management logic). "Now, let's see ..." I muttered as I knelt before the chair and experimented with positions. This would do, with a few items to assist me. "Give me just a minute, my love," I said, flashing my Cheshire grin as I rose from my experimentations. Moving stage left from the easy-chair, recessed a bit from the line between it and the tripod holding aloft the unblinking red eye, I dropped to one knee in front of the display of tools, toys, and implements that was assembled upon that part of the floor. I hesitated, thinking with dramatic effect, drawing out the moment in contemplations decided long ago. I smiled to myself as I pointedly drew forth each item from its place in that assemblage and laid them like a welcoming honor guard along the approach to the chair I'd chosen before turning back to my waiting lover. The glint in her eye matched the flush that darkened her expressively dark tan, a glint that leaked fear and desire, and dripped their union, heat. I hadn't lost my lock upon her gaze, drawing it with me as I moved as if it were anchored upon my hands like the motions of a marionette, but with the joy of an entranced yet enchanted awareness mutely acceding to the pantomime in which it was embedded. "My dear," I began, relishing the anticipation that danced gingerly upon her face, "please come over here and kneel in front of the easy-chair, facing into it." I loved watching the ripple of muscles counterpointed by the swaying of full woman's breasts and kidney-length hair as she rose from her perch at the head of the bed and took the position I'd indicated. "Like this?" was her only reply, as she settled into position. It took a few moments to encircle each wrist and ankle with supple black leather, steel rings hanging from each like festive ornaments festooning her extremities. A few minutes more and her face and chest were lying upon the chair's bottom cushion, arms stretched across the armrests and bound outstretched towards the rear legs, thighs bound wide by additional loops of the soft, white nylon hawser rope, ankles bound forward to immobilized wrists. The full, round globes of savannah's ass, highlighted by their relative paleness next to the surrounding flesh, were forced high, above the plane of her back, and forced back, beyond the plane where her legs rose vertically from upon her knees. It was a slut's display, hips high, ass back and begging to be filled, and it presented her perfectly for what was to follow. Then, a few more moments to adjust the focus of the gleaming black rectangles that were the DVD recorder, framing savannah perfectly within her viewfinder, and we were ready to go. This position begged for flogging. We had yet to capture on DVD a good, prolonged flogging session, having been too much in the moment to remember before this morning. It was time to fix that. "Are you ready, my dear?" I whispered in her left ear as I ran the nails of my left hand hard and insistently across the arc of her buttocks. Her gasp was like escaping steam, her body attempting to press itself yet more fully against my roaming claws. "Yes, oh yes," came the choked, husky reply. A moment of withdrawal to press the "record" button, and we were ready to go. The heavy handle crawled in straps of black leather, a handle ending in a thick clump of tails about the length and thickness of large earthworms. It had been a gift from savannah on our last meeting, a cross between "sting" due to the size of the individual tails and a "thud" due to their aggregate weight -- magnificent for warm-up. My trembling submissive hissed as I slowly stroked the weight of the falls upwards along the gleaming curve of her ass. Lather, rinse, repeat, I thought, as I stroked the other cheek, then pulled it with almost glacial slowness along the valley dividing the hemispheres of her body. The first blow fell, shattering the silence, its falling shards the gasp that accompanied the unannounced, full-strength introduction. The impact was dull and deep, solid, focused. Heavy, on a solid beat; sharp, quick, repetitive; a bare wisp, on the quiet. Establishing rhythm just long enough to escape from it, to deconstruct it, to disappoint the expectation and leave it gasping. Each blow brought blood into the skin, fed the glow that slowly deepened to pink amid a quiet, rippling stream of moans. And, crescendo, hard, harsh, over the top, stinging falls tearing hissing steam and breathless wails as the limit is pushed, as the mark is laid, and the final flourish. And silence, as I stood back for a moment to catch my breath. Roses bloomed upon pale tan globes that twitched and gently rocked before me, trailing off into individuated flaming fingers that radiated from the central flames like a stylized crimson drawing of sun and sunshine, enframing the curves of her full, solid ass. Her flesh continued to reach, it seemed, to stretch, searching for the lashes now withdrawn, searching with a blind, insistent, even unthinking futility. Leaning my left hand upon the top of the crease that split her ass like a peach, I reached my right down and into the dark cleft between her splayed thighs. Steaming, fluid contours of slippery flesh and gaping wetness embraced my exploring digits, welcoming them, drawing them in as my wondrous sensation-slut tried to thrust herself back upon my hand, her body seeking mutely, yet, to replace the storm of sensation so abruptly withdrawn. Mmm ... time to begin tenderizing my favorite tissues. It took only a moment to retrieve from their ready position an initially odd-looking assemblage of black plastic and cylinders and rectangles and wires. As I dropped to my right knee between my wondrous, powerful pain-slut's thighs, facing the hungry loins that gaped and gasped in shapes of rose and purple and shadow, I thrust two fingers without warning into the beckoning vaginal opening. "I think this pussy of yours is getting ready," I purred. "What do you think? Tell me." Savannah's husky voice was thick and partially muffled by the pillow upon which her beaming, panting profile, lay. "My pussy is ready for you." "This pussy is already so wet, and all I've done is whip your ass. You are such a pain slut." I slapped both globes of her ass twice, quickly, for effect. "What are you?" I demanded. The voice that floated to me was broken, more choked, this time, like a river congested and blocked by trees swept up in its floodwaters. "I'm your pain slut. Please hurt me," she whispered. "Please hurt me." I reached my left hand into the shadows between savannah's strong thighs and took the left outer labial lip tightly between my thumb and forefinger, drawing it strongly away from her. With my right hand, I reached forward the rubber-tipped jaws of the weighted, vibrating clamp whose bite tore forth a high-pitched moan as it closed deeply upon the stretched labial flesh. Lather, rinse, repeat, I thought, as I repeated the process with the other lip. The weights drew my pain-addicted lover's labia majora in a loop of stretched flesh away from her body, their very swaying itself sufficient to draw a series of gasps from her still-muffled face. Tugging gently, alternating, I traced my hands down the thin, black wires that trailed from the hanging weights to the small black plastic control at their terminus. Seconds later, the clamps were humming gently, a counterpoint to the dull tapping as they vibrated against one another. The gasps gained an octave for a moment before settling back in. Rising, I faced my powerful lover's flaming ass once again; this time, it was my medium flogger, all half-inch falls of black leather. With glacial slowness, I drew the bundle of 20" tails upwards along the joining of her legs and the crack dividing the already-awoken globes of that ass. Broad, nearly immobilized hips rocked minutely as the body before me attempted to move to embrace the stroking leather. The first strokes were soft, underhand, vertical strokes that crept into the dark shadows at the joining of her legs. Whimpers crawled across savannah's flesh as the vibrating weights were struck, causing them to bounce and sway against the tender pale flesh. The fourth stroke, however, was hard, fast, strong, resounding against the right ass-cheek and drawing forth a cry that broke from my beloved bottom as we raised her to a new plateau, an interminable cry yet sounding as a twin of the earlier stroke descended upon the other cheek. Several, now, that hailed upon each side, before I dropped the intensity and began an extended campaign to set afire the flesh that stretched helplessly before me. Alternating strokes, now, firm, solid, long descending from each shoulderblade, strokes between the legs to impact flesh and plastic, then back to the ass. Harder, now, still with steady, extended rhythm. Without warning, hard, alternating, full-strength slashing strokes that landed fast, accelerating, the welts of individual tails rising from the deep scarlet surface. And silence. It's hard to pass up on the invitation posed by helpless flesh, bruised and enflamed, and I ran my fingernails like claws across the burning skin, relishing the steady stream of keening wails that my digital attack drew from my helpless, entranced submissive. (Entranced she was, already climbing the plateaus of subspace as yearning flesh attempted to force itself upon my assaulting hands.) Now, one does have to beware of timing when applying clamps to tissues, and the droning weights that clattered dully between trembling tan thighs had been there for a while. Oh, well, to everything a season. Reaching into the shadows, I took the first clamp in my right hand, pulling against it to stretch the flesh long and tight within its grasp. With one quick movement, I released the pinioned flesh, allowing it to snap back into place with an agonized scream as blood rushed in. Now, as savannah's hips rocked in response to the burning of sensitized flesh, I took the remaining clamp in hand and stretched hard against the pinned tissues, locking her in position by the tension. Again, I released the jaws abruptly to the accompaniment of a high-pitched wail. The best was yet to come, I thought to myself as I reached both hands forward and took an external labial lip between each thumb and forefinger, feeling for the marks left by the clamps just removed. I tightened my grip upon those marks and rolled the already bruised flesh hard between those digits, gripping more tightly than the clamps' jaws ever had. I felt my lover pulling against me, but knew her well enough to know that she was trying to increase the stimulation, not escape it, and stretched the flesh hard towards me, tethering her with it as I wrung that flesh within my merciless grasp. "Oh, god, yes! Oh, god, harder!" were the choked shrieks that greeted me in response. "This is really the best part about applying clamps to labia, you know," I observed with an appreciative leer as I played. "Well, that and making handles, especially when the hands are too tired or the pussy is too wet. But we'll get around to that, later." I chuckled my best stage-chuckle at this last, knowing that the thought of what I'd just described would build her anticipation nicely like a coal smoldering in a bed of tinder. A noise of nearly desperate yearning crawled through the air as I released the intimate flesh whose ownership had passed from my lover to me. Such response could not be left entirely in the lurch, though we did have a task to resume. The medium flogger yet had a purpose to fulfill, I chuckled to myself. The best stance was alongside the left hip, facing across the plane of her body, bringing my right hand into position. Long, slow vertical strokes, bottom to top, arcing upwards between her thighs, solid yet not insistent, echoes of things to come, promissories, almost, landed just long enough for her to begin to flex her thighs, for her to attempt to spread herself for the leather. That would do, for now. "You are the most eager pussy-torture slut I've ever known. Do you know that?" I asked, rhetorically since I wasn't sure she even heard me. I decided to fix that. "What are you?" I demanded of her. "Tell me what you are." "I'm a pain slut," came the husky reply, thick with advancing subspace. "And what do you want?" I demanded, filling time while I changed implements. "I want you to hurt me. Please hurt me." The words were like thick honey, breathless and pleading. "You said the magic words, my love," I laughed with satisfaction at having trained this pain slut with care and patience, having encouraged and guided the desire for pain I'd seen in her very early on, long before our first physical encounters. I loved to make her speak the words, acknowledge who she was and what she wanted in a way that she couldn't forget. That was one reason for the DVD record that was being made. So she would know, would remember, would have to come to acceptance of, precisely who she was and what she wanted. Saying it for the first time had been a powerful moment for her, one that she'd seen coming but resisted. I never lost an opportunity to remind her and reinforce that knowledge. We were going to move up a notch. In my hand was a gift from my Cherokee lover the last time we'd met. It was a heavy leather flogger of potentially extreme severity, so much so that I'd laughed with glee when it had been given. I'd taken pleasure in pointing out how its heavy, individually braided falls could potentially bruise and even cut if wielded with strength. Quite honestly, I'd barely wielded it before this, and wasn't planning of pushing it, today. There was plenty of intimidation factor left to savor, and it was a serious piece. But for warm-up ... I took my position alongside my beloved bottom's right hip, careful not to obstruct the view of the unblinking witness atop its elevated platform. Stretching the heavy dull black tails outward across the firm, glowing peach globes of savannah's ass with my left hand, I released the tails and brought the flogger down with just a bit more than its own rather considerable weight to drive it. Even at such, the reaction was electric as my bound nymph's body jerked to its touch. Again. Lather, rinse, repeat, went the mantra, with each cycle a little more impact to the heavy, braided and abrading delivery, with each cycle adding to the mosaic of crawling welts that were beginning to take shape upon the curved surface of raspberry butter. A few cycles of leather falling upon my love's broad, powerful back, then back to the evolving flesh of her ass. The moans had become a deep, rolling music, the wind given flesh and voice, as the cycles continued, steadily increasing in rhythm and force. A pause, then ten strokes that insisted, harsh though yet restrained enough, strokes that pushed my lover to her edge and beyond, that overwhelmed her screams and ceased just as her reserves were exhausted, leaving her panting at the edge of the abyss into which she would later plunge. I took a moment, straightening and moving away from the swaying, twitching, flame-streaked tableau. Shaking the fatigue from my right arm, I reached with my left for the water-bottle that waited on the desk just beyond the camera. I'm not sure that she even noticed my absence at that moment, and I had no reason to break the spell as I drank my fill and returned to my still-shivering lover, wrapped in a nimbus of morning sun, this time taking my stance directly between her splayed legs, facing her body's line. Now, however, it was my heavy, dried-blood red elk-hide flogger, solid, thuddy, almost sensual in its stroke, its texture. It had been described like being slapped solidly by a giant hand, a distinct change from the stinging impacts with which we'd been playing so far. The first blow was full-strength, shattering the white noise generated by the hidden television with a resounding "crack!" It was, in fact, something that sometimes kept me from breaking out that particular flogger ... its signature noise quotient. It announced itself when wielded with the authority that I was currently delivering. Eight strokes in alternating pairs fell upon each quivering ruined cheek. Her flesh grasped with invisible tendrils of desire as the blows ceased. The disappointed moans were replaced by choked gasps as the silken elk-hide fell upon her back, deep muscle massage upon shoulder-blades, stroking the broad plane for a long moment before descending once again below her firm waist to linger rhythmically, mercilessly upon the globes already burning, there. I was moving from side to side, now, placing the falls across the line of her body, taking aim at the opposing cheeks and the soft, delicate flesh below the curve of the ass, where cheek joins thigh. The flogger was falling with full-arm strokes, its impacts cutting through the room in harmony with the gasping, choking, keening desire that echoed from my baby's lips in time with its relentless assault. Crossing the Threshold Ch. 02 The crescendo, a series of full-strength blows to be delivered from each side as mercilessly as any I could land ... and it happened. I was delivering what was probably one of the final handful of blows before I planned to break, standing alongside the left hip and swinging low, aiming for the delicate sensitivity at the very base of the ass-cheek, and I missed just enough. The tips of several broad leather lashes bypassed their target, continued along their trajectory, wrapped across the back of her left thigh, and, accelerated by the wrapping effect, slapped solid, direct, brutal and dead-center upon the vagina hidden between her legs. The chair to which savannah was bound cleared the floor as her body jumped to the accompaniment of her unabashed shriek. "Goddamn it!!" came her thick scream. "You said that wasn't a fucking pussy flogger!" Yes, I was, indeed, laughing my ass off even as I checked to make sure that no real damage had been done. She was smart enough not to curse me too roundly, though I didn't begrudge her a few choice expletives as the ache of the impact settled in. I couldn't have done it better if I'd been aiming. I was laughing, still, as I changed the DVD, the current disk being within minutes of filling on us. We had hardly yet begun. Couldn't have our witness running out of steam. I wanted her to have a record, a memorial, to what I had planned, to what I'd been planning since I'd tested the waters, so to speak, the night before. However, it was also now time to change the playground, so we'd wait before turning our all-seeing eye on. It took a few minutes to release my still-squirming submissive's bonds, to raise her upright on shaking legs, and reposition her upon the overstuffed easychair. She was facing the ceiling, now, head against the chair-back, the leading edge of the seat-cushion hitting right under the central curve of her ass. I bound her legs wide, open, gaping, ankles in the grip of the spreader bar's full 3 ft. extension. A loop of soft, nylon rope around each thigh, ropes drawn around the chair and anchored to that furniture's rear feet, guaranteed the helplessness of her spreading and her exposure. She was flushed and breathing deeply, slowly, as I finished. Clearly, anticipation was already settling in. Roses bloomed on her cheeks, and a slow drip crept from between her legs. Her full, tan chest rocked slowly from side to side, sending sinuous ripples through heavy, rolling breasts whose hungry, over-ripe nipples reached toward the ceiling. I took a moment to activate our silent watcher, and then returned to my play, this time with the thin, 6-inch leather lashes of my black leather pussy-flogger hanging from my hand. My savannah's hips bucked as I laid the bundled leather strips against the vertical slit dividing her loins and drew them slowly, gently upwards along that hungry smile. And then, again. The anticipation grew rapidly as I repeated the stroking motion, her hips rising subtly in the attempt to increase the stimulation tantalizing her flesh. This was our second morning, and my lovely bottom's body was already well conditioned; there was no need to start with exceptional delicacy, shall we say. The first blow fell along the length of that vaginal cleft, the edges of the thin lashes biting hot and sharp against delicate flesh. I began by playing with the anticipation, pausing between strokes so that she never knew when the next would fall, letting her feel her need for the flogger's impact, watching as my wondrous pain slut attempted to spread herself yet further, to invite the lashes into her most private places. Savannah's slit was wet and dripping by the time I stopped tantalizing her and began to rain blows upon her loins, leaving fine red imprints alongside that slit as I pounded her vaginal region with leather for many long minutes before settling into a rhythm of slashing impacts that fell insistently upon the ever widening gap between her labia, the rosy inner flesh attempting to open itself in hospitality to the torment raining upon it. Broad, tan hips twitched, rocking subtly, telegraphing my beloved victim's yearning for more, when I finished with a crescendo of blows as hard and fast as could be delivered with this relatively small implement, maintaining that climax for several long minutes until savannah's cries turned to agonized whimpers and I knew that I had reached the limits of her endurance at this moment. Suddenly, the leather hail ceased; the moans of yearning elicited in response showed that my lover was right where I wanted her. Stepping away, I took a moment to admire my handiwork. My lovely pain-slut's pussy gaped wetly, her loins shining, spattered with juices splashed from within that pussy by the tails of my flogger. Her body was rocking sinuously, gently, from side to side. The moans that provided this morning's sound track rippled from a serene, rapturous face, eyes closed, head back, framed by a corona of butt-length red hair like some demented halo. "My, my," I muttered with sincere appreciation, "you can't get enough, can you?" I chuckled. "That's what I love about you, my dear. What are you, my dear? Tell me what you want." I had to repeat my question to get savannah's attention, to draw her from whatever psychic space she was occupying. Finally: "I'm your pain-slut. I want you to hurt me, please," came her thick, whispered reply. "Oh, my dear," I replied, "I will most gladly and certainly hurt you, as intimately as I can. One day, we'll even find out if there's a real limit to how much pain you crave. But, for now," I continued, "we'll just have to continue upon our 'tortured' journey." I knelt between my lover's splayed thighs, bringing the twitching swamp between her legs into easy reach. From where it waited off to the side on the floor, I plucked a blue Crown Royal bag; from that bag, I drew a first clothespin. With my left hand, I took a solid pinch on her right pussy-lip and pulled, drawing it tight. With my right, I took a deep bite towards the top of that fleshy cleft with the wooden jaws, pinioning close to an inch of delicate tissue within its grasp. The ecstatic gasp that accompanied a violent twitching of my pain-wrapped submissive's hips drove me forward, and I repeated my motions to place another bristling assemblage of wood and spring upon her left labia. Back and forth I worked between the two lips until four clothespins bristled from upon each lip. The moans and rocking of hips were nearly constant, now. My lover's labia majora erupted from her loins in a wide, stiff, fan-like arc, a stretched semi-circle of agony in whose grip the pussy thus framed was slowly dripping its juices to the floor beneath. Hmm ... I took a moment to place a towel there on the floor to save the room's carpet. I spent a moment flicking and batting at the wooden bristles, watching savannah's face as the jostling of the clothespins caused them to pull and twist against the flesh pinioned in their grasp. Quiet moans flowed like music from a woodwind as I moved my hand between the columns of pale wood and ran it slowly, repeatedly, up and down the length of her dripping cleft, shifting and displacing the clamps as I did so and causing her loins to rock as she attempted to bring her pussy more fully to my hand. There's nothing like torturing a pussy. The tissues involved are the most personal and intimate there are, and for a woman to hand herself to you in such a way, prepared to submit, to provide her vaginal tissues as the playground for your sadism, is an utterly magnificent feeling. There's a high, a sense of elation, as well as the warm feeling that comes from watching one's victim squirm. Withdrawing my hand from its moist channel, I gathered the clothespins together in my hand, making of them a roundish bundle, forging them into a handle securely attached to the lips of my lover's cunt. A high-pitched wail burst from her lips as her body arched, chest high, head back, pussy forward, as labial flesh was stretched yet more tightly by my action. "Mmmm ... very, very good," I said with appreciative relish. "My pussy-slut likes her clamps. Now, let's show her what a handle is good for," I finished with a chuckle. I began to pull slowly, inexorably, with my grip upon my new handle, drawing at about a 45 degree angle toward the ceiling and stretching already-agonized flesh yet, impossibly so, further. When I was pulling as hard as I could without wrenching the clothespins from their beds, I held her there, twitching, rolling, alternating between trying to raise herself to my grasp to alleviate the torture and pulling hard in resistance against my grasp to increase that same torment. The loudest cry, however, came when I released my grip and allowed the stretching of her flesh to subside. Lather, rinse repeat ... I reprised the process several more times, each time putting more strength into the stretching of her labia, taking more of her resistant weight upon those tissues. "Now," I began, releasing my handle for the final time, "the best part about clamps on the labia is that they just keep on giving." Without warning, I took a clothespin in each hand and opened its jaws, removing the pressure and allowing blood to flood brutally back into bruised tissues and bringing a half-choked shriek from my beloved victim. "Isn't it wonderful when they come off?" I asked as I removed another pair. With the final four, I took my time, pulling each tight, one at a time, before releasing it and allowing the stretched flesh to snap back into place, drawing a scream from her with each repetition. "My favorite part," I continued, "is this." The jaws of the now-removed clamps were clearly imprinted in reds and violets upon her now-lonesome labial flesh, and the sounds that came from savannah were ragged as I took each pussy lip between a thumb and forefinger and began to roll the imprinted flesh tightly, brutally, between those digits, massaging the tormented tissues deeply. My powerful submissive thrashed almost mindlessly as her pussy exploded with sensation beyond anything that she'd felt yet in this session. "Oh, god, yes, don't stop, please," burst from her flushed face, and I felt obligated to put everything left in the muscles of my hands into the activity. Juices literally shot from her gaping vaginal opening as her massively sensitized flesh was crushed in my grip, long minutes passing as I savored the intimate agony unfolding before me. However, one must properly spread the joy around, and there is flesh that is more deeply intimate, yet, than labia majora. The minora nestled, glistening, within the crimson flesh of the wide-spread vaginal cleft, delicate petals already, themselves, flaming. Her gasp came hard and harsh as I took each of the delicate inner lips in one hand and moved the grinding torment deeper within, and her hips bucked wildly as the clamping pressure grew, and yet more wildly as I began to pull those tissues, stretching the thin bits of blazing flesh away from her my beloved submissive's body, lengthening those inner lips until they exited far above the outer. She was swaying at the end of her inner labia, deep moans rolling through the room like distant surf. I held her there, perched upon that precipice of agony, as I slowly lowered my face toward my playground and, with glacial pace, touched the tip of my tongue to the rigid nub of flesh that awaited at the apex of her genital smile. My tongue's touch was electric, sending her into paroxysms against the delicate tethers within my grasp, and I could feel her effort to push excess force, excess demand into that wild, pinioned struggle, feel her body attempting to maximize its tormented ecstasy, seeking desperately for more, yet more. My hands were beginning to cramp, and it was time for a break. I stretched the labia minora in my hand as hard as I could for a moment before releasing them without ceremony, savoring the scream that was drawn from my beloved Cherokee as the flesh snapped back, no-longer clamped tissues filling explosively, agonizingly, with blood. A long pull on the ready-to-hand water bottle ensued, followed by a photographic recording for posterity of the flaming ruins between my lover's thighs. She was still quivering, rolling from side to side as if in search of the stimulation that had been withdrawn. A shiver rolled through me in response to the wanton tableau being embodied upon the cushion of the chair, before me. I took up my position along her outstretched right thigh, this time, my right hand perfectly positioned to land with a sharp "crack" upon savannah's vaginal area, my middle finger landing within the gaping open cleft. A shrill cry ripped through the room, and her entire body bucked, the heavy easychair, itself, seeming to rise with her into the air before slamming back to reality and gravity. Without warm-up, the pussy-spanking launched into high gear, sharp slaps echoing one after the other through the chamber, my lover's bound, spread body convulsing in futility as the blows fell. The choked wails that burst from the unseen face, behind me, were shrill, yearning, the twitching of her hips revealing more of an attempt to rise towards and embrace the hail of blows rather than one of escape. After many long minutes, I redoubled my pace, breaking into a sweat as my fatigued arm complained at the demands. She was apoplectic by now, caught in a fit, an electric current running directly between cunt and brain, mindful of nothing but the indescribable stimulation exploding through her from within that cunt. Finally, it seemed that she was beginning to lift towards orgasm, something that could not yet be allowed. We were going to have to change the dance, once again, to divert that release for a bit. The black leather clapper of my riding crop fell squarely across the vaginal slit that gaped and gasped in blind desire before me. The blows exploded like subdued shots through the air as that square leather surface slapped repeatedly, mercilessly, upon her loins, loins the bloomed like flowers in the face of the dew. The moment was timeless as we were both lost in the process, wrapped in the rhythm, the blows, the music of her body as I played its percussion. Hard, fast, a drum-roll, sharp, hard, pronounced, many are the notes that can be played in such a way upon such a drum. Then, a crescendo, the Valkyries spreading across the sky, the heavens erupting for a long moment as the crop swung with near-wild, full-armed abandon, flaming imprints turning once-alabaster flesh from crimson towards purple as we passed her limits and held her there, not-quite screaming; the scream we now sought was the one that broke as the impacts stopped, as the crop and its symphony became quiet. My broad, quivering victim jerked as my right hand stroked across her burning-hot flesh before scraping back and forth across those tissues with fingernails hungry for her gasps. I teased her starving, yearning pubis with my hand, letting her guess as to my intent, anticipation a wonderful form of torment. Suddenly, like a striking snake, my intent burst upon her as my right hand closed tightly, thumb to forefinger across her cleft, labia smashed between them, the scream breaking from her before she could silence it. I released my handles after a few seconds, for this was not my project of the moment. I placed my left hand upon her crotch, my thumb and little finger facing one another across her clitoris. Spreading my fingers, I held her pussy splayed wide, helpless, gaping, dripping, and open before me. With my right hand, I drew from its waiting place upon the floor the short pussy-flogger that had patterned her external flesh so recently. The blow fell within the center of that wide-spread carmine pussy, its tips landing full upon the gaping vaginal sphincter with a sharp snap, pulling a deep-throated "AH!" from my recumbent victim. My pattern was slow, deliberate, placement the key. You want to have full control when flogging the inner tissues, the clitoris, the vaginal mouth. With each blow, a squirt ejected from her spasming pussy, and it was like I could feel the electricity from her body as it passed up my own spine. The inner lips flowered, blossoming, expanding before my eyes into corrugated petals that reached explosively in escape from where they framed my love's grasping, gasping, gaping hole. Slowly, the force of each impact increased, though I held their rhythm slow, staccato, pronounced. Minute after minute passed as the torture continued, its pace designed to emphasize the inescapable nature, my love's helpless inability to do other than to embrace the tidal sensations overwhelming her. Without warning, my rhythm exploded, and I began to swing with solid abandon in a frenetic tango that carried savannah to the edge of frenzied madness, reason long forgotten in the thrashing of a body whose concepts of pain and pleasure had become decentered and indistinguishable. I held my wondrous bottom upon that razor edge for a long, long moment, taking her just past that moment at which her tolerance, her limit, had been passed, letting her quiver upon that point before bringing silence explosively into the room. Her entire body was trembling, shaking, as my right hand descended once again upon outer and inner tissues, rolling, pinioning, stretching, and establishing ownership thereof in a tattoo that went deeper than the physical, taking personal ownership. She ceded me control eagerly as I stretched and then rolled the unthinkably enflamed flesh, and I felt my love's hips ripple as she pulled back against my grasp, stretching herself yet further upon those tethers, making her torture her own agenda, her desire becoming synonymous with my own. Long minutes passed as I kneaded that tortured, intimate flesh in my crushing grip, savoring the gasps and moans that flowed like a rapid forest brook to my ears, my eyes locked upon a face set like a diamond in the sublime peace of subspace, the face of a being in utter, ecstatic union with their surrender. Only once the moans passed, my beloved victim having entered so deeply into her ecstatic state that she was beyond the stimulation I was inflicting, only then did I cease my ministrations. Savannah barely seemed to notice as I rose from her, so far away from this plane was she. One more round of preparation, I thought to myself as I studied the instruments available to me upon the floor. The medium flogger, I decided, yet had one final role to play. Bringing it to my hand, I turned to my swaying, twitching, drooling target, deciding upon the proper position -- what was to come was something normally delivered standing across her body when she was prone upon a bed. I chose a stance with my right leg pressed against her outstretched left thigh, facing three-quarters out along the plane of her body, my back not quite turned to her, leaning into her just enough to give my right arm a reasonably straight downward stroke. I swung the flogger gently with a few test swings that came nowhere near reaching flesh, gauging the motion to come and targeting it in the still-awkward position. Finally, I was comfortable with the context. I stretched the forearm-length falls carefully forward, towards my submissive's widely-parted knees, with my left hand, holding them there as I became one with my target. With a swish that broke the air, a blur of black leather slashed down upon the wet, gaping crimson flower between her legs, landing with a crack like a breaking tree-bough. A strangled scream gurgled through the room in accompaniment, and hips rocked upwards as knees reached for the walls of the room. The body before me attempted to open itself to the lash, reason standing upon its head, as the next merciless blow fell, and the next, and the next. Only the twitching of my beloved's belly and the rising of her hips to the rain of leather betrayed her consciousness; the moans were hushed -- more grunts than wails, almost imperceptible to my probing ear. Crossing the Threshold Ch. 02 The force of the impacts grew steadily until they crossed her limits and her legs strained to close. I stopped, telling her, "Spread yourself when you're ready." After a moment, my victim's legs spread wide, hips tilted upward, and again the blows fell, now full-arm, full-strength, pushing until savannah's limits were once again passed. Thus was set the rhythm: lather, rinse, repeat, until my arm was aching and the sweat was dripping from me within the coolness of the room. My dusky bottom was rising once more towards orgasm, and such could not yet be allowed. I stepped away, and the waiting water bottle replaced the insidious leather instrument in my hand. I stood, surveying the puddle of animal heat into which I had transformed my treasured submissive. The glow of a nigh-mystical state surrounded savannah, a haloed being wrapped in the sublime, as a steady stream of honey dripped from enraged, blazing loins to the towel beneath her. Finally, my arm had recovered enough to continue. My companion's powerful tan body was writhing slowly, tremulously. Her eyes were closed, her face wrapt in glowing rapture. Moving silently, careful not to reveal my movements by contact with the thighs which trembled, waiting, I crouched before the still-dripping crimson mess enframed by those thighs. Reaching forward with both hands, I took the flaming, engorged tissue of my delectable victim's outer labia in a crushing grip between my thumbs and forefingers. Thus anchored, I slowly, inexorably stretched those tissues towards myself, watching as they became two handles of flesh several inches in angry, burning length. I gauged my activity, my slow increase of pressure, by the twitching of attached hips, the spasming of taut belly, the faint gasps and whispers that rolled forth in rapturous testimony, the faint pulling as the attached submissive tried to increase my pressure. Holding at what seemed to be her anguished limit, I slowly changed the direction of that pressure, pulling upwards towards the ceiling above. I held her there whimpering, quietly wailing from a face whose eyes seemed focused on a scene for themselves only, until my hand began to fatigue, then released my stretched handles with a snap, relishing the cry that burst forth as blood flooded back into those tortured tissues. For a moment, I watched the slow, sinuous convulsions that rippled through Savannah's body, watched as her hips arched forward, reaching, begging silently for more. Her face shone, her eyes fixed upon a place far, far away. Reaching towards those handles of flesh, I established the rhythm that I would maintain for a seeming eternity in that chamber: stretch, lift upward, hold, release, relish. The time had come. Subspace had become my lover's world, her body answering upon its own, begging, yearning. The towel beneath the monstrously engorged ruin of her loins was soggy with the rivulet flowing from them. My hands and arms were beginning to tire, and it was becoming difficult to maintain my grip upon the wet, slippery tissues. It was now or never. Taking the crawling, undulating flesh of fire in my hands for one final, crushing grip, I rose to my feet and began inexorably drawing upward against the inescapably intimate tethers that her outer labia had become. Slowly, mercilessly, I increased the pressure, feeling the strain build in my arms, shoulders, chest, feeling the growing pain in my hands as my grip tightened, held. I rotated my hands a bit towards the tops of her thighs, rolling the flesh of her labia with me, making a crude pulley-system out my thumb and forefinger to increase my grip strength, like taking a rope around a tree. And still I lifted. Then the unthinkable, never-before attained happened. At an excruciating, glacial pace, savannah's hips began to rise. Taking more of her weight, now, in my back and my thighs, I pulled upwards towards my chest. Bit by bit, my powerful submissive's weight shifted from the cushion beneath her to rest suspended by tethered, tormented tissues of the most intimate degree. I watched as the cushion beneath relaxed, releasing her burden. She was mute, now, barely twitching, utterly transfixed, her face glowing as with glory, as, with one last effort, I raised her buttocks from their support and held her before me, swaying, suspended from knee to shoulders, hanging there, surrounded by air and agony and passion. Long minutes passed as she swung gently in my grasp, surrendering to an act about whose possibility I'd never been certain, a vision that I'd never thought to see in actuality. The only sound was our breathing and the pounding of my heart. Reluctantly, I finally lowered my treasured victim back upon the chair that had, it seemed an eternity before, held her cherished mass. I'd become nearly unaware of my own body, so enchanted, ensnared, enraptured had I been by what had just occurred. I realized that my erection was fierce, raging, demanding. Kneeling between glistening thighs, I reached forward again and took back those handles that I had so recently released. Wrapping their slipperiness in my grip, I pulled her brutally upon my cock as it descended like a spear into her womb. Holding her by that flesh, I slammed us upon one another in a spasm of animal lust, heedless, sadistic. Her cries began instantly, cries of ecstasy, the song of paradise, the music of life and the sphere filling the room as we crashed together. I released her labia only when that grip was no longer enough, when nothing less than her hips could serve to my needs, our bodies colliding in fury as she rode the full length of my shaft and my passion, my need, rode her. I was blind, animal, conscious only of the searing, moist cavern within which I plunged, taking her as an animal does, with fury and heat and lust, mindless of either of us or of that point where one ended and the other began. Our bodies convulsed, raged together, burned as one, welded into an unthinking unity as by a white-hot inferno which had taken shape around us. I still don't know which one of us first burst forth with the howl, the shriek, of the tidal wave that slammed into us. I dimly remember the crushing spasms of her vaginal muscles as burning lava spewed from me, pouring forth for a time that stretched forever, leaving me drained, weak, near collapse. She was convulsing, screaming, wailing as the orgasms slammed into her, one after another without respite. I was capable only of holding her there, upon that perch, as the orgasms wracked her body. She spasmed as if in a fit, shaking, squirming, in ceaseless motion as the earthquakes within went on and on and on. Half an hour passed, and still she shook. Finally, the tremors abated, though they would return through the hours and days to come as involuntary orgasms settled upon her from the blue. Now, then, I suspected that there would be time for one last pussy-flogging before this weekend came to an end. With that thought in my mind, I began to release my beloved's bonds. Crossing the Threshold I bent over the bed and, ever so gently, like leaves on a breeze, I let those tails drape softly across my lover's loins and pulled them along the length of the dark, moist valley between her thighs. I repeated the motion several times, allowing the tails to drop lightly upon her, watching as the muscles along her inner thigh and hip began to twitch, as her body grasped in vain for the sensation that eluded it, just beyond the threshold. Increasing the impact slightly, I flicked the tips of the flogger to either side of that slit, hungry for the sensation I was yet withholding, rhythmically alternating sides for a minute or two. Her eyes were closed, head thrown back in bliss, mouth open and pleading soundlessly as I straightened. I walked slowly around three sides of the bed and back, speaking to my lovely submissive as I did so. Her broad chest shone with sweat, and her full, inviting breasts with their tips of pain-loving ruby flesh swayed and shifted with the writhing of her upper body. "My, my," I began. "Such a hungry little pain-slut you are, aren't you?" I waited a moment. "Aren't you? Tell me what you are or I'll stop." "I'm a hungry little pain-slut," came the reply. "And what does my little pain slut want me to do? Tell me, or you won't get it," I continued. "Whip my pussy," came the choked whisper in response. There was an expression beyond torment or ecstasy upon her face as savannah answered my questions. To be required to confront such desires, directly, for the first time ... having given voice to these words, she would never be able to disavow the desire within her to which she had given that voice. The words that she spoke marked her, and the marking was clear upon her features. "Good, good girl," was my answer. "That's what we want to hear. I will gladly whip your pussy. As a matter of fact," I stretched the moment as I returned to my starting point alongside the bed, "I will be torturing that pussy until we leave here in two days. What do you think of that?" "Yes," was the breathless whisper that wafted to my ears. I clambered upon the bed, taking my position on my knees across savannah's waist and abdomen as I had before, facing the bed's foot, her flushed and shining loins spread and inviting perfectly within hand's reach. Invisible to my willing victim, I began spinning the flogger's tails in a circle like the blades of a fan. Gently, ever so slightly, the tips of those fan-blades began to brush her labia. The impact was gentle, but these tips bite and burn, sharp and thin, and the moans began almost instantly. I could see her thighs tense and shift as savannah fought to open them wider, to offer her vaginal tissues to me more fully, as she fought against the bonds that locked her into position. Helplessness works in both directions, I thought, smiling. I increased the speed of the spinning tails and allowed the tips to begin to fall with authority, sharp and solid, as they spun, working their circular path now up and down the length of a vaginal cleft that was becoming a gentle fountain in response. Her loins shook with the jerking of her hips and thighs as the biting strands fell, and a long wail of pleasure burst from behind me as I let the flogger fall with its full speed and force, landing more than merely the tips, now. Small, hot, red dots spread across her labia and their junction with my lover's upper thighs, traces left by the knots set in the braided tails. Long minutes later, I stopped the flogging, cold and solid, silent, and waited. An anguished cry erupted behind me as savannah's pussy shrieked its need for more, incoherent and pleading. I stroked the sharp nail-tips of my left hand across her sensitized tissues, and I laughed. "You really are a slut for pussy-torture, aren't you? That's a good thing, since I love nothing more." I turned to look at her face as I concluded. "We have some amazing space to explore, together, my dear. We've barely started." Her eyes went wide and yearning at this last statement, and her mouth framed the soundless word, "Yes." No more circular play, now. The braided genital flogger began to fall solidly, full-stroke and full-length upon the vertical gap of her pussy, the tails falling mercilessly though not exclusively upon the inner tissues exposed by that gap. Again, I watched the writhing of hips and thighs as savannah fought desperately to spread her legs wider, to expose herself more fully to the lash falling upon her. Mechanical, rhythmic, consistent, now, as the burning, biting lash fell over and over again along the length of her cleft. Minute after minute without a change, the inescapable sensation, anticipated and unavoidable, exploded upon her most intimate, delicate flesh, exposed by a pussy that gaped ever wider, ever more inviting and enabling. Building the speed, now, the lash fell faster and faster, until my right arm began to throb from the exertion. A stream of clear fluid ran from that pussy, now, and the keening wail from behind me had the rhythmic, unbroken fluidity of a brook singing though the forest. With a final stroke, I raised the flogger above my head and brought the tails down with full strength in one last, brutal impact that tore a screaming "Ahh!!" from behind me, and I climbed from my victim's body to survey my handiwork. Savannah writhed, her eyes open but seeing a sight for her, alone. Her genital area glistened and gleamed from within its coat of thick, clear juices, smeared and splashed and dripping, red, hot, striped and spotted from the lash-tails which had fallen upon it. Her pelvis was rocked forward and upward, thrusting, grasping, presenting her flaming loins for punishment as well as she was capable. And yet another photograph, preserving for posterity this stage on tonight's development of my lovely submissive's pussy-craving. I lingered upon that tableau, taking it in, taking a moment to roll within the rush, to let myself savor that rush, the elation both physical and psychological, that splashed like rapids within me. "I've had several lovers who were incredible devotees of nipple torture, the first of them the person who introduced me to it," I began, "and I would say that most women discover that they enjoy labial play and pussy torture, some more than others." I smiled as savannah's eyes focused on me, as if she were hearing with her eyes. "But I've never seen someone respond to pussy torture like you do. You need to know that. You are exceptional. I can tell that we have a lot of exploration ahead of us, exploring this incredible place in which we've found ourselves. You are a true specialist. So am I, but I've never had a pussy as responsive as yours to torture. You can't get enough." The words were choked, whispered, almost inaudible, delivered to the ceiling from a face arched toward that surface, closed eyes gazing sightlessly at the headboard, mouth thrown wide and panting. "Just be careful ... please ... because I can't be." "Don't worry, my love. I can't tell you how long I've waited for this toy. There's no way I'm going to break it. If I hurt you, I lose my toy. Remember your safewords." (I hate safewords, in general, but they serve an important purpose when in unknown territory.). Now, to find out what, if any, limits there were. Taking once again to my knees astride savannah's waist, I placed the fingers of my right hand flatly upon her vaginal area and massaged the hot flesh firmly with a circular motion. Her hips bucked and she strained to press herself against me, whimpering as she sought this more traditional style of stimulation. "Mmm ... we're hungry, aren't we," I observed. Changing tack I thrust two fingers unceremoniously within her gaping hole, sliding into the wet shaft without resistance and pulling a scream of surprise and pleasure from the lips unseen behind me. "My god, you are fucking wet. You are such a pain slut." Pulling my dripping fingers from their moist bed, I turned just enough that I could wipe my fingers free upon my lover's throat, taking care to get the pulse points, and the underside of her jaw, finishing by running the fingers across her lips. "Some perfume for you, so that you can smell your own desire." Turning forward once again, I ran my nails back and forth, up and down, across her swollen genital flesh, increasing the pressure with each pass until I saw the pink tracers being left by their passage. Without fanfare, the first sharp, firm swat landed upon that flesh, and her second pussy spanking of the day had begun. This time, there was less build-up in the spanking than on the first pass. I started firm, with an even, steady rhythm, landing blows directly along the central vaginal cleft for many long minutes. Changing, I began to strike alternatingly just to either side of the cleft, with increased speed. I could see her body respond to the tease, to the impact just to the side of where my lovely submissive craved it to be, could see her attempting to shift her body to bring her cleft under my blow. Once that response had become acceptably desperate, I began to slap hard and fast upon that lonely, aching cleft once again, tearing a long, keening wail that stretched, stretched, and still stretched, broken only by gasps for breath as her greedy pussy arched to meet my pounding hand. Fluids were splashing with each blow, now, as if my hand were landing in a puddle. I increased the speed and impact to the limits my tiring arm was capable, bringing the process to a shrieking crescendo that culminated with a single, solid, full-power spanking blow. Rising once again from the bed, I savored the results of my handiwork. Savannah squirmed and rolled, spread and pinioned. Her mouth was open, panting, her face flushed like a ripe peach. Full breasts rolled and rippled upon her heaving, shifting chest, swollen, angry raspberry nipples rising hard and insistent upon them. I bent over the bed and called her unseeing eyes to focus upon me. "Look at me, my love," I commanded gently. As her eyes registered me, I continued. "Do you want more, my love? Or do you want me to stop?" Her face worked silently for a moment a she tried to form words with a dry mouth. "More, please," came her response. I descended from atop my bound submissive and retrieved a bottle of water from the top of the t.v. cabinet. Returning, I raised my pain-nymph's head and brought the water to her dry lips. "First, drink some of this," I said, holding the bottle as she managed several gulps before pulling back. Replacing the water from whence it had come, I spoke to savannah from the base of the bed, her abused pussy displayed perfectly for my appreciation. "You have no idea how open, wet, and hot your pussy is, my love," I informed her as I studied my toy. "Your body tells the whole story. You crave this, and you know you do. From now on, this is going to be our favorite activity. We've just started." I smiled widely as I saw the mixture of joy and fear that danced upon her face, and almost failed to breathe for a moment when I heard the joyous, whispered, "Yes," that crawled from her lips. It was time to take things up another notch. First, to take savannah's sensory threshold to a new level. This time, I mounted the bed on my knees between her thighs, facing her glistening pussy and giving me maximal access to it. Upon her stomach, I placed the blue velvet Crown Royal bag that held about 3-dozen wooden clothespins within, and saw her eyes as she recognized the package. "I'm betting that you can take at least 8 of these by now, my dear. Let's find out, shall we?" My evil laugh made her eyes go wide for a moment. Pinching her right outer labia between the thumb and forefinger of my left hand, I stretched the tissue firmly and slid the first clothespin into place, taking a deep bite that brought both jaws of the peg into play. The groan that greeted its bite made my breath catch for a moment; there was so much desire and pleasure in that groan. Alternating, savoring each moan, each subtle cry, savannah's slit slowly sprouted bristling wooden clamps until there was a line of 4 on each side. If you've never seen a pussy lined with clothespins, the deeper you take their bites the more tightly the jaws of the pegs stretch and fan out the labial flesh. That tissue now rose high in a taut, full half-circle from her loins, and the moans of pleasure were nearly constant. My smile stretched from ear to ear as I folded the 8 clothespins together into a single tight, round bundle in my right hand, bringing a quiet scream from her as I did so. "The best part about this," I began, "is that the clothespins function to give me a fabulous handle attached to your pussy. So I can do this." As I spoke, I pulled firmly and steadily against the bundled clothespins, pulling the intimate shining flesh hard away from her pussy and, ineluctably, raising her hips from the bed by that handle. Watching her body, I took her to the limit of her endurance, then just a little bit more, dropping her back to the bed just as her cries turned to pure pain. "My, my. You ARE good," I crooned as she writhed in pleasure/pain. "Now, let's get these off." Taking hold of the first pin, I slowly pulled against only it, increasing the pressure until it began to slide upon her flesh. Pulling harder, my lovely sub cried out as the pin pulled free of her labia, pinching it as tightly as possible in the process. Seven more to go, each pulling free with its accompanying choked scream that made my cock twitch, and she was right where I wanted her: unseeing, desperately yearning, open and aching for more. A brief break to shift my position to astride savannah's waist once again and to bring an earlier implement to hand once again, and I launched into fifteen minutes or so of fast-paced, stinging blows upon the slowly melting, slowly tenderizing spread of flesh that was my playground (flayground?) with the braided cat from before, the constant, stinging impacts keeping savannah right at the edge of her tolerance level. The point is to keep someone frozen right at that point that divides pleasure and pain, unable to resolve to either one but overwhelmingly stimulated. Ecstasy is the only response left ... ecstasy and subspace. Savannah's descent into subspace had begun some time ago, but this merciless, measured assault set the entire surface of her loins aflame, with special attention as always to the vertical ruby cleft within which the most delicate tissues could be found. Her moans were low and constant, almost a loud murmur, by the time I climbed from astride her once again to photograph her body's confession of desire writ large and wide in enflamed tissues and flowing pussy juices. My dusky submissive was writhing slowly, almost as if it were an after-thought. Her eyes opened as I gazed upon her, and I watched in amusement as those eyes slowly focused upon me from whatever private world far, far away upon which they had been turned. "I think you're ready for the next stage, my love. What do you think? If you want more, you have to ask me for it." I freely displayed my smirk for her as I spoke. "What will it be?" From the initial abortive movements of her mouth, locating and engaging the capacity for speech from whatever psychic sub-basement to which it had been consigned was not easy. Finally, the word "More" crawled weakly from full lips, and savannah's eyes flashed with heat and hunger from within a face sparkling with sweat like dew glistening on the skin of a rosy peach. We were about to enter territory for which I had never yet found a companion. From what I'd seen so far, I suspected that this insatiable pussy-slut before me would be up to the challenge. The short, black leather genital flogger hung once again from my right hand as I resumed my position athwart my submissive's trembling body. With my left hand, I reached into her slick slit and spread my fingers wide, using index and little fingers pressed deeply into the inner flesh of her labia. The wet, carmine of her most private, delicate, and sensitive tissues was stretched wide across her loins, vaginal sphincter stretching into a taut "O" framed by exposed, thrusting, corrugated inner labia that crawled like exotic petals about that gaping orifice. Every bit of her most intimate flesh lay exposed and defenseless in front of me, and I could hear savannah's breathing become labored and panting as she realized what was happening. With the first impact, with the fall of that bundle of thin leather lashes upon those most lovely and delicate of tissues for the first time, I actually forgot to breathe for a moment as I saw the surge, the literal fount, of juices that flowed from savannah's pussy in response to the blow. The inner labia grew visibly before my eyes, engorging and folding upon themselves like the lips of a clam-shell seen from the side, edge-on, expanding shockingly beyond their original boundaries. The spectacle was almost indescribable ... such a response was beyond anything I'd ever before encountered, and I was spellbound. I was cautious, restrained for the first several minutes, during which the tails of the flogger fell with a slowly varying pace, their impact light at first as I gauged my eager victim's ability to embrace the agony. Soon, it became clear that there was no need for me to hold back ... the bite of the snaking lashes upon that unspeakably personal flesh was driving her deep, deep into subspace. Savannah's hips rocked, bringing her pussy more easily and fully into the target space of the flashing leather strips and the flames that they left behind. I swung the flogger solidly and strong, slapping it mercilessly into the explosively engorged tissues. Pausing, I swiveled for a moment and saw that my submissive's chestnut brown eyes were wide, shocked, overwhelmed ... she was in the grips of a sensation that was shaking to the core her prior conception of who she was. No woman ... certainly not one as strong and independent as her ... could ever open themselves to the torment, the beating, which she was currently enduring. Yet, her need was insatiable, and she was driven to seek more; she had discovered that she wanted to be beaten through her pussy more deeply than she had ever wanted anything, and that bit of self-knowledge is beyond what most would define as thinkable. I smiled to myself in silence, for this was precisely where I had hoped to bring her. There's nothing like the moment of transformation. With a gratified sigh, I returned my attention to the massively engorged crimson playground that stretched between my fingers awaiting the caressing leather tresses. I lost track of time as I swung the flogger slowly but steadily upon my lover's most intimate of tissues. With each stroke, I was spellbound by the spurt of fluids elicited by the impact. Her moans had become almost background music, like the constant sound of surf on the beach. Slowly, ineluctably, the speed and solidity of the strokes increased. Savannah's thighs spasmed as she tried to open her legs wider, to accommodate herself more openly to the flashing lashes that rained mercilessly, now, against her exposed inner flesh, and she screamed in ecstasy as I finished with 10 of the hardest, most brutal blows that I could land before settling into sudden stillness. A break was required, and I dropped myself for a minute into the hotel room's non-descript easy chair, catching my breath, allowing my arm to recharge, and feasting upon my lover's still-twitching, jerking, writhing, shivering body. Her vaginal sphincter gaped wide between the expansively blooming ruby labia, clenching convulsively, a dark black mouth that pleaded to be filled. Taking a long pull from the water bottle, I rose and retrieved from the floor my final implement for the night - a medium-weight flogger in black leather, 24" from tip to tail, its lashes broad and flat. Crossing the Threshold I felt like an explorer on the threshold of new and heretofore unknown territory as I turned back toward the bed and my lover's bound and immobilized body spread upon it. I'd used this flogger in pussy-torment scenarios in the past, but mostly as a threat. Light impact, intimidation strokes, that sort of thing. Today, things were going to unfold differently. This time, it was not my knees upon which I stood as I mounted that mattress; this time, I stood astride the strong, full body of my lovely submissive, facing the foot of the bed, looking down at the genital area that stretched, open and defenseless, between my feet. The flogger held in my right hand, I slowly drew its tresses through my left, stretching a thick black line through the air in front of me pensively. I took my time, savoring the moment, as that black line became vertical, running along the midline of my body, my left hand going high, my right going low, the flogger pulled tightly between them. The first blow fell. The tips of the leather tail-bundle landed perfectly upon the vaginal opening at the base of the gaping genital cleft, a resounding "crack" ringing through the room with the slapping impact, and a pleading, yearning moan of desperate desire echoed immediately behind it. For a second, my vision tunneled, like a drug rush ... to truly flog a pussy -- what an incredible high. Again, I stretched the tails out full-length between my hands, raising their ends high above my head in my left hand before bringing them slashing downwards to impact again perfectly along the gaping ruby slit, slapping with a thunderous "smack" against the ultra-sensitive tissues announced by that crimson cleft. Savannah's entire body bucked, and a hungry cry rippled through the air. And again, the lash fell, a little harder this time. And again. And again. Vaginal juices splashed, her pussy gushing with each impact. My initial nervousness concerning my lovely pain-slut's ability to take such a flat-out flaying dissipated quickly. This pussy could clearly take anything I had to give. I wielded the flogger brutally, mercilessly, using the tips to deliver the most biting blows possible to the flesh upon which they fell like hail in summer. Twenty minutes, maybe thirty, passed as my entranced submissive's moans and cries flowed like music through the room, incoherent and unstructured, accompanied by the percussion beat of leather against flesh. I held nothing back, pounding those tissues with full-strength, full-swing blows, and she opened herself to the beating like a flower blooming beneath the sun. It was a sublime experience, beyond mere pleasure or beauty, transcending normal categories, and both she and I were floating within it. I heard the desperate animal moans behind me building to a crescendo, heard pleading erupt from an unseen mouth. "Please, don't stop. Harder! Yes!" With a shout, a fast series of maddened blows descended, culminating in one final impact backed by everything left in my fatigued arm, and savannah's choked scream filled the room as I became still. Savannah was locked in ongoing, convulsive, involuntary orgasms that rolled across her like pounding surf, shaking her and stealing her breath. Laughing, crying, pleading, limbs jerked, torso heaved, waist and hips twisted and jerked, loins lifted and sought, head and neck arched and rolled. Her body was in continuous motion as the rolling climaxes reduced her to a pure mass of animal sensation, as she submitted to the grip of her flesh. She was convulsing, still, as I unbound her wrists and manacles from the bed's corners. She was shaking, quaking, jerking spasmodically, as I spread her legs wide, folded her knees upwards toward her chest, and buried my raging erection with one long stroke into her punished pussy. A keening wail arose from her as my cock slid within the brutalized tissues, and vaginal muscles rippled around me as the orgasms grew stronger. I slammed my cock into her, fucking her as hard as I could, truly pounding her swollen, fiery flesh. I placed her calves across my shoulders, allowing me to drive deeply and unobstructedly into her and improving my leverage. The wail grew more shrill, driving me to redouble my efforts. With a guttural shout, I buried myself in her depths and held her pinned to me, spasming upon me, convulsive vaginal muscles milking me mindlessly. I placed my mouth upon my pleasure-entranced submissive, held her as she screamed into my mouth with her ultimate crescendo, held her as the screams slowly faded. Long, long minutes passed as we lay there upon the bed, as I embraced savannah's shaking, quaking body, long minutes as the involuntary orgasms faded. More long minutes would be spent with tears of joy, and then my beloved victim slowly sank into unconsciousness, into the embrace of exhaustion. And two more days yet remained before my departure. We had just begun to explore. But those are tales for another day.