Storiesonline.net
-------

                           Cowboys and Indians
                              by peregrinf

Copyright© 2010 by peregrinf


-------
Description: The birth of a masochist, childhood to adult. The games children play. This is S&M, not really D&S. It builds, with some pretty rough play (needles) in Ch. 9. Be warned.

Codes: mf Ff boy gi Mult cons bi het true fant inc fath dau Mdom span rough BD SM humil swing 1st oral anal mastrb pett squirt ws exhib voy feet needles slow caution
-------



-------

Chapter 1

I still remember the first time I played cowboys and Indians. It was summer, the last day of our vacation, my family had rented a cabin, and old friends had taken the two neighboring ones, on an isolated piece of wooded land, the "south forty" of an old farm, with a small pond for swimming and porches with chairs for lounging around. Mikey and Johnnie lived in cabins on either side of ours, and the three of us played together during the vacation. We were five years old, me and Mikey and Johnnie.

On the last day of vacation, with the grown ups busy packing, and swimming prohibited, leaving us bored, we decided to play cowboys and Indians. They were the Indians, whooping and hollering as they danced around their settler hostage, me, of course. They tied me to a little sapling a few yards from the deep woods, which we were too timid to enter at that age.

Well, maybe "tied" is a bit of an exaggeration, since none of us really knew how to tie a knot. They wound a few turns of old clothesline around me and the tree, trapping my arms at my sides, and they tortured me, their helpless hostage, by tickling and poking and pinching me until I was laughing and crying and screaming hysterically, until my stomach ached and my ribs hurt and I nearly wet my pants.

God I loved it.

WHEN I WAS SEVEN we rented the cabins again, and Johnnie and Mikey were there, and, well, we'd learned to tie better knots, so on the last day of that vacation I wound up tied to that sapling again. This time my arms were pulled back, my wrists bound together behind the tree that was bruising my spine. My shoulders were pulled back, my flat chest sticking out. A few coils of rope were cutting into the bare skin of my midriff, below the silly, frilly top I really didn't need to wear, the coils digging into my waist, leaving lots of skin exposed, both above and below the ropes, for them to tickle and pinch.

They tickled my ribs, and pinched my sides, up as high as the frilly edge of my top, down to the edge of my tight shorts. Johnnie preferred to tickle, while Mikey was a bit meaner with his pinches. I kicked and fought the ropes, so Mikey pinched my thighs and butt while I screamed and laughed, tears running down my cheeks as they toyed with me.

I was left gasping and panting, hanging from the ropes, sides aching, and happy, so happy, while they went off, kicking a ball around while I watched.

Then they'd come back and do it some more, and I loved every minute of it. And this time I did wet my pants, just a little, which made me ashamed, and even more excited.

WHEN I WAS NINE and braver, we played cowboys and Indians in the woods. There were hills and hollows, rocks and trees and brush, and they found a hollow with two slim trees, and again, on the last day of vacation, they tied me, tied my wrists, one to each tree so I was stretched between them.

And Johnnie tickled my ribs, and under my arms, and Mikey pinched my tummy and waist, while I jerked and pulled against the ropes, and I screamed and laughed and cried. I kicked, and Mikey took more rope and tied my ankles, out to each tree so I was spread eagled.

And Johnnie tickled my thighs, while Mikey pinched my bottom through my tight shorts, and slapped my ass.

And I screamed and laughed and cried and struggled against the ropes until I was panting and begging them to stop, and Johnnie did, and he made Mikey stop, and I got upset.

Because I didn't really want them to stop.

So they started again, and in minutes I was begging them to stop, and they did, only I didn't want them to stop, not really, and it was so confusing.

"Ketchup!" Johnnie complained, the closest thing to a cuss word he ever used.

Mikey laughed. "Ketchup?" he asked.

Johnnies lips were thin as he glared at me. "You tell us to stop, and when we do you get mad. So what is it, do you want us to stop, or not?"

"Not really," I admitted, tugging at the ropes.

Mikey came up with the solution. "How about if you really want us to stop you say 'ketchup', but if you don't say it we keep on."

I thought for a minute. "Okay," I agreed, and they started up again, and I screamed "ketchup!" and they stopped.

"Just testing," I confessed, tugging at my arm ropes. "Now it's for real."

And they went at me again, tickling and pinching, until I was gasping and limp, begging them to stop, but not saying ketchup, until I was hanging from the ropes, managing at last to gasp out "ketchup, ketchup, ketchup."

And they stopped. I was sweating, my blond locks stringy around my face, exhausted. They were breathing hard, too, and sweaty.

"Could you untie me?" I asked reluctantly at last. I loved the ropes, but I was so tired, and my shoulders hurt, and my wrists.

"You wet your pants!" Mikey pointed out, looking at my stretched crotch. He was untying my ankles.

"I know it," I admitted as Johnnie untied my wrists. I hung my head in shame. "I guess I just got so excited."

"Nasty!" Mikey scolded, giving my bottom a swat.

"Wanna stop playing cowboys and Indians?" Johnnie asked.

"NO!" I rubbed my wrists where the rope had chafed them. "But that's enough for today."

"That's it for the summer. We're leaving tomorrow." Mike coiled the ropes.

"So are we," I admitted mournfully.

"And me," Johnnie added, leading the way. "Are you okay?" he asked over his shoulder.

"Yeah," I assured him. But I was confused. There were funny tremors rippling through me, and my legs felt shaky. I could feel the chill in my crotch as the breeze dried my pee soaked panties and shorts. I felt relieved and disappointed all at the same time.

God, how I did love the game. I felt sad, because school was starting, and I knew we wouldn't play it again until, if, we got together again. But I was relieved we weren't going further, too. Further, to where? I wondered.

WHEN I WAS THIRTEEN we finally did get together again at the cabins, and a lot had changed in four years. I was getting boobs, getting close to a B cup, and had had my first period. I was taller. I had shot up three inches in the last year, and as a result I sometimes tripped over my own feet.

Johnnie and Mikey, or John and Michael as they now preferred to be called, they were taller, too. John was lanky, while Michael had filled out more. He wasn't fat, but more muscular. We all felt awkward, I guess. It was like we were strangers.

All sorts of strange feelings were running through me. It took a while before we got a little more comfortable with each other. We swam and hiked, and talked about everything but cowboys and Indians, but it was always in the back of my mind, and when I really remembered, I'd shiver inside.

But neither of them mentioned it.

We were sitting around the last day, bored, unable to swim because our folks had gone off, antique-ing this time, they called it. Junk-ing, I called it.

"What do you wanna do?" Michael asked.

"I dunno." John pitched a pebble at a pine cone. "Whadda you wanna do?"

It was the last day of vacation, the last chance to play... ! I felt like I was going to burst. "H ... how about cowboys and Indians?" I blurted out.

They both sort of jerked, and said stuff like "kid games," and stuff, but somehow I knew they'd been thinking the same thing.

I bounced to my feet. "Come on, it'll be fun! Remember how much fun we had?"

They looked at each other, and looked at me, and flushed. "You really want to?" John asked. He kept looking at my tits, covered by the simple cover-up dress I was wearing. Designed to cover up a bathing suit, it came about half way down my thighs, and the only thing it covered was me, because I hadn't put on my bikini since it was clammy and wet and we couldn't swim, or even any underwear.

But I wasn't even thinking of that. Or, maybe I was. My heart was hammering. "Yeah! Come on!"

Suddenly we were all on the move, a whirlwind of action.

"I'll get the rope." Michael ducked under the porch where we'd hidden it four years before. It was still there.

"Where we gonna go?" John asked, shuffling nervously.

There was a feeling like electricity in the air. I was jittering, inside and out. "I bet those trees are still there." My stomach was clenching, and I felt like I needed to pee but didn't dare take the time to duck inside or I'd lose my nerve. I led the way.

I had no trouble finding the hollow with its two saplings. Four years later they didn't look all that much bigger, but the distance between was narrower than I remembered. When I stood between them this time and stretched out my arms I could just curl my fingers around the trunks. I kicked off my sandals, the leaves and pebbles cool under my bare feet, stretched my arms wide, my thin dress with it's button fastened strap that held it up rising with the lift of my arms.

As they started tying my wrists to the trees I tipped my head back and stared up through the leaves, the sunshine dappling my arms. A breeze stirred the leaves, the dress brushing my bare skin, my sensitive nipples.

"Not my feet," I said when they went for my ankles. "Not yet."

"Not yet?" John asked.

"Not yet," I answered softly, not willing to admit to myself why I said it. The "later" caught in my throat.

Mikey -- Michael pinched my butt through the dress and I yelped and jerked against the ropes. Could he tell I wasn't wearing panties?

They danced around me like savages, wearing only shorts, their tanned bodies glistening with sweat. John tickled my ribs and I writhed and squirmed and giggled. He had to know now I wasn't wearing a bra, not that I really needed one, of course.

Michael pinched my waist, making me scream and try to twist away. As I kicked the hem of my dress rose, almost exposing my crotch.

John attacked my ribs again from the front, his fingers dancing upwards, towards the softness of my boobs. I squirmed "accidentally" so his fingers found my nipple, which reacted joyously to the attention, making me gasp and shriek.

He touched the button holding the strap of my simple dress. "What happens if I undo this?"

"No!" I yelped reflexively, trying to turn away.

And John stopped.

But Michael had seen. "She didn't say 'ketchup' did she?" he pointed out, reaching for the button himself.

"No, stop!" I protested deliberately, trying to pull away, a futile effort because of the ropes binding my wrists. "Please don't."

But they were into it now, and my protests were meaningless, and we all knew it, and if that button was released there would be nothing holding up the dress. The dress would slide down my body, my boobs too small to stop it for long, and I'd be naked, naked, naked in front of them, and I felt my body melt at the thought.

The button gave way, and the dress started to slip, scraping my aroused thirteen year old's sensitive nipples. And John tickled me and I writhed and squirmed and the dress slipped further, faster.

And Mike pinched, and pulled, dragging the dress down, and my breasts slid into view, more and more, until the dress passed the peaks of my nipples, which greeted the air, ecstatically erect.

For a moment we all froze, Michael and John staring wide eyed, the dress halfway down my body, caught on my hip, my shy, untanned white breasts with their perky pink peaks shining in the dappled sun.

Biting my lip, my whole body alive, aroused ... I twitched, just the slightest bit, and the dress dropped down, down my torso, over my hips, down my gawky tanned legs, my feet kicking it away, exposing all of me to the air, to the sun ... to Michael and John, and they could see everything, everything, and reflexively I crossed my thighs, trying to conceal my last secrets from them, my slit with its shy covering of reddish golden hair.

Now! I thought, and it was as if Michael had read my mind. "Grab her leg!" He reached for one of the remaining lengths of rope.

"NO!" I screamed, but John was as much in the moment as Michael and grabbed my right ankle, pulling it out so they could rope it to the base of the tree, and moments later the other ankle was tied, too, and I was spread wide open in the warm summer day, as naked as the day I was born, and I was helpless, and I was terrified and aroused and excited, and suddenly I wished I'd taken the time to pee before we'd come into the woods.

John reached for my ribs and I shrieked, and jerked against the bindings, my bladder threatening to burst. Michael poked me low, low, very low on my stomach, and the dam burst.

"Noooo," I moaned as a yellow shower burst from my crotch to spatter the leaves below me. I hung my head in shame as the piss flowed from me, and they tickled and poked even as they watched.

"Nasty girl!" Michael scolded as he spanked my pale naked bottom. "Nasty, nasty, nasty." He punctuated each "nasty" with another stinging swat.

Drained, my pee dwindled away, and John reached hesitantly for my tits, his hand warm and rough on my tender young breast, while Michael continued to slap my ass and I twisted and jerked and cried, and laughed, and offered up my chest to John's explorations.

And something else was happening, and every swat brought it closer, and John pinched my nipple, until suddenly there was a convulsive eruption of unbelievable pleasure engulfing my whole body from my crotch upwards.

Tied as I was, all I could do was flap like a sheet in the breeze, and it was the most wonderful thing I'd ever felt in my short life. It went on and on as John toyed with my tits, and Michael swatted and pinched my butt.

Finally it faded and I managed to whisper "ketchup" to end the delicious torment. I sagged from the ropes, totally drained, exhausted, sated.

Seeming a bit abashed, the boys untied me, not looking at me as I gathered my limbs and my wits.

"Sorry," John mumbled, while Michael coiled the ropes.

I was still naked, and noticing the bulges in their shorts, and I was in no hurry to get my dress back on. "It's all right," I assured them, my own curiosity focused on their crotches. "But, don't you think it's only fair you let me see you naked?"

"Oh, well, uh..." Michael was suddenly totally shy.

But John was braver. "Uh, yeah, I suppose so. Come on, Mike, be fair."

It wasn't like we hadn't seen each other before. I think that first time we played here, at one point we played "I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

But we were five then, and things had changed. I hugged my naked self, my budding breasts, as they fumbled with their shorts, and shoved them down.

"Oh, wow!" I said softly at the sight of their burgeoning cocks. They were both hard, of course, the first time I'd seen an erection. John's was long, and leaner than Michael's, which was like him, more stocky.

John curled his fingers around his. "I gotta... ," he stammered.

"What?" I asked. Then I remembered something someone said at school. "Jack off?" I asked.

"Yeah," John admitted, his hand stroking his cock.

"You could help," Michael suggested, his brashness returning as he pumped his own hard-on.

"Oh, no." I blushed. "No, uh, you go ahead." And I watched as they did, and it didn't take long, which was good. They grunted, white blobs jetting from them, and I almost wanted to reach out and catch some of it, but I was too shy.

Not long after their creamy cum had spattered the ground we heard our parents calling us. I pulled on my dress, fastening the strap, and they pulled up their shorts, and we walked back through the woods together, not saying anything, lost in our own thoughts, knowing we'd crossed some important frontier.

But that wasn't the last time we played cowboys and Indians. Not by a long shot. Though it had to wait until next we visited those cabins.



-------

Chapter 2


WHEN I WAS SIXTEEN it surprised my parents when I didn't raise a fuss about going away for our vacation. They knew I had a high school boyfriend I was really serious about, seeing him almost every day, talking endlessly on the phone with him. Chad was tall, and strong, and cute, and gentle and thoughtful, and of course I loved him, or thought I did.

But one mention of vacation at the cabin and memories of the last day of the last such vacation, even three years ago, triggered a rush. "Whoo hoo, great!" I erupted before I could squelch my reaction.

"You don't mind?" mom asked as she poured me some juice. "What about Chad?"

I wrestled with my feelings. "Well," I temporized, trying to sound more glum than I did, which was not at all. "It's only for a couple of weeks, isn't it?"

Would I rather have two weeks home, with Chad -- even with the house to myself? Not that my parental units would have allowed that, necessarily. Or would I rather have just one afternoon in the woods with John and Michael, and the ropes.

The ropes won, hands down. Just thinking about it made me burn with lust, and shame. I was such a pervert! I'd done a lot of research on the Internet over the last three years. I'd learned about bondage, D & S, submission, S & M. I'd watched women being bound and whipped, wishing it was me. I knew what a masochist was, and where the name originated.

How did people learn anything about this stuff before the Internet?

I'd aged three years chronologically, but felt much older, if no wiser. I'd learned how to masturbate, improvised my own toys, carefully hidden in a box under my bed but easily accessible at night. You can do amazing things with the handle of a hair brush, or the bristles, for that matter, and Velcro, and clothes pins, and even something as simple as a scrunchy. Combined with a lot of imagination, that is.

All of this kept the memories of that last day at the cabin fresh in my mind. In fact, it may have burnished them to a polish they didn't really deserve. It can't have been that good, not possibly.

But the one thing I'd learned beyond any doubt was that my most powerful orgasms came when I fantasized about being bound and tormented. When I fantasized about John's tickling, and Michael's pinches and swats, and other things we hadn't tried yet.

That was hot salsa in my veins. Chad was comfort food. Chad and I had gone no farther than a little petting. He'd touched my breasts, I'd felt his cock hard in his pants, nothing more. If he'd pressed the issue? I don't know. He was shy and sweet, straight as an arrow.

Over the last three years my perversion had become my deepest, darkest secret. On the surface I was a very square junior in high school, high honors, a shoo in for National Honor Society, a member of the Concert Choir, President of the French Club, second string forward on the soccer team, Candy Striper volunteer at the hospital, no tatts or piercings (in spite of my proclivities), ya da da, ya da da, yadada. I was miss perfect, the perfect child, a college admissions officer's wet dream.

But down deep inside I harbored these twisted desires to be restrained and tormented, exposed, defiling myself by pissing like some gutter slut while Michael blistered my butt saying "nasty, nasty, nasty" with every blow. I masturbated fantasizing of John, not Chad, toying with my naked, vulnerable body, tickling my ribs, squeezing my breasts, pinching my nipples, while I struggled against the ropes, and screamed and cried and came and came and came.

Sick, sick, sick.

But it was what I was.

John and Michael were my enablers, sadists to my masochist, and they knew it, and loved it. We'd been keeping in touch on the Internet, of course, exchanging information, keeping the memories fresh. They knew what I'd become, and they were eager to help me with my degradation. We'd dreamed up many new wrinkles to try when next we had a chance, and now we were getting it, after three long years. I knew they were going to be there, and had been anxiously waiting for mom's announcement.

And if you're getting the idea that the whole cowboys and Indians role playing was getting lost, well, it had gotten lost when I was five. The bondage and torture had swept away the fantasies. Costumes would only have gotten in the way of my -- of our real goal.

And besides, it would have been a little awkward explaining why I was packing, say, a Gingham dress and bonnet, or a fringed leather skirt and cowboy hat when we went on vacation. After all, these rare cabin vacations were the only times I was able to indulge my perversion. Oh, I masturbated in my room to my memories and fantasies, but they were only fantasies. I lusted for the real thing, and the only people in the world who knew my true nature were John and Michael, and they were the only people I would trust my body to.

This time we'd agreed we weren't about to wait until the last day of vacation to play our games, but after the long drive and unpacking and everything it was too late to go out and play. The three families got together for a supper of hamburgers around the big picnic table. We, me and John and Michael, had to maintain the civilized façade, be good children for our doting, oh so clueless parents.

"Pass the ketchup, please?" I requested, and Michael and John and I exchanged looks, suppressing giggles as the bottle headed my way.

"What are you youngsters planning to do tomorrow?" my mom asked. "Swimming?"

I shook my head. "Probably just hike, and talk. Get caught up on things." John's and Michael's families had arrived the day before, and the plan had been for them to reconnoiter today for safe places for us to ... well, do our thing, out of sight and ear-shot.

"Now you be careful, young lady," my father warned. "Remember..."

I rolled my eyes, not looking at the boys. "Oh daddy, I grew up with Michael and John. They're like brothers."

Yeah, some brothers, I thought. "Now if Chad were here," I teased him with an evil smirk, and he tried to look worried, though I know he approved of Chad.

"We'll take sandwiches for lunch so we won't have to come back here until supper," I went on. "That way we won't be underfoot and you guys can relax and do whatever it is you old folks do."

"Old folks!" Dad snorted. "Watch your mouth, young lady," he scolded with a smile, and a wink to my mom. What did they do when I wasn't around, I wondered.

"We eat at six," mom reminded me. "Got your watch?"

"Yes, mom," assured her.

"And don't forget bug repellent," she added.

"Yes, mom."

"And sunscreen."

"Yes, mom." I rolled my eyes as I helped clear the table, and then we all gathered around the campfire, roasting marshmallows and visiting, even as my innards squirmed in anticipation of what tomorrow might bring.

And of course I forgot the bug repellent and the sunscreen the next morning, but not the sandwich I'd made myself before bed. And if you think I was going to make the guys' sandwiches, too, think again. I was their masochist, not their slave.

As we'd arranged, the three of us slipped away early. It was foggy and chilly, so I was covered up with cargo pants and a long sleeved denim shirt for warmth. The guys were macho in tee shirts under sweatshirts, and frayed jeans. The forecast said it was going to be a beautiful day.

After an hour of hiking we crested a ridge into the sun and sat down on a stone ledge to catch our breath and eat a breakfast of granola bars. The fog still filling the valleys was quickly burning off, a gray curtain drawing aside to reveal the wrinkled verdant landscape. I watched a crow flap lazily past below us, charmed by the unusual perspective.

Taking a pull on my water bottle I drained it and dug out another one. Most of the weight in my pack was water. Dehydration is not good. "So what have you found?" I asked, tingling in anticipation.

Michael and John shared a cryptic look. "You'll see," Michael answered.

"Give me a hint," I pleaded, squirming like a kid on his birthday.

"You'll find it -- interesting," John answered.

"Verrrry interrrestink," Michael added in a very guttural German accent. I couldn't help noticing how he'd filled out, his shoulders broad, and a barrel chest. I knew he played football in school.

"Oh come on, just a hint," I urged, stowing my water bottle in the back pack, taking inventory. Two down, two to go. The day was warming up fast. Time to reveal my play clothes.

"You'll see," John answered unhelpfully as I got up and began unbuttoning my shirt even as I toed off my sneakers.

Turning my back, I opened the waist of my trousers. "You're not even going to tell me what the program is?" I knew they'd been sharing private e-mails for the last month or so, but they'd refused to let me in on their plotting.

"That's for us to know, and you to find out," Michael answered.

I skinned my trousers down, shed my shirt, bundled them together and stuffed them in the back pack. Then I turned around.

Their reaction was very rewarding. John's jaw dropped and his eyes were wide as he scanned me from top to toe, then back up, picking out the important curves and contours.

"Wow, girl, you are something!" Michael was practically drooling. Like daddy, I was tall, an inch or two taller than Michael, while John had me by a couple more inches. I was no Julie Newmar (remember her, Catwoman from the old Batman TV series?) but I'd been describe as "statuesque" by a very discerning judge, Chad.

Okay, so maybe he is biased, but he's smart and discerning. He dates me, after all.

"You approve?" I asked, posing. I'd dressed with the aim of impressing them, as well as being easily undressed. A hot pink tube top hugged my C cup breasts, and khaki hot pants rode low on my hips and high on my thighs. My long legs were tanned and muscular from the soccer, my stomach trim and flat, but not six-packed, if that's a word. There was a nice adipose layer for Michael to get his claws into.

"Most definitely!" John looked me over.

"You are buff!" Michael added.

I flexed my biceps and shoulders. "I've been working out. Better be careful, those old ropes might not hold me."

Michael grabbed his back pack. "You won't have a chance. I've got new rope," he answered, as I knew he would, as he got to his feet, "ranging from quarter inch clothes line up to three quarter inch polyester. I've even got some hemp so you can enjoy the bristles against your bare skin, even a ball of twine."

My appetite whetted, I quickly got my shoes back on and shrugged my pack on. "Let's go."

John had already shouldered his pack and led the way down off the ridge, following a trail through the low brush and then into the woods.

Realizing that help was far, far behind us, I shivered at the thought of what lay ahead, my nipples stiffening, my pussy salivating.

-------

I was half way through my third water bottle and I was thinking that maybe I had overdone it when John turned aside from the main path and led us along a smaller, narrower track. I watched nervously for poison ivy as the brush stung my bare legs. Even though I was still clothed, I felt incredibly exposed and vulnerable in my scanty tube top and hot pants.

What were they going to do to me? Oh God, what was I getting into?

The woods suddenly opened up, and I gazed in awe at the most immense tree I'd ever seen. I was a suburban girl. Trees didn't come this big! The trunk had to be ten feet around, and the nearest branch, call it a limb, was probably ten feet up, big around as my waist, and it thrust straight out thirty feet, not about to bow to mere gravity.

Michael dropped his back pack. "We call this the Hanging Tree."

I could see why. It dwarfed the tree in "The Ox Bow Incident," the movie with Henry Fonda. The tree they'd hung three innocent men from.

I suddenly felt really, really scared. "Now wait a minute! I'm not into erotic asphyxiation!"

Michael shot me a wicked grin as he dug into his pack. "Not yet, anyway," he agreed, echoing my own fearful, unspoken thought.

"Give me your wrists." He was holding a coil of cotton rope, snow white clean. It was clothes line, I think, only he'd soaked it or washed it so it was soft and limp, not stiff the way it came out of the package.

Numbly, I presented my arms, feeling fear sweat trickling from my armpits. Oh lord, oh lord, oh lord. It was beginning, and I suddenly was aware of all the water I'd drunk. "I need to pee."

"Not yet you don't. Just hold it. John, get that orange climbing rope," Michael ordered.

John dug out a bundle of thick, bright orange polyester rope. As if he'd practiced it he loosened maybe twenty feet of it, flipped the coil over the limb, snagging it as it unwound and dropped to him.

Meanwhile, Michael had been working on my wrists. He'd taken four or five turns around each wrist, first one wrist, then the other in sort of a figure eight pattern, my hands a few inches apart, snug but not tight. Then he wrapped the strands joining my wrists with the remaining rope. It tightened the rope around my wrists at the same time it created a stiff coil, like the shank of a hangman's noose, spacing my wrists apart. Then he drew me toward where John stood.

"No, please," I pleaded.

Michael paused. "Ketchup?" he asked.

Clenching my teeth, I shook my head.

"I didn't think so," he said with a smirk.

John just looked serious, and eager.

Michael took the orange rope from John, snapping a carabineer around the coils between my wrists. I tried to twist my wrists, and could so the binding was tight enough to cut off my circulation. He knew what he was doing. I wonder if he practiced on someone at home, and felt a flash of jealousy.

"Climbers rope," Michael explained. "It can support a ton, easy. Let's get her up."

"Please, no," I begged. "Please don't. Let me go!" And I was really scared, but at the same time I didn't really want them to stop, as they well knew.

Together they pulled down on the other end of the rope, dragging my hands up. I stumbled forward as the strain picked up, pulling me over to directly under the limb.

"Noooo," I moaned, my pussy clenching already, my arms dragging up over my head, pulling me up. Reaching, I managed to close my hands around the rising rope, keeping the strain off my wrists. They drew me up to my toes, my shoulders feeling the strain, my gut drawn tight. I was still dressed but I'd never felt so naked in my life, though I knew that was soon to change, that I'd be more naked.

John bent down and secured the rope to a nearby root looping out of the ground. Then he came back, and ran his fingers up my side, wrenching a gasping laugh from me. "Don't tickle me!"

He grinned. "But you laughed! You like it."

Another flicker of his fingers wrenched a burst of laughter from me as I danced on my toes, dangling from the Hanging Tree like some kind of ornament. Tickling, I well knew from my reading, was sadistic if carried too far, and I was quite sure John would be happy to prove it.

"I think she's over dressed," Michael observed wickedly. Grabbing my left leg, he lifted it, and untied my sneaker, slipped it off my foot and tossed it away. Then he fondled my bare foot! I'd never thought of my toes as an erogenous zone, but discovered they are. He even bit and tongued my big toe. Then he ran a finger up the sole of my foot, wrenching a squeal out of me, making my toes curl, before he let it go and went for the other foot.

Hanging from the rope I tottered on one naked foot as he dealt with the other sneaker. Tipping my head back, looking up past my up stretched arms at the limbs of the massive tree I tugged, trying to get some slack. Then I felt something low on my stomach, and looked down as John undid the button at the waist of my shorts.

Oh God! I suddenly wished I'd worn panties! Why did they start there? Why not my tits? They're not so private! And I've got really nice tits!

Michael disposed of my second shoe, and toyed with my toes again, licking between them, nipping, then looking up along my leg, he dropped my foot. "Hey, is she commando?"

"Looks like it," John noted as he ran the zipper down and I felt the hot pants open, exposing my lack of panties to the light, the air, and them.

He tenderly drew the shorts down, exposing my naked crotch, drawing the hot pants down my legs, to my ankles, tenderly lifting my feet to get them off completely. On his knees at my feet he held the hot pants up, studying them, then flipped them away and returned to me, looking at my oh-so exposed crotch, running his hands up the outsides of my legs as he stood up, my thighs, my pelvis, to my waist, then tracing tickling lines from my hip bones down and in, to my naked pussy.

"Nice." Standing close to me, close enough to feel the heat of his body, John combed his fingers through my pubic hair. Chad hadn't gotten to that base yet, after six months of trying, and here John was, tugging at my shy little patch of soft curls, within inches of my virginal slit.

Michael wasn't gentle when he went for my tube top from behind me. Grabbing it under my arms, he dragged it roughly down, so it scraped and squeezed my breasts, burned past my nipples, making the already eager, sensitive peaks stiffen even more, wrenching a moan from me.

"Nicer," Michael observed, dragging the top down my trim naked torso, stretching it over my hips, letting it drop around my feet before he stood up again, toying with my tits before stepping back to gaze on my nudity, fondling the soft smoothness of my naked ass as he moved around me. His finger tracing the crack made me shiver.

As we'd agreed over the years we'd been planning this, they remained clothed, while I was stripped naked before them. Untangling my feet, I kicked the tube top away, conscious of the forest air caressing my entirely naked body as I hung helplessly from the rope. I could feel my pussy weeping already, and it was only beginning.

I was already in a kind of hell because I knew I was only inches from heaven as they studied me, touched my naked skin, turning me at the end of the rope, making me wait for the pain that would release the pleasure, the ecstasy I so wanted to experience.

"I think it's lunchtime, John, don't you?" After fetching my ass a swat that set me swinging, my toes scrabbling for purchase, Michael went into an outside pocket of his backpack and extracted a sandwich and his water bottle.

John gave one of my tits a final pinch and joined him, and they reclined at their leisure, leaning back on their packs, studying me as I hung helpless, sweating, and naked before them, watching them eat. I could see the thrust of their cocks. They were as horny as I was.

Somewhere out in the woods a bird song, a liquid trail of notes that burbled cheerily. I cried out from frustration. The scent of their peanut butter sandwiches set my stomach growling, even as I strained to hold my piss, and tried to shrink from their scrutiny, my shoulders beginning to burn, my fingers cramping as I clutched the rope. I cried out from frustration, and they laughed.

John reached for the digital camera and snapped some pictures of me, hanging like a virgin sacrifice before them. I tingled more. It was something we'd discussed and I'd agreed to it. We weren't going to be so foolish as to post them on the Internet, since I was underage by some measures. But we could look at them on those long winter nights, and remember.

To a distant watcher it must have looked was like some twisted version of that painting by Manet, Le déjeuner sur l'herbe, The Lunch on the Grass, two guys in their 19th century finery dining al fresco, a naked lady with them. Only this time with me as a masochistic center piece.

And, oh God was I loving it. It was my dream come true, hanging bound and naked and helpless as they feasted their eyes on me, their water bottles gurgling and bubbling as they washed down their sandwiches.

Maybe that was the last straw, stirring my bladder to action, seeing them drink, seeing the bubbles, hearing their bottles suck and slosh. I twisted my legs together like a little kid fighting the urge, but nothing could stop it.

There was a little burning spurt, a trickle down my thighs, and then my bladder let loose, releasing a pungent cascade, and all I could do was moan with shame, and awesome arousal, my legs relaxing, parting, but much, much too late to keep them from being washed by my own hot piss, the scent of it filling my nostrils.

I stiffened, knowing what was to come as my piss flowed.

John reached for the camera. Michael moved like a cat, on his feet, a short length of knotted rope in his hand. "Nasty, nasty, nasty," he scolded, lashing my naked ass. The rope bit into my tender flesh, fiery strokes, wrenching yelps of pain from me, my voice echoing through the woods, startling a jay into screaming flight.

"Nasty, nasty, nasty." My hips jumping with every hot stroke, my piss still flowing, tears streaming down my cheeks, as I suddenly started cumming, and came, and came, and came, my pussy spasming until, at last, my bladder wrung itself dry, and Michael stopped beating me.

And then John pinched my nipples, hard, pulled hard enough to swing me, my feet leaving the ground, my full weight on my arms, and my orgasm crested again and I screamed and thrashed, swinging from the rope, his fingers torturing my tits, pulling and twisting, blazing pain shooting through me.

But only when my cumming had faded to a delicious ache did I finally call "ketchup!" and he let go, my tits snapping back, my bare toes taking some of the weight again. I was panting harshly, my body drenched with sweat and, from the crotch down, my own cum and piss.

Quickly they released the rope, lowering me, easing me to the ground where I collapsed in a quivering heap, nearly oblivious to the twigs and dirt digging into my naked body, still ablaze with the last tremors of my orgasm.

Michael unbound my wrists and I rolled on my back, spreading my arms and legs, shamelessly displayed before them as I stared up through the trees. For a long time I could only breathe hard, my breasts rising and falling, my nipples stiff and sore, my sodden crotch gaping.

"Oh God, oh God, oh God, that was good," I gasped when I'd caught my breath. "Oh God, thank you, thank you, thank you."

And, as drained and defenseless as I was, they stood over me, dropped their pants, and proceeded to masturbate until they spattered me with their hot semen, on my face, my breasts and belly, a few thick drops on my exposed pussy. They could have raped me and I wouldn't have been able to do a thing about it, but they stuck to our agreement and showered me with their sperm, christened my maiden voyage with their cum.



-------

Chapter 3

Still sprawled on the ground, regaining strength, I scooped up a glob of their cream from my left breast and sucked it off my fingers. Faintly salty, not bad, I decided. I tried a smear off my right tit, wondering if their semen tasted differently. Not much, but I had no way of knowing whose was whose. When I tried to sit up, John was swift to help me. "Are you all right?"

"Hungry! And thirsty," I answered. "There's a sandwich in that outside pocket, and water in the pack."

"And a few other interesting items, I see," Michael observed, digging around for the water.

"Now now," I chided him. "That's my stuff."

He handed me the water as I wolfed down the sandwich. "We brought some, uh, goodies, too. It's amazing what you can order on the 'net. No questions or ID asked."

"Credit card?" I asked.

"Debit," he answered. "My own account. I've been working, remember."

"I do like a man with initiative," I admitted.

"So, it was good?" John asked.

I remembered something from, of all things, my literature course, about anticipation being greater than realization, the disappointment when a character realized when attaining his greatest dream turned out to be disappointing. That reality rarely comes up to what your mind can imagine.

In this case I really think the reality was better than any of my fantasies over the last three years.

"Fabulous!" I assured him, working the stiffness out of my shoulders. "Was it good for you two?"

Michael and John just looked at each other, grinning. They'd pulled their pants up, so I couldn't judge the state of their cocks well, but then, they'd just hosed me and I knew they'd need to recover. The grins, and the hosing, was evidence enough.

"You guys are the best. What's next?"

"Isn't that enough?" Michael asked in surprise.

"Are you sure you want another go around today?" John asked.

Maybe I was on some kind of a high, but I was ready to go again. Does a newlywed feel like this on her wedding night I wondered.

"What time is it?" I glanced at the watch hanging from my pack. "How long will it take us to walk back from here?"

"About two hours."

"That gives us two hours. Yes! Definitely!" I was more than eager. Never underestimate the restorative powers of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a good drink of water on a teenage pervert. Then I moved and winced. "But maybe something a little easier on my shoulders and arms."

John helped me up, and I looked down at myself. I was spattered with drying cum, my legs muddy with a mix of piss, my juices, and the dirt of the clearing. I needed a shower.

Not unexpected, we even had plans for that eventuality that made my stomach churn and my pussy clench. But that was for later.

"I've got just the thing." Michael dug into his pack for another long-ish coil of rope. "Bring her over to the trunk of the tree. And get the climbing rope, too. We'll use that on her legs."

Like a lamb being led to the slaughter, I let John guide me over to the massive trunk. It had to be as old as time itself. It was rough and gnarled, patched with moss and lichen, battle scarred (there was a scorch scar). No way they could rope me with my wrists behind that monster the way they'd used the sapling when I was seven!

Mike tied one end of his rope to one of my wrists, and turned me to face the trunk. It was rough, harsh when I tried to embrace it. He trekked around the tree, coming out on the other side and tying my other wrist, drawing the loop tight, pressing me face first against the rough bark. I could reach about a third of the way around that big trunk.

Then he knelt and put a loop around my right ankle with the orange rope, and trekked around the tree again, until he came out on my left. "Spread her legs," he told John.

John knelt, and pushed my feet apart. "How far?"

"As far as they'll go." Michael was already dragging my left foot out.

I staggered as they shifted my feet, clutching at the ridges on the trunk for steadiness. I had no idea how intimately I was about to get to know that rugged bark.

Oh my God I was horny. As my feet were spread I slid down the tree, bit by bit, scraping the bark with my flesh until I was hanging by my hands, my feet off the ground. Then Michael went behind the tree and did something that tightened the ropes around my arms even more, and then the ropes binding my ankles, drawing my feet up so I was suspended against the tree, straddling that massive bulk.

When he was done I was drawn tight, pressed against the tree, totally spread. My arms had been stretched, my cheek was hard against the tree. I was pasted to it from head to crotch, down the insides of my legs, clutching it as if I were clinging desperately to a rearing stallion.

From behind I must have looked like a spider trying to climb the outside of a drainpipe or something.

Oh sweet Jesus did it feel good, the rude scrape of the bark, the scent of the ancient tree, the pressure against my torso from chest all the way down to my pubic bone. If the tree had had a cock it could have been fucking my wide open cunt.

As it was, a ridge of the bark was grinding against my tender labia, burning against my clitoris. Just breathing scraped my tender tits. Mingling with the scent of the moss and lichens was the musk of their cum, and the ripe scent of my own arousal.

I heard their footsteps in the leaves and loam, moving away. Then, nothing. I might as well have been alone in the forest. There was nothing but the rustling of the leaves in the gentle breeze, the sleepy sounds of birds in the warm afternoon. Again there was that tumbling cascade of sweet, pure notes, so beautiful, so beautiful. There was a whiff of sun warmed pines, the scent of rich forest loam.

How long I was like that, listening, sensing, waiting I didn't know. Were they just going to leave me here? I felt a thrill of fear at being abandoned this way, naked, lashed to the tree, ready prey to any large predator. Were there bears here? I tried to shake the fear aside and just be, abandoning myself to my senses.

I became aware of my breathing, the way it scraped my chest against the harsh bark. As if with a mind of its own, my pelvis began shifting, squirming forward and back, just the tiniest bit, scrubbing my cunt against that ridge of bark. I was subconsciously humping the tree!

Oh God did it burn. So good, so good, scratching that insidious itch. I moaned softly, my motion increasing, my butt flexing as the pleasure built, my juices lubricating the contact between soft hot flesh and cold, hard wood.

Where were John and Michael? Were they watching? I couldn't stop myself, my hips rocking slowly, grinding my pussy against this forest giant. Slowly, slowly I humped, and humped, and humped, fucking the tree. I was so unbelievably horny I'd even fuck a tree! And even though I couldn't see or hear them, I could feel their greedy, lascivious eyes watching me, relishing my wantonness.

But oh! It felt so good! And if I squirmed my shoulders just a tiny bit the tree struck fire to my tits. My torso writhed, my nipples scraping sparks through me, and I humped harder, and faster. More and more, the rest of me joined the primitive dance, until my whole body was moving. Even though I was barely able to squirm I made the tree my lover, clutching at it, my fingers digging shreds of bark and moss under my nails, my arms tightening, thighs gripping, squeezing, squeezing, my pussy grinding against it, my belly scraping, my ass flexing and flexing as my pleasure grew, and grew, and grew.

My whole body was working now, the muscles in my arms and back, my shoulders, belly, my hips and thighs and feet as if I could spur this ride on. I was getting closer, and closer, whimpering as I hunched my back, clutching like an octopus with every limb. If I could have used my teeth I probably would have. I even scraped my cheek against into the furrowed bark to feel the pain, until my orgasm blossomed, first my cunt clenching with those delicious contractions, the flames soaring upward and outward to engulf me, and I was wailing with ecstasy, my pussy soaking the bark, every muscle spasming in time with my cunt.

Then I was straining, as if I were trying to shove that massive trunk inside me.

I screamed, an animal cry ringing through the trees and froze, desperately holding on to that joy as long as I could, until it inevitably waned, drained away, along with my strength, leaving me limp, exhausted, tearful and panting for a long, long time.

"Beautiful," John said softly from behind me, jolting me out of my lassitude.

From behind, a hand reached under, cupped my pussy. "She's soaked, again." Michael trailed his insolent fingers, painting my asshole with my own juices, wrenching a shudder from me.

I was mortified that they'd witnessed my wanton display, and, perversely, that only stirred the lingering embers of my cumming. "You saw," I moaned, torn by my conflicting feelings, the shame at being such a slave to my perverted desires only increasing my obscene pleasure.

Michael chuckled wickedly. "Not just saw, we recorded it. Got it all, live, video at eleven." I'd forgotten they'd brought along a hi def video camera as well as the still camera.

God, what if my parents got a hold of that? No blurry cell phone shots of their daughter's degradation, no siree. See her fuck a tree in living color 1080p hi def on your giant flat screen TV. Or upgrade to the 3D, Surround Sound Blue Ray version with the included scratch-n-sniff card made from her own carnal juices.

"Oh God," I moaned into the trunk of the tree, wondering if they were going to release me if I didn't say "ketchup." I didn't want them to let me go, I wanted to do it again, but my muscles wouldn't obey. But "ketchup" would be a surrender, a sign of weakness.

A slap on my naked ass made me flinch. Then they were cuddling me, an incredibly sensuous feeling. They, too, were naked, Michael on one side of my back, John on the other, pressing their warm flesh against mine. Bare skin to bare skin; what a wonderful sensation. I sighed, savoring the warmth, the human contact.

Then they drew away, and I flinched when something stung my shoulder blades, first one side, then the other. Not hard, just lightly. Out of the corner of my eye I saw thin whippy branches, with leaves, and again came that blow. They were whipping me, using bundles of brush they'd gathered.

The blows stung, just a little. The rustling slaps of leaves and twigs.

Slap! Slap! Slap! Slap!

Slow, metronomic. The sound echoed in the clearing.

Slap! Slap! Slap! Slap!

Harder. Alternating, one side then the other. Left side, right side, stinging my spine, stimulating my exhausted muscles, my shoulder blades.

Still harder. Slap! Slap! Slap! Slap!

Up and down my naked back.

Slap! Slap! Slap! Slap!

From my shoulders to my ass.

A carefully choreographed flogging, slowly building in intensity.

Slap! Slap! Slap! Slap!

Harder and harder, setting my back afire.

I moaned, then began to cry, as my body responded by once again fucking that fucking tree. And when they saw that, saw my humping, they concentrated on the small of my back and my ass, spurring me on, harder and harder.

I began grunting, working my butt harder and harder, driving against that unyielding bark. Oooohh, I was going to cum again, I was, I was, I was, and it burst over me, wracking me, washing me with a pulsating, wonderful flood, wave after wave. Again I went rigid, straining against the ropes, grinding my erupting cunt against that unyielding oak until the deluge of my cumming began at last to receded, and I once again sagged with exhaustion.

The ropes loosened, they freed my limbs and holding me, easing me down, John behind me, supporting me after I sank to the ground, while Michael held my water bottle so I could suck greedily from it. I felt like I'd played two hard, overtime soccer matches in a row I was so exhausted. My back was aflame, but I didn't mind.

Nor was I so exhausted that I wasn't aware of John's aroused cock nuzzling into my butt. Not so exhausted I didn't see Michael's thick cock drooling pre-cum as he knelt beside me holding the water bottle. With a sigh, I eased myself away from John and lay on my back, wincing as my well tenderized shoulder blades were scraped by twigs and pebbles, sprawling once again, willingly offering myself to them as their cum target.

This time they knelt on either side of my head, jacking their cocks over my face. I touched their hands, wanting to help but too exhausted, and closed my eyes as they showered me with their hot, thick, lusty, musky cum; on my eyelids, my brow, my cheeks and nose and lips and chin.

I opened my mouth to accept their offering, tasting their hot emissions, feeling them drizzle down my nose, my cheeks, into my hair and ears. They carefully milked the last gooey drools from their softening cocks into my mouth.

And when they were done they took pictures of me as I lay there, shamelessly naked, a cum stained poster child of perversion.

Where would we go from here, I wondered.

"We still have to clean you off," Mike pointed out, standing over me.

I remembered, and shuddered. We'd crossed a stream on the way here, but I knew that wasn't what he meant.

"Oh. Yes." It had been my idea, after all.

We'd made other, less savory plans.

I closed my eyes again as he washed the cum off my face with his hot piss. Then John joined him, filling my open mouth with his pungent waste, which I gulped down, then working his way down my neck, his hot stream spraying my tits, my chest, my semen flicked tummy, my navel with its pearly pool of jizz.

I tasted pee. It was mildly salty, not too strong a scent, probably diluted. They pissed for a long time. They must have drunk a lot of water. They finally finished, a few lingering spurts aimed, probably deliberately, at my yawning twat.

When I reached out, they helped me up and I staggered a little, steadying myself on their shoulders for a moment, their pee trickling down my body. I was a sated mess of piss and cum.

"No, stay naked," Michael ordered when I reached for my pack. He and John were pulling on their clothes, covering their nakedness, but not me, they wanted me bare-assed still. As if to assert control over me, Michael dropped a simple loop of rope over my head, around my neck, a loop so big I could have just lifted it off again, but I didn't. He held the other end of the rope as a leash, and I let him.

I knew, all I had to say was "ketchup" to regain control, but I didn't do it. I was going to be leashed, naked on the trail, still fouled by my debauchery.

But then, after all, I didn't want to get all this gunk on my clothes, did I? I could wait until after I'd washed away the piss and cum in the stream.

Talk about rationalization. In truth I didn't want to part company with the physical evidence of my depravity. What if someone else came along? I shivered, and ducked my head in shame, my straggling, fouled hair hanging around my face as we trudged along, me wearing only my sneakers, my back pack, and filth, the lowering sun stinging my naked, tenderized butt. But we met no one, and I couldn't believe I was disappointed, but I was.

We got to the stream. John took my pack, Michael removed the leash, I toed off my sneakers and I stepped into the frigid water. It was icy cold, shin deep, so I sat down, lay down to roll in it, gasping from the chill, one last, self-inflicted masochistic torment, the two of them watching my naked tits, nipples hard as stone from the chill. The icy currents finally quenched the lingering embers in my cunt, leaving an ache.

Tilting my head back I combed my fingers through my hair to rinse the cum out. By the time I'd sluiced away the leavings and they helped me out I was shivering, but the sun warmed and dried me as we continued on, me still naked, but unleashed, until I could hear my parents laughter from the camp.

What if they saw me now? "Ketchup," I said softly.

We stopped so I could get dressed, stepping into my hot pants, drawing on the tube top, feeling the tenderness of my torture. Only then I realized I'd been marked by my love affair with the tree, scraped on my torso and crotch, the insides of my arms and thighs, even my tits. No blood, but definite abrasions.

Uh oh.

I added my denim shirt and cargo pants, hoping I'd be able to use them to sneak the evidence past my mother.

Summoning reserves I didn't know I had, I slathered a load of "perky" over my weariness and sexual satiation as we walked into the clearing around the cabins and rounded the cabins toward the picnic area overlooking the pond.

They were relaxing around the table, beers and chips and dips within easy reach. There were blankets and stuff down by the pond, and the barbecue was burning down, ready for steaks and sweet corn.

We did the whole "Where did you go?" "Out." "What did you do?" "Nothing." routine when they saw us. Even though I'd been dragging a bit we'd made it back in plenty of time. I'd spent less than an hour in carnal embrace with that tree.

Back to normal family doings. After what I'd willingly put myself through, I felt like I was undergoing some kind of psychological whip-lash. I ached in places I didn't even know I had, and while I'd washed away the worst evidence in the stream I kept thinking I smelled of cum, both the boys' and mine, and piss. I announced that I desperately wanted a shower.

"Tick check!" my mom shot back.

Oh shit. Busted, was all I could think as she trailed me into the cabin. I could feel John and Michael watching after me, before their parents distracted them by suggesting the same inspection.

"We are not going to mess with Lyme Disease," my mother insisted as I tried to evade her.

Having tangled with a deer tick only a year back, courtesy of a too hasty shower after a soccer match, how could I disagree? Another round of antibiotics I didn't need. But how could I explain my scrapes and bruises. Bashfully, I turned away as I shed my shirt and cargo pants.

"You were hiking dressed like that?" Mom eyed my minimal tube top and shorts, frowning.

"It was a hot day?" I ventured, looking over my shoulder.

She touched my back and I flinched. "Looks like you got a bit of a sunburn, too."

Well, not exactly, I thought, but that's a good excuse. "I forgot the sunscreen," I answered truthfully. I felt her inspecting my back carefully, looking for any sign of a tick, fingers tracing a tickling, stinging trail. Fortunately I don't have freckles, and few moles to confuse the issue. The "sunburn" explained away the evidence of the flogging I'd taken, though she might question the blush of my normally pale butt, and were there stripes or welts?

"Okay, let's see the front, and you better skin out of the rest of your clothes, just in case," she ordered.

I tried to seem casual as I turned around, conscious of the evidence of my embrace with the tree. At her gesture, I stripped off the tube top, and pushed down my shorts and stepped out of them. Naked again.

She lifted my arm to check my side, and looked at the inside of my forearm. I'd looked, hadn't seen any sign of rope burns on my wrists, but there were scrapes, and bits of bark under my fingernails.

"What's this?" she asked, checking scrapes on the other arm, too.

"I, uh, had a wrestling match with a tree," I equivocated. Lying was not an option in our house.

"Who won?" she asked, inspecting my front. I could suddenly feel every scrape, especially the ones between my breasts and in my crotch.

"You should see the other guy!" I joked lamely.

"Uh huh," she grunted skeptically. "Aren't you a little old to be climbing trees?"

"It was a kind of a challenge from the guys." Well, it was, wasn't it? Challenging me to see how much I could take? I didn't exactly lie!

She inspected the insides of my thighs, brushing fingers over my mons, and I could practically smell her suspicions, and what if she could smell the evidence of my pussy's exuberance, my cum baths and piss showers?

I knew there was an abrasion just above my slit. Did my delicate little patch of pubic hair mask it? I didn't dare look for fear of cluing her in.

She ran her hands down the insides of my thighs, and I fought to stand firm against that unexpected stimulation.

When she straightened up, she stepped back and looked me in the eye. "Is there anything you'd like to tell me?"

I chewed my lip. "I'm still a virgin." I made it a firm statement as I put on a look of wide eyed innocence.

She ventured a crooked smile. "Well, that is a relief, of sorts."

The silence between us grew until it was uncomfortable.

"Well, we'll leave it at that for now," she finally said reluctantly. "But I think, maybe, you'd better stick around the camp tomorrow. Some bathing in the pond might soothe those scrapes." Her finger touched my mons, making me flinch.

"Just what I was thinking." And I was. I'd already told the guys I needed a day to recover, and myself that I needed to contemplate the road I seemed to have chosen for my sexuality.

She looked me in the eye, and I saw a fleeting expression, but couldn't tell if it was worry, or what, mixed with her unflinching love for me. For a moment she cupped my cheek. "Be careful, sweetie, please?" she almost whispered.

I leaned into her warm, tender, caring touch, and nodded.

"Have a nice shower." She turned away, then glanced back. "We'll talk."

I nodded, heading to grab my big towel as a wrap as the screen door slapped shut behind her. She knew, but just what did she know, or suspect?

The communal, solar heated shower felt wonderful, washing away the lingering scents, remaining dirt, and some of the aches, but did nothing to calm my worries, or that perverse hunger gnawing at my innards.

I didn't WANT to stay in camp tomorrow, at all. But I knew I needed to rest, and to think.



-------

Chapter 4



The sun baked my nearly naked body as I floated on an inflatable raft in the middle of the pond, eyes closed, mind adrift. Even wearing my itsy bitsy black bikini I felt over-dressed, having no secrets from my peer group. But, you know, parents. I heard the ethereal, echoing sounds, the distant sorts of sounds you hear when your eyes are closed; voices, words, laughter, splashings, crows gossiping in the distance.

Last evening's festivities had been short for me. I tore into the steak and sweet corn, of course, ravenous, managed to stay up for smores by the campfire, the warmth of family and friends embracing me. But I'd excused myself early, and crashed in my little room in the cabin, dead to the world before the lingering twilight had faded.

After breakfast the next morning had been occupied by Frisbees, a wacky game of soccer, kids versus grownups (kids won, even though we were outnumbered two to one), waiting for the morning chill to give way to midday warmth. After lunch I'd told the guys I needed some time alone, and set myself adrift. Judging by the challenges and splashes, they were having impromptu races off to my right, or trying to drown each other, whichever. The adults were talking on the small beach. There was a feminine squeal and everyone laughed.

I don't know how long I'd been out there, almost dozing, when I heard very soft paddling noises nearby and turned my head.

"Do you want to be alone?" mom asked diffidently.

I started to say "yes" but didn't. This was my mom. I didn't want what I'd been doing coming between us if I could help it. Strangely, I felt comforted by her presence. But then, that's what moms are for. "For you I'll happily make an exception," I answered.

"Thank you. I'm honored." Shifting carefully, she rolled to her back on her air mattress. As she did I admired her figure. She was what, now, forty four? That seemed so old to me, though it really wasn't.

She didn't look it. She was shorter than I, a little rounder, broader hips, a fuller bust, but a trim waist. She wore her bikini well despite having given birth to me. The cups worked hard to contain her breasts. I'd noticed the guys, all of them, eyeing her, and was proud she was my mom.

Her hair was brown with reddish highlights, like mine. My once blond locks had darkened with maturity, but I didn't mind. My mom's hair was beautiful, and I was glad I'd inherited hers. Daddy's was nice, for a guy, but a dull brown. And beginning to thin a bit, I might add.

Reaching out she took my hand. Just so we wouldn't drift apart? Didn't matter the reason. Her grip was warm and comforting, calming me as I braced myself for her interrogation.

For a long time we just drifted on the placid pond, and I almost dozed off again. When she finally did speak, it wasn't what I was expecting at all.

"God I love this place."

I did, too, but purred noncommittally. "Mmmmm."

"So isolated, so peaceful. Have you ever wondered how we came to be coming here on such an erratic schedule, if you can even call it that?"

"No," I admitted. Strange, I thought. Why hadn't I? It was the only place we got together, all three families. Other times we might travel on vacation and see one or the other, but not both.

"Did I ever tell you how we got to know the McGuires and the Stilsons? How this paradise became ours?"

"No." Where was she going with this?

The sun was warm. A few ripples rocked our rafts, slipped cold tendrils of water over the rim to cool my back.

"Your dad, and Tom and Matt, were in the service together," she mused. Tom was Michael's father, John Matt's. I'd known this.

"We met at Fort Benning. While they were still in the Army. I was your dad's girl, Marge dated Tom, and Helen went with Matt. Call us the six musketeers. Where you found one you usually found all of us.

"Or maybe the Wild Bunch would be better. Oh, we had some wild times back then. Eventually the guys took their discharges. They weren't lifers, and we got married, all together. We combined the ceremonies into one big bash. Army Chaplains are very ecumenical."

Ignoring the ceremonial details, I was picking apart her earlier comment. Six musketeers. Wild Bunch. Wild times, then marriage all together. Ooookay. I think I got the picture.

"Unfortunately, reality broke up the party. Your dad landed a job in one place, Tom in another, and Matt in a third," she went on. "All over the country. So much for the Wild Bunch."

"Bummer," I sympathized, still trying to figure out where this was going.

"But, we stayed in touch. Matt inherited this old farm, not long after his discharge. We'd actually come here before, so it just seemed natural to have little reunions as schedules permitted. It's isolated here, has safe space for young 'uns to romp around more or less unsupervised, as long as they stayed away from the pond, and, well, while the mice are away, the cats will play."

I remembered, sometimes the three of us "onlies" would bunk together in one cabin at night, the big 'uns only looking in on us from time to time to referee the pillow fights.

"Oh." My suspicion that some interesting things might just be going on while we were out playing were confirmed. My mom, not being the type to be the pot calling the kettle black, I relaxed a bit. Just how "wild" was their "wild," I wondered.

"Are you being careful?" she asked. "Being safe?"

I mulled this over. "Yeah," I assured her. "I really am still a virgin, but not, uh, virgin intacta, if you know what I mean. I've masturbated," I admitted, blushing a little, looking over at her. "I've gotten to know the handle of my hairbrush real well."

She only smiled. "Versatile things, hair brushes." She was so cool!

"But no boy has hit a home run off me yet," I assured her.

"I'm glad. That's a really special thing, to let someone in the door, so to speak. But there are other ways, games people can play that..." Her voice trailed off.

There are indeed, I thought. Given the evidence she'd seen, and the conversational trend, I knew she was fairly sure what I'd been up to.

Thinking about it triggered one of my delectable sexy shudders, threatening to capsize us both, me squeezing her hand hard as I did.

"Wow! Some grip" she observed, returning the squeeze.

"Did you ever play Cowboys and Indians when you were a kid?" I ventured.

"All the time," she answered.

"First time I did it I was five, with Michael and John," I admitted. "Right here, the last day of vacation."

"I remember the whooping and hollering. Were you an Indian, or a cowboy?"

"Those two were Indians, of course. I was the settler woman, their captive, actually," I admitted. Ah, the language of metaphors. "Still am."

Her fingers tightened on mine again, and I responded, squeezing her hand back. There was a lot of tactile telegraphy going on.

"Me, too," she admitted.

I took the plunge. "Still?" I managed not to add "at your age?"

"From time to time." Her voice was suddenly husky and warm.

Oh my! Curioser and curioser, as Alice would say.

"Sometime the Indians get carried away, even. But they stop when I ... uhm, ... invoked the name of a great Chief," she went on. "Geronimo, I say. The guys were 82nd Airborne in the Army. It gets their attention."

"Geronimo? I've heard that's what they supposedly yelled when they went out the door. I always wondered if that was really true, and why Geronimo? Anyway, 'ketchup' works fine for me," I said.

"Ketchup?" she asked, laughing softly.

"Used to be John's favorite curse word, when he was seven. Just sort of happened that way."

"It's a good word," she allowed. "Geronimo always worked for us, but I always felt it should have been a start word instead of a stop word."

I'd been thinking that ketchup was a good "off" switch but that maybe we needed a "proceed" or "on" word, but "mustard" didn't feel right. She didn't know it but she'd just handed another one to me.

"I only play the game with Michael and John," I added. "Them I trust."

"Trust is important. Very important."

I felt her shift and looked over, met her eyes, saw the love in them. "I trust them, too."

We understood each other. I couldn't help but squeeze her hand again, holding it that way until my fingers got tired. I loved her so much, I wanted to tell her, but the words clogged my throat.

When my grip finally eased, she looked toward the western horizon, where clouds were building. "Sun's going down," she observed. "It's supposed to rain tomorrow. Kind of spoils the outdoor fun."

"Yeah," I agreed. Darn, stuck in camp tomorrow? I wished I'd had the energy for a romp today, but mom wouldn't have allowed that anyway.

"Did you know there's a big old barn, about a mile east of here?"

I perked up. "No."

"It's very old, stone foundation and lower floor, where the livestock was kept. Over that is the hay loft. Lots of space, isolated and safe.

"Matt's kept it up. It's got a good roof. Some of the livestock stuff has been left in place, so there's stanchions, old harnesses, hay hoists, all sorts of stuff. Matt added an open fireplace that takes the chill off fast. There should be wood and kindling." Her voice trailed off.

"We used to spend hours there, but with Matt's bad knee it's too much of a hike for him right now. There's a trail from the base of the big pine. Can't miss it."

"I guess I'll have to find it." My innards were tightening in anticipation already.

"Don't go upstairs. It's locked anyway. The downstairs should be enough. And don't over do," she cautioned.

I looked over and saw her concern. "Before we've only done it the last day of vacation. This year's different, though," I admitted.

She nodded. "Pace yourselves."

She was echoing a concern I'd had. The guys were so eager, and so was I. There was a risk to exploring my limits.

She let go of my hand. "Well, gotta see to dinner."

"Thanks, mom." I wanted to hug her, but that would involve a dunking in the pond, and while I might enjoy the chill, she might not.

She gave a casual wave, and dabbled her hands to paddle away.

I pondered what I'd learned. Six people, adults, playing Cowboys and Indians? I felt that squinchy sort of itch in my pussy at the thought.

But then, two guys to one girl was pretty exciting, too. And she'd obviously given us permission to use their playhouse. I wondered if she'd discussed it with the others.

I was drifting again, dreaming a little, when I was jolted out of my reverie by a splash of icy water. "YOW!" I yelped. "Ketchup, darn it!"

"Sorry," John apologized.

Michael just grinned that wicked grin of his, his blue eyes sparkling. "What'd your mom want?"

"She figured it out, like we expected. But it's okay," I assured them. "She just wanted to make sure we were being careful."

"Careful?" John asked.

"Safe word, that sort of thing," I explained.

"How does she know about that sort of stuff?"

I just shrugged. I figured that was not for me to tell. Their families kept their own secrets. "She surfs the web, too," I reminded them.

"So it's okay, then." Michael let his eagerness show. Of the two of them I'd learned he was the more dominant, and enjoyed inflicting pain more than John did. John went for the softer, more erotic stimuli. Nice combination.

"It's supposed to rain tomorrow," I informed them.

"Bummer," Michael grumbled.

"But mom says there's an old barn."

"We saw it," John admitted. "It's on our agenda, but I wasn't sure it was available."

"It is. It'll be dry, and there's even a fireplace and firewood. It's ours tomorrow, just the downstairs. She said the upstairs is locked anyway."

That was greeted with enthusiasm by both of them.

I was wondering what might be upstairs, but said nothing.

"One other thing," I went on. "I've been thinking maybe we need a 'start' word that I can say when it's time for me to sub. Like maybe I've said 'ketchup' to take a break and want to start again."

"Good idea," Michael agreed.

"How about 'Geronimo' for that?" I was tingling already at the thought of tomorrow.

"Perfect," John agreed.

Michael, bless his sadistic little heart, took to it immediately.

"You said it!" Without warning he flipped my raft and I found myself floundering in the water. About the top six inches was warm, but below that it was frigid. I came up with a whoop that scattered a flock of crows a quarter of a mile away.

Then it turned into a free-for-all of dunking and splashing until the two of them ganged up on me and I had to call "ketchup" to keep them from drowning me.

The dinner bell rang, and after adjusting my bikini top, which Michael had subversively dislodged, I crawled back up on the air mattress and they propelled me back to shore with their strong kicks.

Such nice young gentlemen. NOT! To my everlasting gratitude.

That evening once again I felt myself swaddled in this comforting blanket of family and friends, and I couldn't help wondering why I was indulging myself in exploring my masochistic fantasies. Then, too, having learned what I had from mom, in some strange way I found myself on the outside of the gathering, looking in, knowing things about the others that they didn't know I knew, if you get what I mean.

The three of us young 'uns sat together around one side of the campfire, the guys flanking me, watching the sky fade from blue to black as we charred marshmallows. I was listening to the laughter and teasing chatter from the adults across from us, my eyes skipping from one familiar face to another, wondering what other secrets they held.

I contemplated the permutations and combinations. Had they been -- were they -- swingers? Had my conservative, reserved mom had sex with uninhibited, extroverted Tom McGuire, he of the racy anecdote, swift with the double entendre?

Was I even my dad's blood daughter?

I clamped down on that thought right away, refusing to play genetic guessing games based on body type and hair color. He was my daddy. He'd raised me from birth, bandaged my scraped knee when I fell off my bicycle, read me to sleep every night for more years than I'd ever admit to, even to my closest friends. He came to my soccer games and cheered me on even as I warmed the bench.

I tried to envision my mom, bound to a stake, naked, while Matt Stilson flogged her smooth, soft, unblemished naked back. I imagined Marge McGuire, naked, freckled pale skin, wavy red hear tossing, being teased and tormented, her big D cup breasts jiggling and wobbling as my dad playfully slapped them.

Or how about petite, delicate Helen Stilson, hanging by her wrists in mid-air, kicking, even screaming as Tommy McGuire pulled and twisted the prominent nipples of her shy breasts, her dark patch of pubic hair split by the pink ruffles of her aroused pussy.

That image was a bit much. I shifted uneasily.

"Are you all right?" John asked me.

I nodded. "Just thinking about tomorrow."

"Yeah. Should be fun." He put his arm around me, and pinched my waist, making me jump and squirm. "We'll be up early, leave about seven?"

I nodded tensely. A mile walk, maybe half an hour, and I'd have a full day being their toy before we had to be back. Eight hours, maybe more, at their mercy, only the fragile shield of a safe word and their good will and self-discipline for protection.

The mere thought of that almost had me creaming.

Later the lullaby of rain on the cabin roof finally sang me to sleep.

-------

Morning broke damp and gray and cool. A wind blustered around the cabin. Definitely not an out-doors day. The three of us rendezvoused in front of the cabins, swaddled in rain gear, our packs stocked with food for the day, and other things.

What wicked secrets did Michael's pack conceal?

We headed around the pond to the big pine tree, my feet squishing in sneakers sodden before we'd gone twenty feet. As we made our way through the steady rain I pondered our strange relationship. While I was the sub, I was still master of my fate. I determined when they took over my body, but always had in reserve the power to regain control with one word.

As long as, I reminded myself, they played by the rules. I was trusting my life to their self control.

That thought only heightened my arousal.

We paused sheltering under the big pine's branches, and my mouth was suddenly dry. I took a long drink from my water bottle. "Geronimo," I said, my voice cracking, wracked by one of my sexy shivers.

Michael didn't hesitate, doing exactly what I expected of him. "Strip," he ordered, swinging his pack off his shoulders.

Silently, I shed my poncho. Under it I wore only my cargo pants and the denim shirt I'd worn on our first excursion. Nothing beneath. In moments I was nude, cold drops shed by the sodden pine splatting on my naked flesh.

Bundling my clothes inside the poncho, I stuffed them in my pack. After I'd straightened, slung my pack back in place, Michael dropped the symbolic leash over my head.

Trailing him, with John following me, we slogged off down the trail. I could feel John watching my naked ass, white in the gray mist and rain. In moments I was soaked, cold, and suffering, but not miserable. Oh, my no, not miserable. Already I was practically creaming in my non-existent rompers. I was in my perverted little patch of heaven, looking forward to what was to come, though I had no idea what Michael and John had planned for me.



-------

Chapter 5

By the time we reached the barn I was stumbling on bare bruised feet that felt like blocks of ice. I was cold to the bone. My nipples, already stiff from anticipation when we set off, were points of ice.

Oh, probably it wasn't actually all that cold, maybe 60 degrees, no worse than 50? But try that naked, barefoot, with a blustery wind and cold rain falling.

My sodden hair fell in strings around my face. I must have looked like a drowned Shi Tsu.

I'd asked for it, and I relished it.

The trail emerged from the woods and we found ourselves facing one end of the barn, which towered over us, rough stone walls higher than my head, then weathered gray boards above that. At the peak several pigeons peered down on us, undoubtedly wondering why I was out in the rain naked.

John fumbled with a massive brass padlock using the key mom had given me, then threw his weight against the wide, ground level door. Wheels rattled on metal tracks, as he sent it rumbling aside to reveal the dark interior. High, small windows spaced down the long side walls cast gray pools of light on a stone floor strewn with hay. It was as shadowy and ominous as a torture chamber in a bad movie.

Goodie! My own personal dungeon.

Michael tugged on my rope, leading me inside. The hay underfoot was dry, almost warm but for the cold stone beneath it. He led me down between two rows of what I recognized from my fourth grade farm field trip as stanchions. Strange contraptions, suspended from low beams by short lengths of chain, they were also chained to the floor. I knew they could clamp loosely on a cow's neck to keep it from straying while Bossy was attached to a milking machine. I heard the door rumble shut behind us, cutting off that source of light, darkening the dungeon further.

A milking machine! Now there was an intriguing idea! Probably didn't come in my size, though. But for a guy's appendage?

Michael dragged me along on my icy feet, and I brought my mind back to the matter at hand. These stanchions were old, made of wood, instead of the stainless steel I'd seen in that shining, modern dairy barn. Still, they looked brutal, and I quailed at the thought of being clamped in one, bent over, my ass vulnerable.

Michael casually looped my symbolic leash around one of the stanchions and I sank to a crouch, hugging my knees to my cold tits. Cold, so cold.

Soon John, the Boy Scout of our little group, had a fire licking at logs on a massive stone hearth in the center aisle, a wide copper hood and stove pipe ushering the smoke out through the ceiling.

Shadows shifted eerily in the light of the dancing flames. Very romantic, under different circumstances, but given the present scenario it looked more like Hades. Satan with his pitchfork might have been lurking back in the shadows.

John knelt beside me, his warm hand cupping my chin to lift my head. "Are you okay?"

My teeth chattering too hard for me to talk, all I could do was nod. I was close enough to the fire to feel its welcome warmth. I even moved to the limit of my leash to get closer.

Sure, I could have slipped the loop easily, but that isn't the way the game is played. I was wallowing in my suffering, savoring it. One word was all it would take to escape this, but I was not going to say it.

A gust of wind rattled rain against the windows. My pussy wept as John went for another log for the fire. The radiant heat from the blaze was thawing me out fairly quickly.

Eventually Michael lifted the noose off my shoulders and got me to my feet by the simple expedient of clamping his first and second fingers on my right tit, squeezing and lifting. I came to my feet quickly. The pain was awesome! A little squeak escaped from me as I clamped my jaw shut.

He loved my pain. I loved my pain. A relationship made in hell.

Without a word, still using my tit, he pulled me over to a gap where a row of stanchions had been removed, leaving the horizontal rail at about my breast level. Pressing my back against that rail, he lifted my arms as if I was to be crucified.

Fortunately he resorted to short lengths of rope rather than nails, tying first my wrists and then my upper arms to the beam. I was a bit tall, so I had to bend down to get my arms straight along the rail.

"Spread your legs, slut," he ordered. He was really getting into his role.

I obeyed, shifting my feet on the straw, straightening up, feeling the still chilly air touch my aroused tissues.

Then he produced two large, thick, half inch wide rubber bands.

As I looked down on my babies, he stretched one rubber band, slid it over my beautiful right breast, and gently let it close at the base, compressing the soft flesh close to my ribs, squeezing it, making the rest of my boob bulge out like a balloon.

I was still getting used to the sensation in that boob when he duplicated the action on my other breast. It didn't really hurt much, but I could feel the pressure building, sort of tingling.

Then he snapped a fingernail against first my right nipple, the first breast he'd slipped the tourniquet on and I yelped. Then he zapped my left tit the same way, making it sting like fire. Perversely (how else?), I arched my chest not backward, defensively, but forward, outward, inviting the abuse as I writhed against the ropes.

Obligingly, he gave each of my nipples a vicious twist.

Oh, I was SUCH a pain-slut! With my legs spread my juices clung to my swollen inner labia until they dripped to the floor.

And, oh dearly beloved (as Kipling says in his "Just So Stories") God help me, I felt the need to pee growing on me.

But I restrained it, knowing the beating my ass would take, wanting to delay that delicious agony for as long as I could.

Then John took over, and brought tears of joy to my eyes. Bending down, he suckled at my tormented teats. First one, lovingly bathing the swollen knob with his soft, warm tongue, then sucking gently, drawing as much as he could into his mouth, the sharp edges of his teeth striking fire.

When he drew back, he kept sucking, pulling on my tit until it finally popped free with a juicy slurp, pouting at being abandoned.

By the time he finished with my second tit I was babbling nonsensically. His fingers brushed my gaping twat and I moaned.

"Don't let her cum yet," Michael cautioned.

I pleaded. But John didn't touch me again and I wept with frustration, his spit drying cold on my tits, stray breezes brushing my ass, teasing my hypersensitive pussy.

My breasts were starting to ache as the blood pooled in them. I looked down. They were turning blue! They were bigger, stretched, my areolas swollen, my nipples harder and longer than I'd ever seen them.

Then Michael came back, with what looked like a thin, springy wire, with a little knob at the end; the whippy inner core of a car's radio antenna.

Oh Jesus! He wasn't going to...

He did, flexed that wire back a few inches, and let it go to snap right on the tip of my already tormented breast.

I screamed!

"Don't cum," he ordered, just before he subjected my other tit to the same treatment.

I shrieked, tightening my gut to restrain my orgasm, and my piss. My chest heaved as I tried to catch my breath, while my abdominal muscles were clenched hard. My thighs trembled with the strain until the pain faded and I went limp.

I was dripping with sweat, and tossed my head to get the hair out of my face. Maybe, I thought in a moment of sanity, or perhaps madness, I should go with mom's short bob, instead of my usual pony tail length if I was going to keep this up.

John moved behind me, to stay out of Michael's way, and tenderly drew tendrils of hair soaked with rain and sweat off my face, tucking it back behind my ears. As he did, his fingers brushed the shells of my ears and I shivered at the erotic electricity of that gentle touch.

SNAP! The wire struck my left tit like a lightning bolt.

SNAP! I screamed again as my right tit exploded with fire.

My breasts were throbbing now.

A tender touch, down low, not on my pussy, just next to it, where the tendons in my groin were stretched tight. John, reaching around me to tease my oh-so sensitive skin.

"Don't cum," Michael cautioned.

"Please," I begged.

"Not yet."

SNAP!

My scream echoed through the cavernous barn, upstairs and down, and I heard alarmed pigeons scattering, their wings squeaking as they took flight.

I moaned, a note I didn't even think I could reach. I sing mezzo in the choir, but this was a baritone growl of frustration and pain.

SNAP!

I swear I hit a new high. Pure coloratura.

Then all I could do was pant.

"Okay," Michael said as John moved around in front of me. He slid his finger gently up into my cunt, stroked high up within me, his warm palm cupping my crotch. He licked my clit and my whole body erupted with my orgasm, my hips humping insanely as he felt me up, finger stroking my G spot, palm pressing against my twat, suckling on my happy berry.

I came and I came and I came, until I couldn't come any more, and I sagged as John withdrew.

And still I clamped down to keep from pissing myself, until I couldn't hold it another second.

"Nooooooo!" I wailed like a mad woman as a Niagara of piss gushed forth.

And Michael was on my ass so fast he had to have anticipated it. The antenna whip slashed at my buttocks.

"Nasty! Nasty! Nasty!" He punctuated every stroke and my hips lashed back and forth reflexively, scattering my still spraying piss, engulfing me in the musky warm scent of my own urine.

I was so ashamed. I was mortified, even as I relished the exquisite agony of my second cumming.

Then I was, once again, hanging from the ropes, as Michael removed the rubber bands, and my breasts burst into flame, circulation restored.

I swear, I felt the stale blood gush back into my body, my breasts throbbing with every beat of my heart, and I prayed that he hadn't damaged those lovelies that I was so proud of, prayed that they wouldn't sag because of what he'd done.

Vanity, all is vanity, I thought woefully.

"Ketchup," I yielded at last, softly, and they freed my arms and let me sink down, cross legged, in the puddle of my own piss.

"Oh my God," I said softly. "Oh my God."

John handed me a granola bar to chew on, set a fresh water bottle beside me after cracking the seal, and again gently pushed the hair back out of my face.

I sat there, back straight, legs crossed Indian fashion, munching the granola bar, sucking down water while they studied me.

How long had I been at their mercy? The barn had warmed, the fire burned low. Was it lunch time yet?

Did it matter? There I sat. Me. Little Miss Goodie Two Shoes, stark naked in an old barn, my twat on full display, my ass planted in a puddle of my own piss and cum, while two boys inventoried my charms. I had no shame. I enjoyed their appraisal of my fine, if abused tits with their happy pink tips, my ruffled inner labia kissing the air between my thighs.

With fake casualness I dropped my hand into my lap, and parted the gates, showing the hot pink heart of my sex, with its tunnel of love, the little piss hole over it, and above that the sensitive button under its little hood, crowned with the curls of my carefully tended garden.

Tell me, do you think it was maybe just a little bit cruel of me to show them the one orifice they most wanted to plunder with their hungry cocks, knowing that it was the one opening that was not available to their pricks?

That was our agreement. No cocks in my cunt.

Oh, I'd cleared it for action some time ago. That is to say, my hymen was not an issue, thanks to the aforementioned handle of my hair brush. And subsequently I'd coped with my monthly inconvenience courtesy of tampons, of course.

But no hot meat, no living cocks. No siree! Little miss purity was saving that for someone special.

Chad? Probably not. He is sweet and caring, but somehow not quite right.

So here I was, tormenting them with my tantalizingly unavailable twat. I relished it. I savored it! I asked for a second granola bar, just to prolong the exhibition, and slowly polished off the rest of the sixteen ounce bottle of water.

Gotta replace the fluids.

Inside every masochist lurks a little bit of the sadist.

Pay back is a bitch.



-------

Chapter 6


I unfolded my legs, stretching them out in front of me, thighs together, pointing my toes, closing the gynecological exhibition. Leaning back on my arms, my still tender tits on display, I tossed my head. "Geroni..."

Before I got to the "mo" they'd grabbed my arms, lifted me from the floor and banged me back against a convenient post.

They seemed irritated -- perhaps aroused is a better word, even gentle John. You think, maybe, they were aware I'd been taunting them?

Well doh!

While John held my arms tightly, very tightly, behind the post (shades of a sapling of years gone by) Michael fitted me with a real collar, padded leather, buckled, with shining metal studs and rings.

He must have worked very hard for the last three years -- two paper routes at once, maybe more. I'd priced B & D gear like this and figured my allowance wouldn't cover it. Besides, I was saving for a car.

A metallic click and my neck was locked to the post. Then, behind the post, cuffs went around my wrists, and they where locked together. My shoulders were pulled back, my already abused tits boldly inviting further attention.

Well, I did want them to be admired. But I knew that wasn't what Michael had in mind.

Michael was in my face. "Think you're so smart? Maybe we can't warm our cocks in that pussy of yours, but other things aren't banned. And there are a couple of other openings we have yet to take advantage of."

I was suddenly scared again, conscious of being totally at their mercy. We had an agreement, but there was nothing keeping them from breaking it. All I could do was trust, but I realized I'd better not tempt them too far.

Michael was still in a titty mood. From his pack he produced more hardware. "Bring those little nipples of hers to attention, if you don't mind, Mr. Stilson."

"As you wish, Doctor McGuire." Johnnie proceeded to roll and pull on my still swollen and tender tits, not gently. The pain was delicious, if you like that sort of thing, which, of course, I do, and as my pussy teared up, my nips responded like little soldiers, snapping to attention.

After untangling a bit of silvery chain, Michael grabbed my left breast hard, a bruising grip reminding me that not long before my boob had been blown up, a blood balloon as it were, and was still resenting that treatment. With a wicked grin, he closed an adjustable clamp on my alert teat, making me gasp.

He then proceeded to tighten it, wringing a moan from me, along with a gush of pussy juices. Waiting for "ketchup" from me, he slowly increased the pressure. I watched as my nipple was flattened and spread, until I banged my head back against the post and grunted with pain. If the nipple clamp had had teeth instead of padding it would have drawn blood. In that case it might have been a different story. As it was, I was NOT going to surrender!

My cunt was flooded -- again.

He continued the torment, attacking my other breast in the same way. Tears were running down my cheeks, the dangling chains tugging on my flattened nipples. He tweaked each chain in turn, sending jolts of pain from my tits straight to my pussy.

"Now," he mused, holding up a third clamp and chain. "What shall I do with this." He opened it and closed it in front of my face, closer and closer until I was looking cross-eyed at it. Was he thinking of using it on my nose?

Don't be silly! He had a much more tender and tempting target, south of the border, so to speak. He knelt at my feet, his fingers parting my slit, exposing the machinery to his not so tender mercies.

He tickled my clit, which responded eagerly to his interest, a little puppy wanting his ears scratched. Then the clamp came down on it and it regretted it's decision, tried to retreat to it's shelter, but it was too late.

I would have doubled over, if my neck hadn't been locked to the post. As it was one leg came up, only to be slapped aside. Then Michael tightened that clamp, too, the darling devil. I wailed with painful ecstasy.

My tormentors then proceeded to yank my chains, all three of them, until I was screaming, my feet dancing, rolling my head and struggling against my shackles. Of course, I wasn't trying to escape. I was trying to reach my slavering cunt to somehow bring myself off, but with my arms chained behind the post I couldn't quite make it! I made the walls ring with my pleas and screams.

Becoming bored with playing "The Bells of St. Mary" on my tits and clit, they left the chains swinging, my throbbing tits dancing as my chest heaved. Obviously they had an agenda. John unclipped my wrists, but left the cuffs in place and kept control of my hands as Michael released my neck.

Keeping me under tight control, they marched me over around one of the stanchions, and drove me to my knees on a low platform facing it. My dread at the first sight of those restrains was coming true.

"Nooo, please," I begged. "Please don't!"

"Now be a nice little cow," Michael scolded, guiding my head through the stanchion.

I struggled, but with my arms held behind my back by John I had no leverage.

The stanchion closed on the sides of my neck, and I discovered this particular stanchion had some clever modifications. A bar under my throat kept me from dipping my head. Then another bar came down across the back of my neck, meaning I couldn't raise up.

Then John let go of my wrists and I explored my predicament with my hands. I was on my knees, locked in place, facing the fire, the hot coals warming my face. John, in his gentle way, fastened my wrists to the stanchion so I couldn't play with myself.

I was well and truly immobilized.

Michael tweaked my dangling tit chains and I whined from the stimulation. He tugged on my clit chain and I squeaked, my hips jerking in reaction. Meanwhile, John was stroking my naked ass, his fingers reaching between my thighs to tease my pussy, then exploring the crack of my butt deeply and insolently, toying with my asshole, painting it with juices from my cunt.

Jeez that felt good!

"I think she needs some ballast," Michael decided. I felt him toying with my chains, first the ones on my nipple clamps, then the clit, and when his hands came away there was quite a bit more weight on those chains, stretching my boobs, dragging on my clit, pulling hard on those nerve packed nubbins.

He'd added weights.

Every twitch of my body sent them swaying and jerking. Every tremor was conveyed right from my tits and clit to the heart of my sexuality, ratcheting up my arousal even farther, even as tears of pain streamed down my face.

The boys moved around in front of me, where I could see them, and proceeded to strip naked, revealing their jutting hards-on.

Did you know that's the proper plural? Betcha didn't! It's like "Attorneys General" or "courts martial." It's "hards-on," not "hard-ons." You have A hard-on, you have TWO hards-on. Now please remember that class, you'll be tested on it at the end of the hour.

And if you don't remember it you will be PUNISHED!

Oh it hurt, it all hurt, my tits, my clit. The pain only increased my perverted horniness. I was livestock for their pleasure.

"Should we flip for her?" Michael asked, pausing to dig a coin out of his discarded pants. "Heads or tails?"

"Heads," John called as the coin spun in the air.

Michael deftly caught it and slapped it on the back of his hand, glanced down at it. "Heads it is, my boy."

"Great, it's about time." As John stepped closer I realized the reason for the platform I was kneeling on. It raised me so my face was even with his already drooling cock.

Michael, meanwhile, grabbed something out of his pack, and walked around behind me.

Tails.

Oh shit.

Believe it or not, I'd never sucked a cock in my short life. As for the "tails" part of the equation, nothing bigger than a rectal thermometer had ever been up that road.

Oh sure, I'd played with my cunt, but with my fastidious nature my asshole was off limits to all but toilet paper or a wet washrag, external use only, or so I thought. I'd never even had an enema. I'd heard about anal sex, even read about it, but had been too chicken to probe that alley.

Michael obviously had a different attitude, but then it was my asshole about to be invaded, not his. Perhaps it is all a matter of perspective.

But I suddenly became too busy to worry much about that. John took a grip on my hair, tilted my head back, and presented his cock to my lips. A twist of his hand wound my hair painfully tight. I got the idea, and opened my mouth.

Just as he began to slide his cock in, Michael slapped my ass, hard. I jerked in surprise, the weighted clips yanking on me, my yelp impeded by John's hard dick.

John gave my hair a yank. "Don't bite!"

Obediently, I closed my lips around his warm meat. With tenderness, he slowly worked his cock into my mouth, my tongue bathed with musky seepings that made me salivate. Spit drooled down my chin.

A rough touch spread the cheeks of my ass, something cold trickling down the crack, a sudden pressure at my anus. I grunted like a pig as something wriggled its way into my asshole, prying open my virgin sphincter.

Michael's finger, maybe his thumb? How the hell could I know? More cold drizzled down, to be pressed into my tail. Michael was lubing me up for the main event.

At least he wasn't going to simply plunder my unlubed anus. Maybe next time he would. It would hurt. Hurt is good. But oh God, what he was doing felt good! Vile, wicked, filthy, but good.

John drew his cock out of my mouth, slid it back in, fucking my face, each slow stroke going a bit deeper.

Michael wedged a second finger into my butt, pushed and I growled around John's cock. It hurt! Not John's cock, my ass! It hurt so wonderfully I would have backed on to Michael's hand if the stanchion had let me.

John was striking a rhythm now, stroking his dick further and further in with each thrust, until I gagged, choked and he withdrew.

Michael wedged yet another finger into my tail, making my asshole burn and sting as it fought his explorations. Then he withdrew his hand, and I missed it soooo much!

John went again to the back of my throat. Again I gagged, and choked, fought, my body sending the weights dancing and tugging at all three of my nerve loaded buds, lightning bolts striking through me from every jolt.

Pressure at my ass again, and suddenly I remembered my comparisons between John's hard-on and Michael's the first time I'd seen them. John's was slender, but longer. Michael's thicker.

The luck of the coin toss had not necessarily gone in my favor.

John's cock-head hit the back of my throat again.

Michael's began to wedge its way into my shit chute.

I opened my throat, trying to swallow John's phallus, simultaneously trying to open my back door to Michael.

John took advantage, wedging his rubbery glans into my esophagus. I couldn't breathe!

Michael's dick gained in my ass, prying my butt open, stretching it until it burned.

I was seeing stars, struggling for air, the weighted chains tearing at my nipple clamps, the clit clamp yanking my over stimulated clitoris.

John pulled out and I coughed, desperately sucking air.

Michael's cock relentlessly bored in through my burning asshole, driving all before it.

"Awwwwww," I growled around the head of John's cock, and then he was on his way back in and I closed my lips, pressing with my tongue, loving the feel of his meat as I sucked. Ready this time I drew in a deep breath through my nose, and opened my throat like I was swallowing a poorly chewed piece of gristly steak, and he drove his cock straight down my throat, my tongue and glottis working as I tried to swallow his bulk, until my nose was buried in the wiry curls of his thick pubic hair.

Oh they'd planned well, whoever designed this confinement. Thanks to the angles, my head was tilted back like a sword swallower's, lining up my mouth and throat with my rectum. The only thing keeping John's and Michael's sex organs from shaking hands through me was about 20 feet of intestines coiled in my belly.

Michael hadn't paused, didn't hesitate. His thick cock powered full depth into my rectum, until his balls slapped my pussy.

Oh, I - was - so - FULL, at each end! At both ends. And in the middle those damned, damned weights danced like demons on a hot skillet, until I thought I was going to be torn apart.

Then Michael and John each drew out, each pushed back in, and I became a two cylinder engine of perverted lust. There was no rhythm to it. Each set his own pace. One moment my ass might be full, my mouth empty enough I could gasp for air. John might be starting in as Michael was half out. I'd be half empty, or half full. Then they'd both be boring in, stuffing me.

And all I could do was take it. Breathe, swallow cock, grunt. Spit poured down my chin. My ass was ablaze, Michael ravaging me harder and faster, his fingers digging into my hips as he snarled and thrust. John held me by my hair, and rammed his cock down my throat so hard my nose bruised on his pubic bone.

Both were merciless as they sought to bury their horniness in me.

As for me, the only part of me that wasn't engaged was the opening originally created for all this action, my cunt. It was HUNGRY!

John came first, his shaft buried to the hairy hilt in my mouth, pouring his jizz straight down my spasming throat, his cock pulsing with every shot, his grip on my hair holding me while he unloaded, and it seemed like forever, my lungs aching for oxygen while his hot semen streamed down my throat.

Then Michael hammered in one more time, jamming my ass like a giant turd, and I felt him cumming back there as John at last drew back so I could breathe, the last drizzles of his cum spilling over my tongue and down my chin.

Michael reached beneath me, his cock still pumping hot cum into my rectum, his fingers tugged at the chain clamped to my clit, and my whole body convulsed with an orgasm of its own, savagely hard contractions wrenching my empty cunt, my ass milking his spouting dick, my tits and clit ablaze. I was totally engulfed in sex, sex, pain, and more sex, in agony and ecstasy, heaven and hell.

I think maybe I passed out for a moment. I vaguely remember shitting out Michael's cock as John pulled his from my mouth leaving a savory coating of semen behind.

There was a timeless interval of blessed peace, even my nipple and tit jewelry coming to rest.

Then someone's hands clamped on my ears, raised my drooping head, and I realized that they weren't done with me yet.

Oh God, no, not again.

Oh, God, yes, yet again!

With youthful exuberance and lusty stamina, Michael and John were both more than ready to resume their assaults on my body. We were young and alive and I was more than ready to accept their attentions.

Michael nuzzled his hard dick to my lips, and the stench reminded me of exactly where it had just been. My stomach tried to rebel, even as my mouth opened to welcome his fouled offering.

And where was John? He was setting his engorged cock at the entrance to my well lubricated, relaxed and eager rectum. He slid in smoothly, with no protest from my nether regions this time. At the same time I sucked off the leavings of my buggery from Michael's rod. The head didn't reach as deep as John's, but my jaw was jammed wider.

John didn't quite fill my stretched dirt road, so the muscular ring and my pulsing rectum obligingly tightened their grip as he stroked into my tail, pushing deeper than Michael had, finding new nerves to stimulate.

And still the weights and chains danced their jolly jig on the tethers to my tits and clit.

There was no way I could "ketchup" my way out of this, what with Michael plundering my mouth.

Not that I had any desire to do so what-so-ever! I was surfing a Tsunami of perverted lust. I didn't want this to end. I was in a hog heaven of pain and pleasure. Their hunger slaked by the first penetration, they could go on at length this time. They rocked in the cradles of my mouth and ass until I was delirious with joy.

But eventually they unloaded yet again into both ends of my alimentary canal, glutting me with their hot cum. John, that eager beaver, was first, in my rear, hot, throbbing spurts of cum filling my butt. Then a stroke later Michael flooded my mouth with his tasty goo. I swallowed as much as I could as fast as I could, the inevitable overflow spilling down my chin.

I welcomed their cummings with another orgasm of my own, and the misgivings that all this was unavoidably drawing to a close. The poor boys, being mere males, had limited resources. I knew this was likely the end for today, and I mourned its passing as my exhausted body yielded up its last, weary cumming.

Then I became aware of the pain in my tits, the burning of my pinched clitoris, the bruising of my breasts, the weariness of my frustrated cunt muscles, my sore knees and weary torso, my stinging, aching asshole, my sore throat. Maybe it was for the better that their wells were dry.

I was right, though. Payback is a bitch.



-------

Chapter 7

They left me on my hands and knees, head hanging, still bound, while they cleaned themselves up, drawing water from an old fashioned hand pump. They dressed, and only then tended to me.

In their charmingly direct fashion, they each filled a bucket with icy water and doused me with it while I was still trapped in the stanchion. Then they released me and helped me to stand, removing the collar and cuffs, but not the clips and weights still tormenting my most sensitive points of interest.

I said nothing and they let me wander loose. Wobbling over to the pump, juices seeping from my ass and cunt, I managed to splash some water on my face and belly.

When I returned to where they were gathering things up, John tenderly removed the clips, sending flashes of fire through me as circulation returned. Then we gathered our belongings and headed back to camp, me in the middle, still naked, linked to Michael by only that silly symbolic rope.

I still hadn't said "ketchup."

The walk back to the camp was a lot more pleasant than the morning's trek. The rain was gone, leaving crystal clear air brushing my skin. The late afternoon sun warmed the woods, bringing out the scents of the trees. Every once in a while the touch of a breeze would send showers of water from the leaves down on us, pattering noisily on the leaves on the forest floor.

The woods were rich with life. I wondered again what kind of bird it was that could produce such sweet notes. They were pure and clear, a rippling cascade, a musical waterfall. Maybe a thrush?

Jays screamed "thief, thief, thief!" as they flew from tree to tree. A chipmunk cheeped with alarm and vanished with a flip of his tail. Further on a squirrel clinging to an oak complained with a sharp "Chaff! Chaff! Chaff!" His bushy tail flicking with every protest.

All this revived me. I was tired, and a sore, and -- what? Certainly not unhappy. Content? Sated, yes, definitely. Fulfilled, perhaps was the word, even exultant. Language is so inadequate when it comes to conveying feelings.

Not emotions. Those are easy; joy, fear, anger, sorrow. Feelings are more subtle. They're the harmonies that lurk below the melody, refining the composition, filling out the basic chords, minor for sorrow, major for joy, fleshing out tempos.

I decided I was confused in a perversely joyous way. I felt good, like I'd just played well in a winning soccer game, not scoring any goals, not blocking any shots, but I'd handled the ball well, passed off well, held my position. Maybe it was the same endorphins I felt after a strenuous workout.

When I didn't contemplate the details of what I'd done, I felt completed. When I did think of the humiliation, the pain, the degradation it only increased whatever that wonderful feeling was that was filling me, making me hunger for the abuse again.

Giving up on the conundrum, I shook my head as we emerged beneath the big pine tree. Across the way, my parents were lounging on the beach with the McGuires and the Stilsons, basking in the afternoon sun.

My mom raised a languid hand to wave a greeting, and I responded, realizing I was still naked. I knew stood out, a flesh pink exclamation point against the dark of the woods, and I liked it. Oh, I was embarrassed, but that only gave me an additional thrill. I wanted them to see me, these close friends who had never SEEN me as I really was, in the flesh ... literally, a pain slut revealed.

I knew, too, that I was still in the thrall of Michael and John. I hadn't yet liberated myself by calling "ketchup."

"You're a mess, pain slut," Michael scolded. "Go wash yourself off!" Releasing his end of my token leash, he gave me a push on the butt with his gritty shoe. Without a protest, I shed my pack, stepped forward and pushed off the bank in a shallow dive. It was a near belly flop, and my tits protested the impact, but I didn't care. I rolled over and threw rope back to him, screaming "KETCHUP."

It was a triumphant call of liberation. I rolled in the water, washing away the piss and the cum and filth that fouled my flesh. I rinsed my mouth of the taste of semen, lubricant, and shit.

But nothing washed away the delicious, perverse feeling of accomplishment.

I struck off toward the beach in an easy breaststroke, stretching the kinks out of my muscles, feeling the insolent currents stroking my nakedness, fondling my tender tits, seeping into the intimate crevice of my sex, chilling the still sensitive pucker of my asshole.

Rolling on my back, I let the sun and air soothe my breasts, kicking languidly toward the beach, the chill pond fondling my pussy, stroking my legs, toying with my toes.

I knew my parents, my daddy and my mom could see the thrust of my tits, the line of my torso, my thighs and knees as I kicked. I relished knowing that the McGuires' and the Stilsons' eyes were on me. Was I teasing them? Arousing them? Even, perhaps, disgusting them? Oh, not that, I hope not that.

Then I rolled over again, letting the chill waters of the pond lave my aching breasts again. I ducked my head, letting the water sluice over my head, through my hair. I was a child of nature, free in the wilderness, unbound by clothes.

I loved being naked. I didn't care who saw me.

My feet touched sand and I rose out of the pond, Venus rising from the waves, water sparkling on my tanned flesh, dripping from my tits, trickling from the curls of my pussy, streaming down my back.

Mom came toward me with a towel as if to wrap me in it, and I took it from her, but didn't even try to use it to cover myself. I wiped my face, my arms, and let it drape casually from my hand. "I'm going up to get some clothes on. Excuse me."

Mom was confused, worried. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, mom. But I don't want to talk about it right now. Tomorrow," I answered, giving her a quick peck on the cheek. "Promise."

"Hi, daddy!" I waved as I passed him, his eyes wide as they tracked me up the beach. It had been years since he'd seen me naked.

Marge McGuire was smiling enigmatically, maybe even a little enviously. Her husband was unabashedly ogling me.

Helen Stilson looked to be stifling a case of the giggles, while there was no doubt what her husband was thinking. The bulge in his swim-suit said it all.

I let my recently violated naked ass twitch just that little bit more as I made my way toward the cabin, feeling all their eyes on me.

"Hold it, young lady!"

Did I ever mention that in a previous life my mom was either a Marine Drill Sergeant, a fog horn, or General Patton?

I froze, ass in mid-twitch.

"Tick check!"

"Oh, mom." I turned back.

"And, since you have so much epidermis on display, I think I need more than one pair of eyes," she added, with a very wicked smile.

The men's response to this request probably registered on seismographs in Hawaii.

Oh God! I was subjected to such a scrutinizing I wanted to shrivel up. I was made to raise my arms, to pirouette slowly, to bow forwards and backwards. Thank the lord they did not ask me to spread my cheeks or pussy, or liquid evidence of my debauchery might have made an appearance.

Of course, at the same time I reveled in the humiliating display. Go figure.

"Okay, go on." Mom dismissed me with a wave, to the distress of her corps of inspectors.

And when I got to the cabin, the screen door swinging shut behind me with a bang, I stood a moment, aghast at what I'd just done. And for the first time that day, I reached down and fingered my pussy, and it took me only a touch at my tender folds to trigger the sweet pulses of a delectable little orgasm, setting off a "whoop!" followed by a gust of laughter.

I blushed. They had to have heard me.

After drying my body, I twisted my hair into the towel and coiled into a turban, then dug out a thin, cropped just below my boobs, wife-beater shirt I sometimes wore to bed, and loose, very abbreviated athletic shorts.

No underwear.

Before I dressed, if you could call it that, I studied myself in the mirror, my fingers tracing the bruises Michael's fingers had left on my tits. My nipples were still a little swollen, as was my clit, my throat a little sore, as was my anus.

It was the most intimate abuse I'd ever endured, but endured it I had, and I didn't regret one minute of it. Just the memory of it made me feel hot.

Then I pulled on the shirt and shorts and, still barefoot, returned to the beach gathering, passing Michael and John with a nod as I did.

"Your mom has your pack," John muttered as they passed. They looked tired, and subdued. I wondered what they might have told the parental units.

Mom gave me a warm hug, daddy a peck on the cheek, a squeeze of my hand, and a look down the front of my shirt, before I settled between them, watching the sun light up the clouds with marvelous colors. When I scratched the inside of my thigh I felt the evening breeze touch my pussy and realized just how short and loose those shorts were, and suppressed a naughty giggle.

Later we moved to the big, circular picnic table. The Stilsons were on kitchen duty and we dined on salmon steaks, grilled over hot coals, more sweet corn, and daddy even let me have a glass of wine.

An interesting sorting procedure took place as people got up to refill their plates, pour some wine, whatever. We'd started out in family groups, but slowly the seating chart evolved, until all the men were seated across from me, the women flanking me on either side.

Unable to resist the urge, I stretched luxuriously, lifting the hem of the wife-beater to reveal the underside of my breasts, the touch of the fabric stiffening my nipples. John McGuire's bushy red eyebrows did a lively dance over his blue eyes.

I've never understood a man's fascination with tits. Of course that shirt I wore did little to conceal my charms, but they'd just seen ALL of me not long before. It wasn't as if I had any secrets.

Not that I minded their attention, you understand. I even deliberately spilled a little wine on my -- ahem -- chest to enhance the effect, the thin cotton clinging closely to my erect tit. The men kept dropping things under the table that they had to go after.

No one seemed to want to light the campfire for some reason. We stayed around the table chatting until the sun went down drawing the curtain of darkness on my display.

And so to bed, warmed by the non-judgmental acceptance of what I was beginning to regard as an extended family.

My sleep was only slightly disturbed by the sounds emanating from my parent's room.

-------

Morning dawned with a chill fog, as usual. It didn't really burn off until lunch time, but a couple of hours after that it was hot, and once again, wearing my itty bitty black bikini, I was drifting on the pond while Michael and John frolicked near the beach, trying to splash their less energetic parents into a water fight.

Again mom nudged me out of my torpor and we joined hands to drift with the gentle breeze, lined up feet to head. Her presence was comforting, but I was a little troubled. She was wearing a cover-up over her bikini, not even taking it off for her raft ride, so I commented on it.

"Oh, I'm just covering up the evidence of my sins," she explained.

"Sins?" I wasn't looking at her, my eyes closed behind my shades as I lay on my back. Then I remembered noticing what I'd taken to be bug bites on the slopes of her breasts before she'd pulled the cover-up closed yesterday, after handing me the towel.

Maybe they weren't bug bites after all.

She was silent for a moment. "Well, I suppose you should know. I took a stand yesterday while you three were off playing, and not everyone agreed with me, so I paid the price."

I knew my mom could be very stubborn when the occasion required it. "What about?"

She sighed softly. "Certain parties seemed to feel we shouldn't let you three indulge your whims without supervision. They said it was for your own safety."

"They wanted to spy on us?" I was horrified.

"And I explained that it would be a violation of your trust, the trust you have in me, and that I wouldn't stand for it."

I gave her hand a squeeze of appreciation. "Who was it, exactly?"

"I'd rather not say, dear, but I assure you your father was NOT one of them."

I felt relieved at that at least.

"They became adamant, so I became even more adamant. I dug my heels in, you might say."

When mom digs in her heels you might as well be trying to move the Empire State Building.

"But they were just as adamant." Her fingers squirmed in mine, but she didn't let go. "So I made them an offer and a deal was struck. They'd stay home, and I -- made myself available to them."

I had no trouble interpreting that cryptic explanation.

"Totally," she went on. "It was one of my more memorable sessions."

"Sessions?"

"It was one of those rare times when all the rules are off, when those who choose to are free to indulge their proclivities on a willing -- ah -- victim, or victims, to a greater extent than usual."

Now tell me, when was the last time you heard the word "proclivities" used correctly in a sentence? My mom the grammarian.

"Even the women - ah - took it out on me," my mother added softly. "They can be more creative than the men."

"Oh!" I kind of hoped she'd go into details, but she didn't. Her meaning was clear. She'd taken a beating on my behalf, and even Marge and Helen had taken part in the action.

"God it was good!" she sighed.

I was all squirmy inside again at the thoughts I was having. "This can become quite addictive, can't it?"

Her grip tightened on my hand. "Indeed it can," she agreed. "That's why we try to ration ourselves to when all three families are together here.

"Oh, we play a little alone at home, your father and I," mom went on, "and may indulge if we get together with just the Stilsons or just the McGuires, but the upstairs of the barn is accessible only if all three families are here, and willing. Like this vacation."

I felt badly. "Oh, and we took up the barn!"

Mom chuckled. "Oh, we made do with what we had here."

I mulled this over carefully. "You stuck up for me." I was proud and grateful. "Thank you."

"And I'd do it again. You trusted me enough to confide in me and there was absolutely no way I was going to let that trust be violated."

Once again I wished I could hug her, but floating on rafts in the middle of a spring-fed pond is not the place unless you want to take a chilly dunking. "Thanks," I whispered huskily.

"Oh, pshaw! I knew what I was letting myself in for. You could even say that I was asking for it."

"Did it hurt terribly?"

She purred. "It hurt wonderfully."

I couldn't help it, I laughed, and she joined in with that throaty, wonderfully full laugh of hers. Someone called out, wondering what was so funny, but we just waved them off.

"Was it good for you, too?" she asked me.

"Ooooh, yesssss," I assured her with one of my little sex-shivers. "Oh most definitely yes."

An affectionate silence.

"Of course," she admitted, "I seem to have a habit of asking for it."

"Do you really?"

"I do," she admitted ruefully. "Your father can be quite the disciplinarian."

I tried to think if he'd ever spanked me. Not that I could recall. I wondered if he might be encouraged.

But then, I was his daughter.

What if... ? My mind wandered down some tantalizing trails.

"He does love you very, very much, you know," mom observed.

"And I love him," I answered. She couldn't be thinking what I was thinking! "Very much," I added more softly and thoughtfully.

"Any plans for today?" she asked.

I shook my head. "I'm in recovery. I don't want to carry tales, but, well, double semen enemas do impact the functioning of the lower digestive tract."

"Double semen... ?" She burst out laughing. "I should think so. But, you're still a virgin?"

"I am," I responded primly. "My vaginal tract is still completely my own."

"I'm glad to hear it." Her hand in mine was firm and reassuring.

"Though I'm tempted," I confessed. Did I want to feel a hot, live cock up my cunt, filling me with sperm? You bet your life I did!

But the idea frightened me, too. I wasn't worried about pregnancy, I'd had an implant since I was fourteen. But mom was right, I'd be letting a man into my most precious opening, the same one that, God and fertility willing, would bring new life into the world at some time in the future.

"You'll know when the time and the person are right."

We drifted in silence for a few minutes, me thinking about surrendering my last bastion, wondering who it would be, and when. Truthfully, I ached to do it, silly as that might seem. Here I'd already done all the "perverted" stuff, and now I was pining for what would be thought of as "normal" sex.

Mom broke the silence. "That was quite a show you put on when you came back yesterday. What on earth possessed you to do that? I was afraid your father's heart couldn't take it."

I felt my face heat up and knew I was blushing. "I think I was still on a high. Did it upset you? I know I shouldn't have done it."

She snorted. "Who says you shouldn't have?" she scolded. "No, it didn't upset me. You're my daughter, and you're beautiful."

"Thanks."

"But it sure got a rise out of the men!"

I blushed more.

"All the men!" she added.

"Even daddy?"

She snickered. "He gave me a ride last night like I've rarely had," she admitted. "He gave me his full attention, but I suspect in the back of his mind he was fantasizing about you."

"Really?!"

"Really," she stated firmly. "You made quite an impression with that little stroll of yours, and then your shirt and shorts after left little to the imagination. From the right angle you could see your pussy up those loose legs."

"Nooo," I denied insincerely.

We both laughed. I'd known exactly who was seeing what, and we both knew it.

"But, later with daddy, I thought..." My voice trailed off, unable to say the "M" word.

"Masochism has its own thrill." She finished the thought for me as if she'd read my mind. "But it's -- a different kind of thrill. It can't be compared to straight sex between two lovers, and I mean LOVErs, people who really care for each other, who are mindful of their partner's pleasure and are giving as much as receiving. It's apples and oranges."

"Oh." I thought this over. The orgasms I'd felt with Michael and John's willing assistance had been pretty earth-shaking.

"It's different," she went on thoughtfully. "Fulfilling in a different way."

"Oh."

"So no plans for today," she returned to that topic for some reason.

Releasing her hand, I indulged in a stretch that almost swamped my raft. "I think I'm going to take a few days off, in fact."

"Probably wise," she agreed. "But how will the boys feel about it?"

"It's my body, it's my choice," I responded, and suddenly realized how arrogant that sounded.

"You're that much in control of the situation?"

"So far," I admitted more humbly. If I didn't want to go they'd have to kidnap me. Michael might consider that route, but John? Never. "Anyway, I'll just tell them the truth, I'm sore and need some time off."

"We're only going to be here three more days. Consider putting off your last frolic for the last day. Sort of go off with a bang, so to speak," Mom suggested. "Anyway, I'm for the beach."

"Can you take my raft? I want to swim back."

"Sure."

I rolled off the raft into the pond and stretched my muscles with a slow crawl. Last day. The idea appealed to me.



-------

Chapter 8



"Hold still!"

I giggled. "I can't help it, it tickles!" Not that my nervousness helped at all.

Mom's hand came down more firmly on my stomach. "I don't care, I want this to look nice!"

We were in my dinky little room in the cabin. My butt was right on the edge of the narrow bed, and I was leaning back against the wall, legs straight and spread, mom kneeling between them.

And oh, yeah. I was naked. Again.

And no! Mom was not doing that! We're kinky, but not kinky in that way.

Not that the idea doesn't appeal to my twisted side.

I was trying to hold still, looking down at where she was working on me, just above the little fluff of my pubic hair. Not for the first time I'd thought about shaving it all off, but decided I wanted to keep that little tuft. I trimmed it back for when I wear my bikini, of course. I didn't want to look like a mouse was trying to crawl up my crotch.

But holding still was really hard, because she was carefully lettering on the sensitive skin just above my pussy with a fat Sharpie. Which meant that holding still was important, because that stuff doesn't wash off easily.

But it tickled, and I was already about as horny as I ever remembered being. It was after lunch on the last full day before we had to head for home, which meant that today was the going-away party, if you want to call it that.

Since by now it was clear everyone knew what everyone else was doing, a meeting had been held and it was unanimously decided that we'd all party together, upstairs in the barn. It turns out Mr. Stilson's "bad knee" had been a little fib, an excuse for handing the barn over to us that day.

Just thinking about the barn made me squirm. What was up there in the old hay loft? And what would happen up there?

Mom lifted the Sharpie just in time to avoid adding some accidental calligraphy, and she gave my stomach a sharp slap.

"OUCH!" I protested.

"Oh, hush up. You know you like it," Mom scolded.

Which, of course made me giggle again.

"If you don't hold still I'll get your father in here to hold you down," she warned. "And then, when I'm done I'll put the Sharpie away where the sun don't shine!"

"Yes, mom," I responded dutifully, not that both ideas didn't appeal to me. However, as for the first threat, that might lead to other things with daddy, and I'd gone round and round in my head about that and come down firmly on the "no" side of the incest intercourse question -- other things maybe, but not that.

As for the second, I was quite certain she didn't mean to put her writing implement away in my vagina, and, based on prior experience, I anticipated other invaders of my ass today.

"Maybe we should have made it shorter," I suggested as the inscribing seemed to go on forever.

"It's a little late for that now! There!" she finished triumphantly, the final punctuation poking me hard. She rocked back. "What do you think?"

I looked down, but it was hard to see, so I sat up and started to curl over. That wrinkled the skin, compressing the text.

Mom pushed me back. "Don't smudge it before it dries! Here's a mirror."

I steadied her hand, angling it so I could see her handiwork. I knew what it said.

Mom had hung out the NO TRESPASSING sign for today's festivities. More accurately, she'd written, just above my sort-of chaste pussy,

OUT OF SERVICE!

USE REAR ENTRANCE!

We looked at each other, and cracked up.

No one would take my metaphorical cherry. Not here. Not today, if we had anything to say about it.

Oh I'd already let Michael and John do unspeakable things with my body, and loved every minute of it. But Michael enjoyed inflicting pain too much, and John was sweet and gentle with his sadism, but he wasn't to be the one, either.

I'd even contemplated letting Mr. McGuire or Mr. Stilson "deflower" me. But really, could I let someone I thought of as "Mr." be the one?

As for daddy, I loved him dearly, as my father. That was its own, very special relationship, one that I was not willing to trade for anything. He was my daddy, it was as simple and extra-special as that.

Folding my legs, I sat up carefully and gave her a hug. "Thanks, mom, it looks great!"

She got to her feet. "It should insure everyone uses the right hole. And everyone is likely to want to."

That thought gave me the shivers. While everyone was supposed to have a good time with everyone else, I had no illusions. I was the unspoken guest of honor.

And no, I don't think that was my ego talking, not judging by the way everyone was eyeing me. I was fresh meat.

Then I noticed that my mom's chest was exposed and saw the red flecks on her breasts. I picked at one and a tiny scab came away. "Mom, what did they do to you?"

I noticed, too, that the marks formed concentric circles around her nipple.

She flushed, and drew her robe closed. "Nothing that I didn't want them to do," she answered.

"But what?"

She shrugged. "Let's just say they had me on pins and needles."

"Needles?!" I'd been known to faint at the prospect of getting vaccinated.

"As I said," she responded firmly, "it was nothing that I didn't want."

"Oh." I was chastised by her tone.

"And that's the point," she went on more gently, "if you'll pardon the pun. It is not a matter of what you let them do to you. It is a matter of them not doing to you what you don't want done."

I puzzled over this a minute, and she took my hand, made me meet her eye. "The obvious time to use your safe word is if the pain gets to be too much. But a more important time is before they do something to you that you really don't want done. After they've done it, it's already too late."

After thinking a moment I nodded and I was a bit jolted by this perspective. I hadn't thought of it that way. I thought back to my last session with Michael and John.

Had I really wanted them to sodomize me? To make me suck their cocks? By the time I realized what they'd planned it was too late to stop them. Trapped in the stanchion, I'd had John's cock in my mouth (yum!) before Michael went to work on my asshole (oh wow!). With John's cock gagging me, it was too late to ketchup my way out of it.

I didn't regret it. Just the memory of it was enough to make me wet my pants. But I hadn't been given a choice, either.

But wasn't that the way of masochism? It was confusing.

Mom sat back, but still held my hands. "You have a good safe word, but what other rules have you established with Michael and John?" she asked softly.

"I have a start word, Geronimo. I got the idea for that one from you. I say it and the game is on." I nibbled my lip. "And there's no fucking."

She nodded. "And?"

"No lasting marks or scars," I added.

She was silent a long time, obviously waiting for me to go on.

"And that's about it," I confessed.

She nodded. "Not bad," she assured me.

"What else should there be?"

She sighed. "There are ways of inflicting terrible pain, ways that can leave lasting damage, without leaving marks," she pointed out.

"Oh." I hadn't thought of that.

"And what if you are gagged and can't say anything?"

"Uh..." Was all I could come up with.

"One good solution is to have something in your hand, something that will make a distinctive noise if you drop it. A bell works, or even just a large marble if you're on a wooden floor or platform."

"Makes sense." With John's cock already in my mouth, would I have dropped something before Michael probed my ass? Probably not, I admitted to myself.

She thought for a minute. "Will you give me your proxy?"

"My proxy?"

"Allow me to stop the action if I feel there's a danger?"

I nodded. "But, I'm trying to find my limits," I pointed out.

"In the middle of the action it's hard to figure that out sometimes," she observed. "I won't stop them unless I see something that is just not in keeping with our standards. We're pretty conservative compared to some other S & M people."

"Needles?" I asked.

She nodded. "We use small diameter needles, large ones can leave scars. Some people have been known to use skewers, even nails, but we don't. We use disposables, and they're tossed after one use. Spankings, floggings, ropes, suspension, hot wax, the horse, the chair, the cross -- you'll see. Over the years we've learned what we like."

Did I want needles? No! and yet again, yes. Oh yes. And hot wax dripped from a candle on my tender, tender tit or even my clit, and all the rest. My pussy began to sweat again.

She sighed, interrupting my lascivious thoughts. "In a way it may not have been best that I did protect your privacy the other day, as much as we trust Michael and John. You could have been badly hurt. It's easy to get carried away with the moment.

We talked a bit more, and worked out a way she could step in if anything got out of control.

I nodded, feeling a bit safer. "Okay. Thanks, mom."

"That's what mothers are for," she answered, rising and reaching to give me a hug. I savored the warmth and love of her embrace.

"But mom?"

"Yes?"

I took a deep, shaky breath. "Unless you think something will do me real, lasting physical damage, don't."

She looked at me for a long time. "All right, I won't. It may not be easy -- you are my little girl, after all..."

"Not so little," I protested.

She smiled tenderly. "To me you will always be my little girl, and I'll always want to protect you." She sighed. "But, masochist that I am, I know where you are coming from. I'll not interfere unless I see danger of lasting physical damage. And I'll make sure your father doesn't interfere, either."

"Would he?" I was both worried, and grateful.

"Oh yes. He loves you more than he can say. He's your daddy, and daddies take a blood oath to keep their child from being hurt. But I'll make sure he understands."

"Thanks, mom."

She straightened up. "Now, one last order," she said very seriously.

"What?" I asked, concerned.

She grinned. "Have fun!"

-------

The hay loft had been converted and furnished, but I'll get to the furnishings in a minute. It was a single room, ceiling all the way to the peak of the roof, say 20 feet? It was maybe forty feet long and thirty wide. Windows on both sides flooded it with light, warmed it. It was post and beam structure, two rows of hand hewn posts held beams supporting the roof. The walls were paneled with weathered, rough cut boards, the ceiling, too, preserving the rustic atmosphere.

The entrance where we were standing opened in one corner, right next to a sort of open lounge filling the other corner. Some old, comfortable looking sofas -- one I recognized used to be in our living room -- a big screen TV, shelves with racks of video tapes and DVDs, many with hand lettered labels, and books, mostly paperbacks, a rack of computer equipment completed the decor.

Halfway down the long left side was a free standing wood burning heater, and in the corner at the far end was a simple raised platform. A stage, I realized. The opposite corner was an open bathroom, no walls, no secrets, no privacy, just a toilet, vanity, and a combination hot tub and shower that looked big enough for a dozen people.

After dialing up the light system, including stage lights, dad seemed a little embarrassed. "We -- ah -- have put some money into it over the years," he explained. "It's just that we have an unusual hobby, you could say."

"Beats model trains," John observed.

"Or stamp collecting," I added nervously.

The furnishings made it obvious just what that hobby was. Up on stage there was a St. Andrew's Cross, an X shaped frame large enough to hold a person. In various places around the open floor were stocks, a horse like a finely finished carpenter's saw horse, with optional fittings, such as straps and pegs. There was an intriguingly designed low bench and a stool. There were mirrors, big ones, on wheeled bases, even a huge four poster bed, again with fittings for restraints.

And then, there was The Chair. There was no doubt as to its function. It was sturdy wood, stained almost black, built with the uncompromising lines of an electric chair, I regret to say. It was fitted with straps, on the arms, the legs, and even the back. The wide seat had fittings to intimately invade the user. They looked awfully big, and were, I hoped, interchangeable to suit the vic -- ah -- occupant's physiology.

Mr. McGuire (darn it, I keep calling him that even though he's said "Tom" is fine) was a skilled carpenter and cabinetmaker. All these implements were his handicraft.

Racked on the walls were a variety of devices for inflicting delectable pain -- floggers, whips and paddles, for example. For restraint there were harnesses and binders, coils of rope and leather straps. There were even a few implements I couldn't put a name or use to, and closed cabinets.

Mr. Stilson, Matt, did something on a control panel and the big-screen lit up with windows that slowly blossomed with images. I knew he was the electronics wizard for some big security firm, and he'd certainly put his talents to good use. It was like the security setup you'd see on an episode of "Las Vegas" or something.

The windows on the screen showed the stage, the bath area, the chair, the horse, other things. I had no doubt there was some kind of recording system. That explained the video tapes and DVDs.

Taking in this S & M wonderland I thought Oh my!

But what fell unthinking from my mouth was "Ge-ron-i-mo!"

Before I knew what was happening Mr. McGuire ... sorry, Tom ... and daddy had me by my upper arms. I was swept across the floor to the field of battle so fast I swear the toes of my sneakers heated up as they squeaked across the floor.

Obviously the others had been clued in to "Geronimo."

I pleaded desperately, trying to get my feet under me, "NO! Wait! Wait. STOP!I didn't mean to say that!"

Or did I?

You will note that I did not say "ketchup!" as I was flying across the floor. My mouth knew damn well what I wanted.

"Ave Imperator, morituri te salutant." I thought. "Hail Emperor! We who are about to die salute you!"

Let the games begin.

I go to a good school. Who says the classics are dead?

The next thing I knew I was bent over the horse, and my arms were being strapped to the legs on the far side. Somehow my cargo pants had come unsnapped on my short trip from the door, and before I could catch my breath they were rudely dragged down my legs, and off, right over my still smoking sneakers, while I hung like a used bath towel over a shower rod, the wooden horse digging into my gut.

Why oh why had I gone commando?! Immediately I was totally exposed, my butt, my asshole, my pussy, everything on display, being seductively kissed by the converted loft's cool, dry air.

Granted, I had enjoyed the deliciously wicked sensation of being naked under my clothes.

Okay, so I'm a bad girl, and I was going to pay the price!

My ankles were secured to the horse, and I was helpless, bent like a busted lawn chair over that rude device. My loose men's shirt (one of daddy's old ones) provided no modesty. It had fallen to my armpits, around my face, baring my breasts as they sagged toward my head.

Well, no, not sagged exactly, my boobs DO NOT SAG! But they did respond to the inexorable tug of gravity, of course.

My ass was served up to the cheering multitudes, who knew exactly what they wanted to do with it, and they proceeded to do it with unabashed gusto.

WHACK! The first blow fell and I screamed as much from surprise as pain. Oh, it certainly did sting, but the sound of the paddle caught me by surprise more.

I learned later that it was a classic slap-stick, two leather straps that slapped against each other with every blow. Wielded properly it was loud, but merely stung. Its bark was worse than its bite.

"You..." Said the man on my left.

WHACK!

Never-the-less, it did hurt.

"have been... ," his partner in torture went on from my right.

WHACK!

"a very..."

WHACK!

"bad..."

WHACK!

"girl!"

It had to be Tom and Mike wielding the paddles.

WHACK!

The effect, it turned out, was cumulative, like eating a series of Jalapenos. The steadily growing pain was exquisite, a hot stinging, and it was totally humiliating, I was completely exposed as they spanked my naked butt! I fought the bindings as the beating went on, screaming through my tears.

WHACK!

Then, a new stimulus! Between one blow and the next, something warm, and soft, and wet engulfed my left tit, stroking and sucking on that tender knob and, upside-down as I was, I tossed my head enough to see and recognized Helen Stilson greedily nursing on my nipple. She spared me a teasing wink as she nibbled on my teat, then tested it with her teeth.

WHACK!

My arousal bloomed into a fireball. I had barely enough wits to reflect that I hadn't thought any of our group swung to the far side of the street, but then concluded...

WHACK!

 ... that maybe Helen was the only one small enough to get under the horse, and oh god did her sucking on my teat feel wonderful. She was hungry, and gooooood! She suckled like I imagined a hungry infant would suckle, and my cunt loved it.

WHACK!

Oh, did she enjoy doing that as much as I enjoyed her doing it? Oh I hoped so, and I so looked forward to returning the favor some day, and maybe even sucking on some other portion of her anatomy.

WHACK!

In for a penny, in for a pound, I always say.

WHACK!

My gut was aching from being folded over the horse. As the beating went on and my ass began to burn, and my tit began to blossom, I was reduced to mindless tears.

WHACK!

I knew if I summoned the energy I could turn this whole scene off with one word -- it's a common word, something you find in the kitchen or pantry, a condiment used to enhance the flavor of many common foods, such as hamburgers and French fries.

WHACK!

And I most certainly did not want this to stop! If they'd asked me what I wanted with my fries I'd have opted for mustard rather than utter that word.

WHACK!

And I hate

WHACK!

mustard!

The next blow didn't fall on schedule. Did I inadvertently yell something?

I didn't ask them to stop! I wanted to file a protest!

Then someone gently stroked my burning butt with their open hand and I erupted all over with goose bumps. Fingers traced the crack of my ass, feather light, and I moaned through my tears, snorting out snot that had pooled in my upside down nose.

Somebody toyed with the swampy folds of my pussy, and I sang my joy into the shirt muffling my face. A finger touched my asshole and I struggled to raise my rear to encourage further exploration, my anal sphincter pulsating with delicious anticipation.

Someone bit my ass and I yelped.

Someone slid something cool and hard into my vagina.

My goodness! People certainly were enjoying my body! Almost as much as I was!

There was a sudden buzz in my cunt and I felt like I'd been plugged into a wall outlet.

WHACK!

Oh boy! Here we go again!

WHACK!

The buzz stopped. Darn it!

WHACK!

Harder this time. It was beginning to really hurt.

WHACK!

Helen bit my tit! Zowie!

WHACK!

Something soft and warm and wet stroked my asshole. Someone's tongue?! I moaned, my hips working mindlessly.

WHACK!

Busy fingers tickled my ribs, wringing a laughing shriek out of me.

WHACK!

I felt hot breath, heard a soft rush of air, and someone's tongue toyed with my ear! Jeez this was an inventive bunch when it came to torture!

WHACK!

Buzzzzzzzz

WHACK!

Oh God, I was so close to cumming!

And then the beaters and the buzz stopped and I whined, my ass working mindlessly as someone unfastened my arms and stripped off my shirt. They helped me straighten up and I sort of wobbled while they unstrapped my ankles and pulled off my sneakers, leaving me totally naked.

I looked around, dazed and horny as all get out. Mom and daddy had released me and were holding me. I was still the only one who was naked, and I felt myself blush from toe to head. Sure, the other day I'd done my runway strut up the beach in the altogether in front of all of them, but this was more like a perp walk!

Mom and daddy held my arms, steadying me, as I slowly gathered my wits, pining for an orgasm, pleading for one, aware of the mysterious object in my cunt, now still and silent. I wondered why it didn't fall out. Would it buzz again? Maybe that would bring me off. I thought if only I could get a hand free, one touch at my clit would set me off, but they didn't give me the chance. I pleaded with them, begged them to let me cum.

Instead they used my arms to guide me past the horse.

"Can I play? Can I play?" Helen Stilson danced maniacally around in front of me, her tongue flicking our eagerly. She reminded me of Tigger, you know, from Winnie the Pooh? Bouncy.

She was so tiny she looked to be about twelve years old in her T shirt and shorts!

"If you get in the way, darling, you know you'll be punished," daddy warned her.

Not by accident she stumbled, bumped into me and daddy.

"Oooops! Oh oh!" She backed away, hands behind her back, biting her lip, her repentance as fake as could be. She was such a lively little thing!

"Matt, you want to control your woman," daddy grumbled.

"Sorry," he said with a laugh. "Can't do a thing with her. You see what you can do."

Then I noticed my destination. Oh my! I was headed for the stage with its St. Andrew's Cross! Once they got me secured there anyone could do almost anything to me.

I tried squeezing my pussy between my thighs in an effort to bring myself off, but it didn't work.

Before I could wriggle they had me backed up against the cross, the wooden arms cold against my bare flesh. Michael produced some ropes, and in moments I was securely lashed in place, arms and legs spread wide.

After thoughtfully positioning one of the big mirrors so I could see myself, Tom McGuire patted my cheek. "Don't go away! We'll be back in a little bit."

"I wanna cum!" I begged.

He shook his head.

"But you might want to watch closely, so you can know what to expect," Matt suggested unhelpfully, giving one of my tits a casual but stimulating twist.

My cunt pulsed, still on the bare edge of an orgasm, leaving me whimpering, straining against my bonds. I looked at my reflection in the mirror, the expression of naked lust on my face, my total exposure.

Spread-eagle on the cross I had no secrets. At least one mystery was solved. I could see a wide strip of surgical tape sealing my cunt, holding in whatever it was that buzzed to life inside me.

As for the rest, my tits invited attention, as did my crotch, even sealed as it was. I could see my thigh and torso muscles flexing as if I were fucking the invisible man.

Like I should be so lucky. I was left in the role of frustrated spectator as daddy grabbed Helen Stilson and proceeded to peel her like a banana, exposing her delicate frame, her sharp, pointy tits, her dark nipples stiff and eager for attention, the curving rack of her ribs, the thrust of her bald mons.

She looked almost anorexic, but I knew she wasn't. She ate like a horse, ran five miles every morning, competed in ultra-marathons and an occasional Iron Man triathlon. She had the tightest, hardest ass I'd ever seen. Not that I had a lot of experience in that department, I admit.

Did all the women shave? I knew mom kept her pussy polished, though I had not yet gone that route.

Easy enough to find out. From the raised stage I had a ring-side seat to the whole scene. Obviously they were playing musical spouses.

With his son's assistance, Matt Stilson was helping get Marge McGuire seated on The Chair, fitted out with the appropriate penetrative tools to attend to her downstairs openings -- both of them. Marge's arms trembled as she supported herself on the chair arms so Matt could adjust the butt plug, and John the dildo.

Yep. She was bare down there, too. I was the non-conformist among the ladies. The men, I noticed, sported full bushes. Rank sexism.

Then Marge let herself down, nestling the two shafts into her openings, slowly, slowly easing them about half way in. Then she let go and dropped, her meaty ass slapping the seat as she was spitted by them. Her soft wail was enough to curdle my own twat. Her heavy breasts wobbled as she adjusted herself on the dildo and butt plug.

She was the closest to Rubensesque of the females.

Meanwhile, delicate Helen Stilson was straddling the horse, her legs straight, keeping her off the bar, while my father tied her arms behind her back in sort of a double hammerlock, drawing her shoulders back. She was flexible as well as tough, but it had to be painful even for her.

The pose thrust her pubescent looking tits forward. Daddy poked her in the backs of her knees and her legs bent. He poked again and she eased her naked, shaven crotch down toward the unforgivingly hard rail of the horse. Which, I noticed, had been supplemented by a narrower strip of wood sticking up about three inches. Less than an inch thick, it was a painfully narrow rail for her to seat her crotch on. Daddy tied the free end of the rope binding her arms to the horse so she couldn't completely straighten her legs if she tried to stand up.

It was diabolical. To keep her full weight from coming down on her vulnerable crotch she'd have to flex her legs, but she couldn't straighten them completely to rest them. When her legs tired she had to rest on the unyielding wood rail atop the horse.

Then daddy fitted her nipples with tit clamps, and waited.

As I watched, her legs began to tremble, and she tried to ease down. Her crotch contacted the horse and she flinched and winced.

Daddy clipped the dangling tit chains to eyebolts on the horse in front of her. Helen withstood the pain of the wood grinding into her crotch for a few seconds, and then lifted, and the chains tightened, pulling her tits down. Unable to stand or sit, she was caught between one agony or another.

My pussy gushed at the memory of the weights dragging on my own tits as Michael and John had sodomized me.

Meanwhile Matt and John Stilson had strapped Marge into the chair, binding her wrists to the arms, her ankles to the legs, spreading her thighs to expose her shaved pussy stuffed with the chair's dildo, its inner lips already fat and glistening pink. A loop of rope just under her ample breasts cinched her hard against the back. Standing behind her, Matt whispered something in her ear and she tossed her head, her curly red hair dancing.

Leaving her, he went to a cabinet on the nearby wall, while John, an eager assistant, began stripping off his clothes.

I felt a flash of jealousy. He was MY sadist, dammit!

And where was my protector, my mother, while I was hanging from the cross? Apparently she had committed some offense against the community -- perhaps walking on the grass, maybe she spit on the sidewalk?

No, she'd never do that. Perhaps she had littered.

At any rate, now naked, of course, she was bent over, her head and hands sticking through the stocks. Tom McGuire was enforcing discipline with a flogger, applying it alternately to her butt and back. Meanwhile titty-hound Michael, his son, was toying with my mom's dangling mammaries, alternating between kneading them vigorously and tugging on her nipples as if trying to extract milk from them.

Mom's expression left no doubt, she was loving the attention. Being familiar with his touch, I both winced and felt another surge of jealousy.

And daddy? Was he comforting mom? Worrying about me?

No, he was now as naked as mom, stroking his eager hard-on as he watched Helen doing a slow post on the horse. Was he oiling his cock?!

She'd stay up until her legs began to tremble, then try to ease her cunt down on the rail, taking the tension off her tits as she did. When she rose again daddy gave her ass a playful swat.

Oh MY! Matt Stilson returned from the cabinet with something long in one hand, and a white packet of something in the other. Placing the long item -- it was in a plastic envelope -- in Marge's mouth for her to hold, he tore the other packet open with his teeth, a move I'd seen on those medical TV shows, where they open a sterilizing swab to wipe down the hapless patient before...

NO! No way! Not really!

John lifted Marge's generous left breast, presenting it to his dad like a gift, and Matt scrubbed Marge's freckled flesh with the sterilizing swab. Then he took the other packet from Marge's lips and tore it open, extracting a long, shiny needle from it. He pinched her nipple, drawing her breast out.

I couldn't watch, turning back to mom just in time to see Tom McGuire standing behind her, aiming his thick cock at her lush ass. Mike, meanwhile, was under her, suckling on one tit in a way that reminded me of that statue of Romulus and Remus nursing from their canine, or rather lupine, foster mother.

Dammit! I had first rights! As a baby that had been MY feeding station!

Mom looked up at me, flushed, and dropped her head as Tom McGuire buried his prick in her, ass or cunt I couldn't say, jolting her so hard it dislodged her tit from Mike's mouth.

Not the least upset, Mike emerged from under her, dropped his pants, and presented his thick dick to her mouth, and she hungrily accepted his offering as she was rocked by Tom's pistoning drives.

I closed my eyes, only to hear Marge's scream echo in the big room. Against my will I looked, and saw Matt sliding that shining needle into the top of Marge's soft, round breast, just behind her areola. An eager apprentice, John was watching, eyes within inches of Marge's generous boob as the needle penetrated it.

The skin tented out the underside of the heavy globe just before the needle broke through. It was a very long needle.

When Matt released her tit the needle jiggled and wiggled as her breast settled on her heaving chest. She looked down at it, smiling through her tears.

She whispered something to Matt, and he turned back to the cabinet, returning with what looked like more long needles, which he let her hold in her mouth while he readied her other breast for its stabbing. He said something to John, who shifted a nearby bench over in front of the chair and sat straddling it, watching.

Matt aimed the point of a new needle at the outside of Marge's already speared tit, and pushed it slowly in at right angles to the needle drilling it frosm top to bottom. The point emerged on the inner side.

Closing my eyes, for a moment I thought I was going to faint, until my warped mind jarred me by wondering just what it was going to feel like when someone skewered my tits.

Not "might feel like," you notice, not "WOULD feel like IF," but "WAS GOING to feel like WHEN," acknowledging the inevitable.

I wondered if it would be daddy who did it.

My cunt gushed.

With no warning, the thing in my twat I'd forgotten was there buzzed to life and I tossed against the ropes. What the hell was it? What or who controlled it?

Oh shit! Just as I was getting close to cumming it cut off, leaving me panting with frustration.

I wanted to stamp and throw a tantrum. Everyone else was having fun, when would I get my turn?



-------

Chapter 9

I'm sure you must have heard the joke about the masochist and the sadist.

"Beat me!" pleaded the masochist. "Beat me, hit me, humiliate me! Please!"

-- long pause --

"No," answered the sadist quietly, with an evil grin.

Think about it.

That's how I felt, hanging from that St. Andrew's Cross, ignored by friends and family as they tormented each other.

Daddy finally relented to the extent of untying Helen's bound arms. With a moan she stretched her arms before grabbing the horse and straightened her legs full length, leaning forward because of the chains still linking her nipples to the horse. Resting her cheek on the bar, she raised her tight muscular ass in the air.

Daddy found convenient foot holds on the horse itself, stood on them, and sank his oiled cock into her waiting anus.

"Oh, God, Yes!" she yelled. "Fuck me! Fuck the shit out of me!"

Obedient master that he was, daddy grabbed her hips and hammered his dick up her Hershey highway.

Marge, released from her bondage to the chair, lifted herself up off the dildo and butt plug, stepped forward to straddle John Stilson, who lay back on the bench, his erection lying flat against his six pack of a stomach. Lifting his cock, she sank down on it, the needles still penetrating her quivering, meaty breasts. It looked as if smaller needles decorated her nipples!

Matt came up behind her, pushed her forward, and drilled his rampant dick up her already relaxed asshole. I saw John wince as Marge's hedgehog tits were pressed against his chest.

Served him right, I thought.

Then I could see him toying with the longest needles as he fucked her cunt and Matt her ass.

Meanwhile the McGuire boys, having finished with mom, were washing up. Released from the stocks, the only one who had any time for me was my mother!

I thought she was going to untie me from the cross, but she didn't. Instead she used a warm, wet washrag to clean my face of the tears and snot left from my time on the horse. Then she bathed my body as tenderly as she'd ever bathed me as a baby.

Except my pussy. That she carefully avoided touching.

My tits were very sensitive.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"Yes, but I need to cum!" I pleaded.

"In time." She kissed me tenderly on the lips, my body tingling as she gave me a bit of tongue! When she drew back I tried to pursue that incestuous tease. She used the opportunity to slip a sleep mask over my eyes, blindfolding me.

"Moooommmmm!" I whined, every sense on high alert. I strained against the ropes.

"Don't whine, slut!" Tom's voice, very close on my left. My left tit took a sudden, stinging slap that jolted me to the core.

"Oh God, yes, please," I gasped. "Again! Just let me cum!"

"Oh, you will, pain slut. All in good time." I could hear Tom's gloating, sense a wicked grin, but I couldn't SEE anything. I had no way to tell what was coming next!

I was so scared I almost peed, but knowing Michael was somewhere around with his "nasty, nasty, nasty" punishment I held on desperately.

Then that infernal thing in my cunt buzzed to life again and I moaned, my hips humping, only for it to cut off before I could reach my peak.

"Shit!"

"Hush!" Matt Stilson's voice. Someone, he, I assumed, slapped my strained gut with something that really stung, then something else flicked my stiff nipple, making it burn.

"Isn't she beautiful," Helen Stilson purred. Her tongue explored my ear. Oh wow!

Was Marge there, too? I smelled her perfume, and her arousal. Or was that mine? Or Helen's? Or maybe mom's? Were they all there? Was everyone there? And me without even a fig leaf for modesty.

My pussy clenched defensively.

"Don't hurt me."

"But that's the whole purpose, isn't it?" Helen asked sweetly. "Isn't that why you're here?"

"Nooooooo," I moaned, even as my body said "Yes! Yes! Yes!"

A hand cupped my crotch and I had a flare of hope that someone was going to give me some relief.

"Let's get this thing out of her first," daddy said. Fingers picked at something right near my asshole, making that bud itch hungrily.

"YEEEOOOOWWWW! OooooOO!" The tape was ripped off my pussy. It felt like it took hair and skin with it, leaving me dancing on the edge of cumming yet again.

The mysterious something shlurped out of my swampy cunt. I still had no idea what had been in there, torturing me with its intermittent vibrating.

"Set on vibrate," daddy explained to someone. "In a plastic bag to keep it dry."

Set on vibrate? A cell phone? I boggled at the simplicity of it, having envisioned all sorts of remote controlled gadgets or timers.

I thought of having one socketed in there on a normal school day, held in by my panties. Anyone with a cell phone could trigger it! Anyone in the WORLD! Write my number on a men's room wall. Oh wow! I could be sitting in class when someone called, or maybe even texted. YOWEE.

"Where shall we start?" Tom McGuire asked. A latch clicked, and I felt myself tipping backwards, my feet rising. The latch clicked again and I was flat on my back. Mercifully, there was a support for my head, though I'd eventually discover, like so many other things on this St. Andrew's Cross, it was adjustable. It was, I concluded, a top of the line design. Tom McGuire did very good work.

Why do I think of things like that at a time like that?

Warm breaths on my naked tummy and thighs. I felt my pussy hair stirring. I had a vision of everyone clustered close, examining my most intimate treasures. I was so incredibly exposed, so incredibly vulnerable, and unbelievably horny.

Someone tugged at a strand of my curly pubic hair.

Then yanked, hard!

Wow did THAT hurt!

"This should go," Michael commented, tugging at my little bush. He pulled harder. Yanked! On a fistful! It did NOT come out!

"OUCH!" I protested, for all the good it did me.

"It'll take forever to do it this way," John observed, yanking at another single hair, a pinprick pain compared to Michael's brute force attack.

Apparently John didn't get it, because I felt it tug, as if he were winding around his finger, then he tried again, harder, wrenching yelp out of me along with the single strand of hair.

My little bush! They were plucking my carefully tended little patch of pubic hair, one strand at a time!

PLUCK!

I clamped my jaw shut.

PLUCK!

"Yeah," Matt agreed. "But what's the rush?"

PLUCK! Shit that hurt!

On the other hand, they were playing with my pussy. Maybe I could cum that way.

"Try these tweezers," Helen Stilson suggested.

At least I could recognize voices.

PLUCK! Wow! This was really nasty painful! I loved it.

"Waxing would be faster," Marge McGuire suggested.

PLUCK!

Everyone seemed to be taking turns extracting my pubic hairs one strand at a time. How mortifying.

PLUCK!

How arousing!

PLUCK!

But wax my crotch?! Oh wow! I'd heard how much that can hurt.

PLUCK!

Ooooo. Just a little bit more and maybe I'll cum!

PLUCK! WhooooH!

"Do we have any wax here?" daddy asked.

PLUCK!

Daddy! Waxing my crotch?! No way! Was that him that just yanked a hair?! I wanted to cross my legs, clutch at my crotch so he couldn't see me like this.

PLUCK!

Why did I find his intimate attentions so much harder to take? Because he was my daddy! But then, after all, he'd changed my diapers! Still...

PLUCK!

Is that any worse than thinking of boinking him? A rational corner of my mind asked.

PLUCK!

Who cares? The pain loving part of my mind was having too good a time right now to give a shit.

PLUCK! I worked my hips, again trying to cum.

"Nope, no wax for that," my mom answered from afar.

PLUCK! Allllmmmooooooost there.

"We've got candles," Mom reported.

PLUCK!

"Why don't we try that," Tom McGuire suggested.

The next pluck didn't come.

Nooo. Don't Stop! SHIT! I was so damn close!

"Candles?" John asked.

Maybe they were going to stick one up my vagina? Or my ass. Not lit, I hoped.

"Candles. Hot wax for dripping," Tom McGuire explained.

Ooooo. That sounded interesting.

"Let's try it," Matt suggested.

So while I'm listening to this tantalizing dialogue someone was casually playing with one of my tits, keeping me simmering. Someone else was toying with my toes -- probably Michael McGuire. Someone else had his/her hand on my naked thigh, only inches from my cunt, dammit, and yet another someone was sticking a finger in my navel (I'm an inny) and wiggling it.

I felt like I was nothing more than a casual plaything. My pussy never stopped drooling. In the darkness of my blindfold I gurgled with the pain/pleasure, tugging against the ropes, whimpering. Wouldn't they ever let me cum?

I heard the scratch-PUFF of a match and smelled the sulfur. Then silence, the hands on me shifting, something resting on my stomach, an arm or an elbow maybe.

YEEEEEEEOWWWWWWWW! Something burned me, right below where mom's tickling writing had been applied. My gut tightened reflexively. The wax cooled, the burning eased. Hot wax.

"Let's try it now," Matt suggested after my gut had cooled.

There was a tug at my pussy hair that grew to a steady pull, harder and harder, until my hips began to rise.

"It's not working," Helen pointed out unnecessarily. I could have told her!

"Well," Marge McGuire said, "first of all, her bush should have been trimmed down to maybe a quarter of an inch."

Oh?

"And we should have powdered her skin with talcum powder, so the wax didn't stick to her skin."

She was giving a tutorial on waxing!

"And then, before the wax hardens, they put a kind of cloth into it and let the wax set. Then they pull on the cloth, starting at one end, and everything comes with it, like ripping off a bandage."

"Hmmmph," Matt grunted. "Why didn't you tell us before we tried?"

"I just thought it would be more fun to see if it worked this way," she answered. "Am I the only one that's been waxed?"

"Oh, no," Helen and mom chimed in. They laughed.

Thanks a lot! I thought, not wanting to break the their jolly mood by actually talking to my tormentors.

"So how are we going to get this off her?" mom asked, picking at the wax near my twat.

"Oh, we'll just pick it off a bit at a time," Helen answered, giving a yank that probably removed more than a few hairs.

"It'll hurt!" mom pointed out.

Marge joined in the fun, picking at me. "I know. She'll love it."

And I did, of course.

Did I want to come? Oh, did I EVER.

I loved being the center of their attention, the pain, the frustration, the exposure, the humiliation, everything about it. My only wonder was what would come next, and would it be enough to make me cum.

"Well, it's silly to let this go to waste," Tom observed. Suddenly my right tit burst into flame, the burning spreading from my nipple, spilling down the curve of my breast. Oh God, Oh God, Oh God was that good! My chest heaved, and I felt the cooling wax tugging at my skin.

"You want to hold the candle high so that the wax cools a little before it hits her," Tom explained as he demonstrated on my left tit. "Let a good pool form around the wick, and then tip to spill it out."

"Can I try?" John Stilson asked.

"Here's another candle," Marge answered. "You, too, Mike."

I writhed under the assault as they decorated my chest down to my stomach with hot wax. I wondered what colors they were using, even as I relished the burning pattering of wax droplets on my flesh. Some of it even tickled as it burned down my ribs to my sides. Someone concentrated on my tummy, was it a pattern?

"Oh, look! John even made a valentine heart!"

How sweet, I thought.

I felt someone's fingers opening my slit. "Let's try it here," Michael suggested.

HOLY SHIT! Right on my clit? "NO!" I pulled muscles trying to break my restraints.

"Now that's enough of that," mom intervened, her hand settling over my tender slit before the wax could hit it.

"Thanks," I breathed softly.

"Not yet, anyway," mom answered very softly.

Not yet?

Someone ran tickling fingers up my side and I erupted with gales of laughter. Oh no, not that! But it was too late. I was subjected to a major, multi-party tickle attack, my ribs, my arm pits, even the soles of my feet, backs of my knees, insides of my thighs. I howled and struggled against the ropes. I felt the wax cracking off my jiggling, joggling tits, flaking off my stomach.

Don't let anyone tell you that tickling isn't sadistic. I was in delicious agony, gasping for breath before they stopped. And hornier than ever!

Then the fingers brushed aside the wax, sweeping it off me while I struggled to catch my breath.

"Needles?" mom asked, a whisper in my ear.

Needles. Oh dear God. Needles? Was she asking me?

I was scared. But I was so horny!

Hands toyed with my body, stroking my breasts, inside my thighs, but still not touching my pussy.

"I wanna cum," I pleaded. "Please, please let me cum!"

"Not yet," Tom McGuire answered. His pinch to my tit was cruelly painful, a flash that was almost enough to tip me over the edge. How did he know how to keep me on the edge? I needed more, more, more!

More what?

Pain!

Almost against my will I nodded. Yes, needles. The memory of seeing Marge McGuire's lush breasts being skewered made my heart race, and my pussy weep with envy. "Yes," I said, and yet again "yes."

I took a deep, shaky breath. "But I want to see," I added.

"Are you sure?" mom asked.

I nodded. I wanted to watch.

I blinked against the glare when the blindfold was removed. Seeing them all around me as I lay pinned to the cross, naked and exposed, did nothing to quench my lust. Daddy and mom were by my head, both naked, both looking at me with love and concern.

Someone tipped the cross up a bit, on an angle, so I could see myself in the mirror.

Tom McGuire and Matt Stilson were on my right, Marge McGuire, her tits still decorated with needles, was on my left.

At my feet were Michael and John, while Helen Stilson was between my feet. Michael was toying with the foot on his side. John ran a finger up the sole of the other foot, making my toes curl.

I was humping my pelvis, a total wanton. "Please let me cum. Please?"

Matt, he of the needles, assured me that I would, indeed, cum. I flinched when he handed a cold stainless steel tray to Marge to hold and she steadied it on my naked stomach. I lifted my head enough to see an array of hypodermic needles, just the needles, not the syringes, in a bath of something. I sucked in a breath, and my head swam in alcohol fumes, explaining what was in the tray.

My guts reacted to the sight of that nest of pain, and I peed. Right there in front of them all a flood burst from me, spilling down over my pubes, a fragrant fountain bubbling from my crotch, spattering on the floor.

I wanted to cry with shame but Helen shocked me out of it when she stepped forward and cupped her hands to catch my piss, lifted it to her face and inhaled deeply before letting it spill over her face, her lips, into her mouth even, down her chin to flow down her naked torso.

Someone else as kinky as I, I thought, remembering my "shower" after the session with the tree.

"Nasty," Michael chided me. I don't know if this had been planned or not, but he plucked a short needle out of the tray, and after pinching alcohol on that little web of skin between my big toe and the next one, he slipped the needle through that tender flesh.

"AAAHHHHH!" I tried to jerk my foot away, to no avail, of course. The pain did nothing to stop the flow from my bladder as it puddled on the floor beneath me, what Helen didn't capture with her hands, of course.

John stroked a hand up my leg, a gentle, soothing touch. Michael and John had their own tactile version of "good cop/bad cop" going, as usual.

"Let's start small, shall we?" Matt suggested, picking another small needle out of the tray. A quick brush of a cotton pad soaked in alcohol, and he pinched the skin of my breast, right near my areola.

I watched fearfully, then banged my head back against the headrest as he slid the needle through the fold of skin, the delicious pain seeming to shoot right through me.

Without pausing, he proceeded to ring my tit with the small needles, much the same way Marge's tits were crowned. I blinked back tears, rolling my head as the pain set my guts afire. Oh God, was I cumming? I couldn't be sure. Something was happening down there.

Tom McGuire joined the fun, matching Matt's work poke for poke. I shook my torso, my breasts wiggling as the pain crowning my tits spread from puncture to puncture. It felt so awful and so wonderful all at the same time.

Mom stroked my forehead soothingly, the way she had when I had a fever as a child.

My pee ran out at last, its warm musky scent mingling with the sharper fumes from the alcohol.

My thighs were jumping nervously, my stomach muscles convulsing. I bathed in the torment, wallowed in it, my cunt clenching and clenching, just this side of an orgasmic eruption.

I couldn't resist looking down on my tortured tits, each with its crown of thorns. As I looked, Tom and Matt each drew long, glittering needles from the tray. I hissed with fear, knowing well the plans they had for them. My pectoral muscles clenched, making my breasts quiver.

On one side of me, Marge swabbed my breast with alcohol, while my daddy did the other. Then they encircled the bases of each breast with their hands, squeezing, making them bulge upward invitingly.

How could I watch?

How could I not?

They were about to stab my tits, slip those glittering six inch spears through my pride and joy. I watched in the mirror as they set the points to my soft, sweet, innocent breasts.

Pin pricks exploded to sharp pain as the needles simultaneously broke the skin. I felt them sliding deeper, watched them slowly disappear into my breasts, and began to scream.

Then Helen, kneeling between my legs, engulfed my gaping pussy with her warm, wet mouth, a tongue fed itself to my ravenous cunt. Helen sucked on my swollen twat, swiping her tongue at my clit, and an orgasm tore through me with the force of the Mount St. Helens eruption. My scream became an orgasmic roar, my whole body seem spasming in joyous carnal convulsions.

I swear, I came as I had never cum before in my entire life. I was swallowed up in a maelstrom of pleasure and pain as Helen ate me out, and the needles slid inexorably through my blazing tits.

Mom, my own mother, smothered my cries with her mouth, a sucking, tongue tangling, totally uninhibited osculation that I returned with wanton gusto.

I actually felt the needles break through on the opposite sides of my tits as the most powerful waves of my cumming began to subside. My mom began to withdraw her kiss but I followed it up as far as the bindings allowed me. Our lips parted as lovers' lips part, reluctantly separating.

My orgasm fading, I blinked tears out of my eyes to look down and see the shining needles skewering my tender tits through and through, from one side to the other. The glittering points almost met in the valley between my tortured breasts. There was only the slightest trickle of blood where they entered and left my body.

Something was happening down at my ankles. I felt my legs being released, and I thought they were finally freeing me from my bondage. Already? But I don't want to be free yet! I had to be half mad, but I wanted more!

Foolish me. My disappointment at being freed quickly faded. My arms still bound to the cross, Michael and John lifted my legs, folding me in half at the hips, lifting and exposing my ass hole.

Helen shifted her attention from my cunt to my ass, her tongue laving my anus, wriggling insolently as it tried to go in that out hole.

Wow! Did THAT feel good!

But that was only a prelude. Helen drew away, and John stepped in, aiming his cock at that little pucker, the soft head nuzzling against it. He proceeded to pry my tail open, slowly edging his dick into my butt, first with a steady drive, then working his way deeper with a delicate in and out motion that set my tail afire.

"AWWWWW WHOOOPS!" My head suddenly dropped back, the headrest that had supported it vanishing. My father, my own father stepped into view as I gaped upside down him. He presented his cock to my mouth, and I welcomed it.

He stroked his dick down my throat until his balls rested on my nose. He drew out, and began fucking my face.

Did this count as incest? At least I was still as much a virgin as I'd started the day.

New pin pricks, on the tops of my breasts, new pain, as needles were slowly inserted, proceeding this time from top to bottom, crossing my tits, just as they done with Marge. It only added to the joy of having my ass and throat plumbed by cocks. My mind checked out, all rational thought vanishing. Nothing existed but a confusing mélange of needle pain and carnal pleasure.

Having cum earlier the men were in no hurry. They didn't drive hard and fast, impatiently, but moved slowly and smoothly as they exercised their lust on my willing openings. I swam along with the current, my orgasm pulsing in long, slow waves, until their organs pumped hot cum up my ass and down my throat.

I was nearly unconscious when they finally released me and carried me over to the hot tub, needles still in place.

The day ended with all of us in the hot tub, being washed by the hot, foaming jets of water. I was passed around, from one person to another, naked bodies against mine, their hands stroking my flesh. Even the flashes of pain as they removed the needles from my breasts felt good. They fondled me, stroked me, bathed me, babied me, every inch of my body, breasts and buttocks, arms and legs, pussy and ass. I'd never felt more loved.



-------

Chapter 10


I know what a time I had then, back when I was sixteen, because I've just finished watching the video. I sometimes watch it in the privacy of my boudoir when I want to relieve some stress.

Okay, my suburban bedroom! Pardon me while I wash my hands.

And sometimes downstairs, on the big screen, with my husband, after the kids have gone to bed.

I'm thirty now, happily married to a very understanding man (to whom I happily surrendered my virginity, by the way, in college). I have three children, twin boys just turned six, Jeff and George, and a daughter almost five. Yes we worked fast on the big family. Lactation doesn't always delay conception.

I'm glad they're so close in age, they get along really well. As an only child I didn't have in-house playmates.

I can hear them carrying on in the back yard right now. They're probably playing cowboys and Indians. By the sound of it, Judy is the settler lady, squealing and laughing as they "torture" her while she's tied to the tree. Today must be Judy's turn, but the boys enjoy being the hostage just as much, I've noticed.

Of course I keep a discreet eye on them, but I'm confident they're safe. I didn't encourage them to play the game, never even mentioned it. But when they started playing it, I made sure they played it safely. I taught them how to tie good safe knots in the soft ropes, never around the neck, and each knows how to respond to "ketchup."

Well, hey, it was a perfectly good safe word for me, why not for them, too?

And don't kid yourself into thinking that five and six year olds aren't sexual creatures. While I didn't recognize the feelings I had that first time when I was five, I now know what they were. Not all the moisture in my panties was pee.

Dan, my husband, is an automotive engineer, and this is his busy season. While the team is on the road, he's back at the shop, dreaming up new ways to take advantage of the rules so they can beat the competition.

Mom was right, there's nothing can compare to a gentle fuck between lovers. Fortunately, Dan enjoys some of the same games I do. There are ropes hidden under the mattress and on the top shelf in the family TV room, but he loves me too much to inflict much pain. Plus his work means he's pretty much busy seven days a week during the season, so we don't have much playtime. He's so tired when he gets home it's usually just a lovely snuggle, maybe a quick screw. I've even known him to fall asleep before he finishes.

So, I get a little frustrated sometimes.

Fortunately mom and daddy (I still call him that, because that's who he is to me) live in the area. They're doting grandparents, happy to step in so I can get a few days away. So excuse me while I speed dial two numbers. When each voice mail answers I say one word, and hang up.

Michael and John will call back tonight and we'll schedule a session at the cabins. Oh, they're married too, with families. Sometimes we all manage to get together and use the upstairs of the barn -- adults only, so far.

Geronimo!


-------
The End
-------
Posted:  2010-07-19
Last Modified: 2011-08-09 / 04:32:49 pm
-------
http://storiesonline.net/
-------