� 2002 Lance Edwards
Every other weekend now my Mistress Heather takes me
camping. We have a strict sadomasochistic relationship, and we�re always
searching for more extreme ways to get each other�s rocks off. She particularly
likes this latest tactic: taking me far out into the wilderness, miles from any
help, and then tying me up and torturing me for days.
This time she seems extra zealous, particularly
excited by some fabulous new plan. She grins wickedly as she orders me to load
up the SUV. Consequently clammy-handed, I pack up all the usual camping gear,
while Mistress adds bags and bags of her own paraphernalia. Then she orders me
into the passenger seat.
Once there I docilely submit while she handcuffs my
wrists, shackles my ankles, binds my knees together and tightly straps my torso
into the bucket seat. But then she forces her four-inch dildo gag into my
mouth, locks it in place and hangs a two foot-wide cardboard sign from the
protruding butt of it. In large, easily legible print this reads, �Mistress
Heather�s Happily Willing Slut-boy.�
�That�s so no one on the highway gets the wrong
idea,� she grins. Her violet eyes are as merry as always, mocking and superior.
She has her long, thick red hair pulled back in a fiery rope, but as always
it�s her palpable energy, her obvious physical arousal that makes her most
attractive to me.
Beautiful, with big firm tits on a lithe, strong
body, Heather Healey has more vitality than a hundred million tyrannosaurs. She
was bred, born and raised to use her overpowering sexual allure to dominate
everything she comes in contact with � particularly her many serial slaves.
I�ve been her latest for over five years now, practically a record, and have
long since lost the ability to deny her anything. I blush a bright red at the
prospect of the public humiliation approaching, but I can do little else as
Mistress climbs into the driver�s seat and fires up the engine.
She drives the afternoon away, heading ever deeper
into hilly wilderness. Her father�s paper company owns uncounted thousands of
square miles of pristine forest, and as his only heir she knows this land like
the back of her hand. From the luckily sparsely populated highway to obscurely
numbered state roads to rutted, bumpy logging tracks, we spend at least five
hours driving, before finally arriving at her favorite place: an extremely
secluded mountain lake. At last she parks, and removes my sign.
Needing my services now, at least temporarily,
Mistress releases me from all of my bonds except for the locked-on cock-gag.
Following her orders then, I quickly pitch camp, setting up the tent in our
usual spot: close to the shore by the woodpile, and about ten feet away from
our dreaded and beloved �punishment pine�.
This is a tree she�s had me specially modify.
Mistress unpacks her rather esoteric gear right near it, and by the time I�m
finished with my chores, she�s ready and eager to get underway.
�Strip, Slut-boy!� she orders peremptorily, and I
swiftly comply. Then she forces me to lie facedown on the ground, with my head
pointing toward the tent and my spread legs bracketing the sturdy young pine.
For a height of about fifteen feet, all the dozens
of limbs covering the ten-inch trunk of this barely mature tree have been sawed
off into two-inch stumps. The only exception is for one long, strong limb that
juts straight out from the back at about six feet off the ground, on the
opposite the side from the one facing the opening of the tent. This is basic to
Mistress� fiendish designs, but first she has some preliminary preparations in
mind.
One of her favorite torments is to take a firm ripe
zucchini, poke a bunch of holes in the skin, and leave it soaking in Tabasco
sauce for a couple of days. Now she pulls one of these �Slut-boy stuffers� from
her cooler. Dripping with liquid hot pepper, this is the biggest one yet:
nearly a full foot long and over three inches through at its largest.
Using the devilish �marinade� as a lubricant, she
somehow crams it all the way into my ass to �cook�, using her familiarity with
that territory to her ruthless advantage. Then, while I bite down hard on the
cock in my mouth and writhe in pain at this burning, splitting, invasive pain,
she locks my widely separated ankles to either end of a spreader bar, securing
them behind the punishment tree. Then somehow my Mistress hauls me upright.
Quickly my arms are stretched above my head, and
back around the trunk of the tree to where they�re cuffed over that single
remaining branch. With my spreader bar and ankles just off the ground then, and
all four limbs locked tightly behind the tree, I hang there painfully bowed in
my bonds, with all those sawed-off little branch-stumps digging cruelly into my
bare back and immensely stuffed-up butt.
My shaved-bare groin and torso jut out
correspondingly toward the opening of the tent. Stretched out too taut to even
writhe much in my already growing agony, I respond to my insanely depraved
bondage by quickly growing boldly erect.
Mistress exalts me then by jerking and pulling on my
ridiculous man-meat for a good five minutes, until she�s admittedly impressed
with its unprecedented tumescence. Then she produces a shiny metal hose clamp,
familiar to any of those with an automotive bent.
She winds this about the base of my enormously
swollen organs and then uses a screwdriver to cinch it brutally tight. Then, as
if in compensation, she finally unlocks and removes my dildo-gag.
�Better, Slut-boy?�
�Yes, Mistress. Thank you so much!�
�Don�t thank me yet! You�re going to need all your
breath soon!�
�What do you mean?�
�Now that I�ve got you stuffed, I�m going cook you!�
Though it�s only late afternoon, Mistress proceeds
to build our usual large campfire, right between the opening of her tent and
me. Only this time, rather than construct the blaze close to her sleeping
place, she kindles it directly in front of the punishment tree, where my
already agonized, tightly bound body is hung.
No wonder she�s had me amputate the branches so high
up. She can build a veritable bonfire right in the shadow of the living plant
and still not threaten it. Soon the blaze crackles hungrily away, and the
regular breeze off the lake blows the smoke and sparks consistently into my
face. That�s bad enough, of course, but it�s pretty obvious that the true
torture is barely beginning. It seems this time Mistress means to inflict
something on me it might be impossible to survive.
Still she piles on the wood, and as the size of the
fire grows, the burning heat of the flames begins to slowly bake me. There�s
literally no other word for it. Soon I�m pouring out sweat in rivers, and
gasping desperately for breath through the choking smoke. Then through teary
eyes and a wavering heat haze, I see my gorgeous Mistress Heather uncoiling her
favorite bullwhip. Grinning like a red-haired demon, she taunts me: �Time for
me to tenderize the meat a little bit!� Then she makes my private hell complete
by using her ten-foot lash to slash uncounted livid welts across my slowly
reddening flesh.
This torture goes on for perhaps a good two hours �
until sundown, anyway. Mindless with agony, I hang from my punishment tree and
sob and scream and strangle on brimstone while my body slowly cooks and my
chosen she-devil whips me extravagantly. But at last she�s temporarily sated
one appetite, and developed another. It�s high time for weenie roasting.
Mistress slowly coils and stows her whip. Then she
produces a package of hot dogs and some jointed, extensible steel skewers. She
spears one of the big weenies from the end and then carefully threads it onto
the skewer. Then she stands at a comfortable distance from the fire and holds
her hot dog into the flames. Soon it begins to brown and sizzle.
Mistress cooks and eats a couple of weenies this
way, eyeing me meaningfully all the while. Then, as she�s preparing her third,
she laughs outright at me hanging there: mewling continuously, with my
black-and-blue striped body going a bright and shiny red from the fire. Because
of my bowed-out posture, and the cruel steel hose clamp clinching me erect
(which naturally burns me like a circlet of fire itself in the heat), my
swollen genitals are thrust out closest of all to the hellish flames.
Consequently they�re burned the brightest red, and Mistress can�t resist making
the hilarious compare.
�We�re roasting some weenies now, ain�t we! The only
difference is, yours doesn�t have a skewer stuck through it! But I can fix
that.�
She disassembles one of the jointed skewers until
she�s left with only an eight-inch needle of steel. First she sterilizes this
in the fire (wearing a heavy glove to protect herself), and then lubricates it
in the Tabasco sauce. Then she skillfully slides it into my penis-eye:
threading it up my urethra until my weenie is just as skewered as hers.
The iron weight pulls down against my urgent
upthrust, leaving my penetrated cock stuck out at an almost perfect ninety
degrees: closer than ever to the fire with a good inch or so of steel still
protruding from the eye.
Quickly this whole big needle grows as hot as the
hose clamp, searing my cock from the inside to match its outer burn. I try to
control my miserable sobbing, but soon find that to be impossible. And then
Mistress finishes her last weenie, and piles a fresh load of wood onto the
fire. This blazes up high, and she steps back, laughing with delight at my
writhing struggles and tortured screams.
�Goddamn, that�s hot! What a bonfire! I don�t know
how you can stand it! I�m going to have to take me a little skinny-dip, and
cool off!�
Right in front of me my Mistress begins to strip.
Talk about hot! But as addicted as ever as I am to the sight of her glorious
nudity, I can barely make her out through all the smoke, the heat haze, and my
singed lashes and streaming tears. Lit up in leaping golden light, her warm,
freckled flesh and shining red hair form a smeary, wavering vision of heavenly
beauty, like a blazing archangel just barely glimpsed through the mortal veil.
From devil to deity she goes in an instant. Yet
goddesses can be even less merciful than demons. Mine leaves me roasting alive
while she flies down the nearby shore and slips into the pristine lake.
In burning agony I hang crucified by the fire and
listen to her splash and swim and cavort around in the blessedly cool water.
What remaining imagination I have � that which hasn�t been effaced by my
various tortures � is soon a source of torment itself. As I picture my Goddess�
bare, sylph-like form slipping through that silky liquid element like an
immortal river nymph, I shudder with an unassuagable desire for her.
She splashes around out there for nearly an hour:
enough time for the fire to burn lower, and for my emotional torment to
gradually supersede my many physical ones. My eyes finally clear a bit, and the
haze is less. And as my vision of my Goddess� transcendent glory improves, my desperate
longing to be worthy of it swells. Finally I�m keening with an urgent need for
her as loudly as I whimper and mewl and groan with pain at my stretched,
burned, whipped raw body and anal and penile impalements. When at last she
swims back toward the shore, I watch her come like the source of all ecstasy �
even though I know she brings only a return to more terrible-than-ever agony
with her.
Indeed. She approaches me, beautifully naked and
dripping, and straightaway throws another giant armload of dry, seasoned wood
onto the fire. Both it and my physical torment blaze back into renewed and ever
more furious life. My shrilling screams echo across the lake again then,
rebounding from the empty hills and returning to serenade the two of us:
Goddess and sinner, all alone in their private Hades.
Heather recovers her whip then, and once again
begins slashing away at me with it.
Once again she�s a fiery demon, the female Balrog
chosen to wreak an appropriate vengeance upon me for all eternity � or at least
the entire weekend. As the moon rises, the stars turn overhead, and the fire
burns, falls, and is replenished over and over again, my naked red-haired
Mistress whips me in every possible place from every possible angle until it
seems she�ll never be finished with it. But at last, after she climaxes herself
several times, she deems me worthy of this sublime kind of suffering myself.
Donning the heavy glove again, she reaches from around behind the tree, loosens
the metal hose clamp, rips the hot steel skewer from my horribly burned
erection, and begins to violently jerk me off.
This agony is truly unprecedented. Yet predictably I
find it correspondingly arousing. Despite my extensively traumatized physical
state, it�s barely a matter of seconds before my burned balls suddenly
convulse, and I shoot out an incredible, agonizing stream of semen through my
steel-seared urethra.
My lowly seed hisses and steams and perishes in the
roaring flames. Then before I can go limp, Mistress tightens up the clamp again
and re-inserts the skewer. Speaking fiendishly to me from behind, she lays out
her plans for the rest of the hellish weekend ahead.
�I�m going to bed now, Slut-boy. I�ll build up the
fire for you one last time, but you�ll probably be cold by morning. Don�t
worry, though. I�ll get up and rebuild it first thing, so you can start cooking
again.
�You will remain bound to this tree all weekend, my
tasty little campfire treat. During the next two days you will neither eat nor
drink, but will instead be slowly roasted, and continuously tenderized with my
various whips and canes. It�s quite likely this will be the end of you, and
you�ll finally enter my eternal service. But if you make it through to Sunday
night, after you�ve cooked for a full forty-eight hours, I�ll take you down,
pull out that tasty butt-stuffing and allow you eat it. Then, after you�ve swallowed every last bite, and washed it down
with a hot, steaming draught of my fresh and fragrant urine � straight from the
tap, as they say � I�ll reward you in the way that you covet most: I�ll roll
you over, spread you out, strap on my biggest hardest cock and brutally butt fuck
the ever-loving shit out of
you.
�So hold on Slut-boy, and look forward to that magic
moment! You just might live to see it. Then again, don�t get your hopes up too
high, because I�m seriously betting you won�t. You see, I�ve had my eye on this
new Slut-boy for quite some time now. And this might be the way I finally
finish with you.
�It all depends on how much cooking you can take without
getting overdone. If you can come out of this weekend alive, fine, I might just
keep you around for a while more. You�ll have a certain renewed appeal for me.
If not, it�s no big deal. You will join my eternal stable. Either way though
Slut-boy, no matter what the outcome, I�m afraid that pretty little weenie of
yours is definitely cooked.
It�s coming along nicely already, don�t you think? The second I think it�s
roasted enough � hopefully around dinnertime tomorrow � I�m going to slice it
off of you, one bite at a time, slather it with ketchup and mustard, and eat
the entire thing right in front of your face! Oh, my, I can�t wait! After that
you�ll be my dick-less little eunuch! That should prove amusing for a while!
�You can keep your stupid nuts, I guess � they�ll
probably be too roasted to work anyway, but I hope not. I still want you to be
boiling with testosterone and madly turned on by me all the time. You just
won�t be getting any more sexual release ever, or even the slightest possible
penile stimulation. You won�t even have a penis to stimulate! Both literally
and figuratively, I will have consumed your pathetic manhood! But hey � that�s
better than all of you joining
the food chain, right, Slut-boy? And that still might happen yet! After all, if
you go and cook to death on me, I�ll have to eat your heart and liver too, and
leave what�s left to the wolves and weasels, buzzards and bears.�
And with that my Mistress adds more fuel to the fire
than ever, stoking up my personal hell to incredible new levels before finally
retiring to the blissful heaven of her big double air mattress and down-filled
sleeping bag.
Weeping and screaming piteously then, begging for my
worthless cock and life, I hang between the roaring slow death of the bonfire
and the terrible pain of the stump-studded punishment tree. Bound stretched out
immobile, burning in what is surely mortal torment, my endless agonized cries
provide my beloved Mistress with a wonderful lullaby as she smiles wide, snuggles
into her bedding, and drifts smugly off to sleep.