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Pussy Yet Again...Beyond The Horizon
Pussy Yet Again...Beyond The Horizon
Long, manicured fingernails raked up and down Michelle’s body, carving deep, red furrows in her smooth, tan skin. The pain was insufferable, intoxicating, and liberating; a symphony of sensations that overlapped and combined to drive her deep within herself. Fingernails, fist, teeth ‒ everything. Michelle was propelled out of her body; disconnected from the immediacy of what was being done to her body, and letting the pain channel through her mind into sweet, sweet freedom; freedom delivered by the now fast-moving river of endorphins sluicing through her body.
Veronica’s fist slipped all the way inside Michelle’s cunt, sending her into a blinding, mind-altering orgasm that left her insensate, and nearly unconscious on the sand.
Then, suddenly, all of the women stood up. Even Cindy surrendered her spot on Michelle’s face. All except Veronica, who kept Michelle’s throbbing cunt impaled on her hand.
“Is she ready?” a voice asked.
“Yes, Master, she is ready, Loretta’s voice reported. “We have taken her to the edge, and pushed her over it, as you instructed. She orgasmed twice, Sir. I don’t expect her to move for at least an hour.”
“Blindfold her now. And bind her arms,” Master Damien commanded.
His words were dim and faint to Michelle, barely registering in the maelstrom swirling within her mind. She made no protest and she did not struggle as the women slipped a silk scarf over her eyes and rolled her over to tie her wrists behind her back. She gasped in anguish and relief when Veronica withdrew her hand from the intimate, inner recesses of her womb.
“Bring her when I give the word,” Master Damien ordered, “And tell her nothing.” And then he departed, leaving with all of the women except Cindy and Katia, who remained to tend to Michelle.
Katia and Cindy were true to their Master’s orders. They remained completely silent, even among themselves as they waited with the bound and blindfolded Michelle at the water’s edge.
Time passed slowly. Michelle drifted on the sea of her imagination, while the ever-cooler breezes brought back memories of her ride across the sky and the other mileposts on this most extraordinary day. It seemed as if each day piled amazing new experiences on top of the already exceptional events of the airplane ride and the bacchanalian deviance of last night’s celebration. By now, even Murayama-San’s exquisite rope bondage and his slave Kumiko seemed tame.
Even though she was blindfolded, Michelle could tell that evening was drawing nigh. Cindy and Katia dragged Michelle farther up the sand, as the tide rose higher and higher, the rising water marking the slow passage of time.
“Bring her now,” Kiersten’s voice called out from nearby. “It is time.”
Cindy and Katia lifted Michelle to her feet and guided her as she walked unsteadily in the direction they pointed her in. They traveled for several hundred feet along the beach, and then up towards the tree line before they stopped, midway up the beach.
Michelle stood quietly, not moving an inch, when her guides’ hands silently told her that they had arrived at their destination.
Michelle focused her attention on the painful messages her nerve endings were sending to her brain. Her ordeal on the beach was still fresh in her mind and had undoubtably left its marks on her skin, to mingle with those from the morning’s gang-fuck and flying exhibition, not to mention her seduction of Bobby and her near- at his hands.
When Cindy returned to Michelle, she untied her wrists and led her by the hand forward a few steps. She turned Michelle around and then lifted her arms, one by one, over her head. Other hands retied and lashed her wrists to something above her head. Michelle was then pushed backwards until her ass bumped up against a rough wooden post that had been planted in the sand.
And once her wrists had been secured to an eyebolt near the top of the post, Michelle legs were pulled apart so she was straddling the large diameter of the near tree-trunk sized pole. Her ankles were tied together, around the back side of the post, leaving her pussy wide open and completely exposed.
After a few minutes, the discomfort of her position became evident to Michelle. Her back and her ass pressed against the rough, raw surface of the log; and the insides of her thighs, still bearing the bite marks from an hour earlier, chafed against the wood.
A sudden crackle of fire erupted nearby, quickly to be followed by the mouthwatering scent of a barbecue being prepared. Laughter and juicy, salacious conversation from the vicinity of the fire told Michelle that the slaves were preparing and serving a picnic dinner for their Masters.
Michelle’s hunger and thirst soon competed for her attention, challenging the throbbing pain of her bruised flesh. She shifted her position every few minutes in an attempt to find a less uncomfortable way to stand, bound to the post, but to no avail.
Cindy returned after a while, to feed Michelle small morsels of grilled chicken and steak, and to slake her thirst with sips from a wine glass. The food in her belly and the warming inner glow she was beginning to feel from the glasses of silky-smooth merlot helped Michelle to relax a bit, and to settle in for what might be a long night of bondage.
The fact that she was spending this warm, tropical, moonlit night on an otherwise deserted island, naked and bound to a post on a beach in front of a roaring fire sent her mind thinking back to what the people she knew in the conventional world back in Chicago might be doing right now. Having dinner? Watching TV or a movie? Bickering over some trivial misunderstanding? Fucking, missionary style? Perhaps, some of them might even be going for an icy, frost-tinged evening stroll along the lakefront, communing with the night and drawing inspiration from tonight’s full, round moon.
Michelle’s mind drifted to the image of lovers walking hand-in-hand, smiling at each other, enjoying the cityscape, perhaps stopping to kiss in the moonlight ‒ the very same moon that shone down on her, the naked sex slave bound and blindfolded awaiting her fate; a thousand miles away and so far apart in terms of philosophy or metaphysics that she might as well be an inhabitant of a separate, parallel universe. A universe whose existence was unknown to the lovers on that beach in Chicago, or perhaps only hinted at in the darkest recesses of their souls.
Michelle was returned to her present reality by the sharp cracking sound of a whip snapping in the air. The rifle-shot sound of the leather tip breaking the sound barrier brought a hushed silence to the revelers on the beach. With the human sounds so suddenly silenced, the crackle of the flames, the gentle lapping of the waves on the beach, and the soft moan of the night breeze in the palm trees sounded unbearably loud to Michelle.
It was time to learn what her fate for this evening would be.
Michelle steeled herself for the whip, knowing full well that it would mark her flesh tonight; it’s hot, stinging lash snapping against her nakedness as she stood immobile, with her arms stretched out over her head and her legs spread apart, bound to what she now thought of as the whipping post.
In her heart, Michelle knew that this whipping would be more grueling and difficult than an ordinary session with the wicked leather serpent. The presence of so many of her Master’s friends and their slaves guaranteed it.
And she knew what her bondage position foretold. Being bound to the post facing outwards meant that she would be whipped across her belly and her tits instead of on her ass.
Michelle started to breathe deeply and slowly, preparing to enter that ethereal twilight state that all submissives knew so well; where her mind and her body could separate and part company for a brief interlude. She wanted to be ready to open the door to that special place where she could both revel in the incredible, painful sensations of a masterful whipping; and disassociate herself from the physical effects to draw out the terrible, dark ecstasy that was the other side of the coin of the sadomasochistic realm she inhabited.
Michelle felt each heartbeat now; each thump in her chest counting down the unknown amount of time she had left before the sizzling crack of the whip laid its first stroke across her naked, vulnerable, and totally exposed body. Each and every square inch of her skin was alive; at a heightened state of arousal and sensation. It was as if she an electrically charged capacitor, readying itself to discharge its stored electricity in a single blue-white burst of flame when the whip finally touched her flesh.
She focused on her innermost core and opened up her mind to prepare to receive and absorb the torrent of pain that was about to be unleashed upon her; and to retreat into herself, and let the outside world slip away. She wanted no distractions; nothing to dull or divert the pain, the glorious, energizing, and liberating pain from hurling her through that open door into her special place; that place where only painsluts can go, floating on a river of endorphins.
Confusion reigned in Michelle’s mind when she heard two whips snap in quick succession. These whips were positioned at two other points of the compass from where the first ominous crack sounded. Now, she heard the sound of a whip coming from the original location, as if answering the other two. She quaked in fear.
“Am I to be whipped by three Masters?” she wondered. The mere thought of it sent a sudden paroxysm of fear racing through her mind.
Michelle was further disoriented by the sensation of a woman’s tongue suddenly beginning to lick her shamelessly exposed, bare pussy. The woman lapped up the river of wetness that streamed out of her cunt in anticipation of being whipped to orgasm.
Michelle knew without a shadow of a doubt that she would come if her Master kissed her clit with the fiery, hot lash of the whip. She knew it, and she knew that He, too, was fully aware of what his well-trained and steady hand could do to his prized slave when he teased and tortured her with the symbol of her submission that she feared, and craved, the most.
The woman kneeling at the altar of Michelle’s slit arose. She gently kissed Michelle’s nipples and pressed her lips to Michelle’s, anointing the damned and the willing slave with her own secretions. When the blindfold was suddenly slipped off Michelle’s head, she saw Erica standing in front of her, with a serious and fearful look in her eyes.
Looking over Erica’s shoulder, Michelle gasped in astonishment. She was not alone in her bondage, tied to a whipping post. She was but one point on an equilateral triangle. At the other two points, the wives of Master Damien’s other guests stood, bound in the same manner as Michelle, to identical posts.
Alana Grant was to Michelle’s left, and Marissa Carter to her right.
The bonfire in the center of the triangle roared and crackled its fiery enticement while the rest of the party was seated around its circumference.
Samantha Howard had been spread-eagled on her back near the fire, her wrists and ankles tied to long wooden stakes driven into the sand. Bobby, the crewmember Michelle had fucked earlier, was straddling her waist; fucking with slow, relentless thrusts. Another man, also not her husband, had his penis in her mouth.
Samantha was the appetizer.
Michelle, Alana, and Marissa were to be the main course for this banquet of dominance and submission.
Master Damien stood in front of Michelle, with his long black whip coiled at his feet. David Carter was by his wife, holding an identical whip, while Kenneth Grant twirled a third whip in the air around his wife-slave.
The rest of the slaves sat with their backs to the fire, in the presentation position, signaling their obedience with their docile, submissive poses and their statue-like absence of movement.
Without being told, Michelle knew that this would be a contest; a test of wills between herself and Alana and Marissa. This was to be a duel, a triangular test of submission to see which slut could absorb the most pain, who would wear the most beautiful and long-lasting marks, and who was able to give her Master the most pleasure and satisfaction with her body.
The three men cracked their whips in the air together, the combination sounding like a rifle volley.
Master Damien addressed the hushed assemblage.
“We will test these three sluts, to determine which one loves the whip most. To gauge which one most craves the burning lash of the leather across her body. We shall count and measure which one can take the most strokes, and most importantly, which one, if any, is able to reach orgasm solely from the kiss of the whip on her soft flesh.”
Michelle saw the anxious fear in her competitors’ eyes. They had doubtless not been subjected to the whip under such circumstances before. Michelle stared back at them, the firelight dancing in her eyes, remembering back to New Year’s Eve when she and Kiersten were chained to the wall in the nightclub and whipped in front of the boisterous, cheering group of dominants, their slaves, and countless voyeurs.
Master Damien asked each woman, in turn. “What is your stop word, slave?”
Alana answered first. “Mercy, Sir. My word is Mercy.”
Marissa’s voice was tinged with fear and dread when she replied. “Rapture, Sir. My stop word is Rapture.”
Michelle answered last. “My safe word is Failure, Master. You have never heard me utter it before, and you will not hear me use it now,” she said confidently, with a hint of defiance in her voice.
Michelle licked her lips, and stretched and strained against her bonds to pose as provocatively as she could and to make a show of her readiness. Unable to touch herself and without looking down, she knew that her pussy was already dripping wet with eagerness and anticipation. She was both afraid and exhilarated - a racehorse stamping and snorting in the starting gate, ready to run.
Impulsively, she called out to her Master, “Your slut is ready, Master! Please, Sir, whip me now. Etch my flesh with your lashes. Please, Master, give this slave beautiful marks, marks that will linger and last. Marks that will show the world that this slave is your property, and a whore for your punishment.”
Not wanting to be outdone, Alana and Marissa chimed in with their announcements of readiness to submit to their husbands’ punishments.
Master Damien acknowledged Michelle’s words with a curt nod of his head. He turned to the naked slaves assembled behind him. “Prepare the fire.”
The naked women hurried to perform their assigned task.
Michelle’s stomach quaked in fresh fear when she saw what they were doing. Each slave began to pile firewood in an eight-foot diameter circle around each post, completely encircling Michelle and the other two contestants. Then, one of the crewmembers poured kerosene on the wood around each post.
Master Damien gave Kiersten the honor of lighting the fires.
She kissed his hand and accepted the pitch-coated stick from the bonfire from him. Carrying the glowing flagon aloft like an Olympic torchbearer, she walked slowly towards Michelle, her pierced nipples hard with excitement.
She held the torch directly in front of her face, to symbolically kiss it, before slowly lowering it to touch the pyre at Michelle’s feet. The look in her eyes was positively wicked.
A moment later, the flames were racing around the circumference of Michelle’s whipping post to meet on the opposite side of her circle of pain and rise up to the darkening heavens with an upwards rain of sparks.
While far enough away form the post to avoid burning her, the heat from the fire was breathtaking. Partly from the fire and partly from the primal fear of what was about to be done to her, Michelle’s body was quickly bathed in sweat. Her tanned skin glowed a bright, golden hue in the yellow firelight.
Next, Kiersten lit the circle of fire around Marissa, and then Alana.
All three women’s bodies were quickly bathed in the flickering, yellow flames. They were human sacrifices, ready to be offered up to the men who owned them.
This was the ultimate, Olympic pinnacle of submission, to be whipped in a circle of fire on a tropical beach under the moon and stars. To be given the opportunity to serve her Master with her body in a setting like this ‒ this is what every submissive slut fantasized about. Michelle closed her eyes, inhaled a deep breath, and waited.
An agonizingly long moment later… she screamed.
Michelle’s primal scream pierced the night, echoing off the trees, and carrying far out to sea. The first stroke left a burning hot ribbon of pain across her upper thighs. It was as hard a stroke as she had ever received. She looked down at her body to watch as the angry red stripe began to raise a long, curving welt across her skin.
“Thank you, Master. I adore your whip. Please, Sir, mark me again!” she shouted, as the pain washed over her like a giant ocean wave beaching itself and thundering down on her helpless body.
Next, Alana screamed, even louder than Michelle, when she received her first stroke. A bold, red stripe appeared across her thighs.
“Aiyeeeeeahhhh! Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod! Please... Please, again, please,” she stammered.
Now, it was Marissa’s turn.
Michelle watched as David Carter coiled his whip and pointed with his fingertip directly at his wife’s heaving breasts.
“Please, David, oh please, not on my tits. Oh, god, not on my tits!”
Michelle stared as David Carter took aim and then flicked the tip of the whip forward to strike his wife. It was like watching a slow-motion movie.
His expert technique laid the end of the whip across the side of Marissa’s left breast and curled the tip around to singe her exposed underarm.
Marissa shrieked in pain. She twisted her body in a futile attempt to get away from her husband’s deadly accuracy.
Again, David’s whip snapped. This time, he painted a diagonal strip across Marissa’s right hip, slashing downwards towards her naked pussy, stopping mere inches from her mound. Again, Marissa screamed.
Michelle and Alana received their next strokes almost simultaneously. Their screams lifted a high-pitched duet to the wisps of cloud that haloed the moon above them.
Now, Alana wore a sinuous red ribbon across her upper ribcage, just below her breasts.
Michelle recoiled against her rough, wooden post from the fierce her Master cut across her belly, laid diagonally from the underside of her left breast down to her right hip.
Alana warbled her thanks and begged for yet another stroke, her tremulous voice betraying her already wilting stamina.
Michelle clenched her teeth and directed the searing pain inwards; to drive her passion to an even hotter, more aroused state. Then she answered, asking for ‒ no - demanding another stroke.
“Master, another! Now, please. Your whore awaits. Mark me again!”
Again, and again, the ritual of begging for, and receiving, the next stroke continued.
After the tenth red stripe had been painted across her body, Marissa screamed, “Rapture, oh god, David, Rapture, please, Rapture!” She hung limply from her wrists, her will to continue dissipated.
Alana seemed to find fresh endurance within herself, as the endorphins began to cleave her body from her mind. She and Michelle taunted each other back and forth as they demanded another stroke, one after the other.
But after the twentieth blow, Alana finally faltered. “Mercy, Sir, Mercy, please.” She, too, was done.
Michelle had won.
She looked down at her body, her smooth, tan skin etched with the obscene evidence of her endurance. But she was not yet done. While each stroke had drawn her closer to the precipice, she still hovered on the edge, not quite ready to fling herself off into the sweet blissful swan dive into the dark depths of orgasm.