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Beauty
I allow myself a few minutes to savor the body, like a classical sculpture. It lies naked, save for a blindfold, on the leather-covered table: shaggy black hair, the arc of the chest and the dark areole around the nipples, the flawless near-bronze of skin in the candlelight. Hills and valleys of muscle shift slowly as it waits; the breath is slow and steady. The cock is swollen, but not rigid, yet. I wonder where he is.
Perhaps he's in a medieval dungeon, or deep in the bowels of a pirate ship. Perhaps he's a prisoner in enemy territory, a college boy about to undergo a fraternity initiation, or the subject of an alien abduction. He's allowed himself to become lost in this room, to let time and place slip away.
I walk at last towards him, gently lift the ankles and spread the legs apart, strap them into place. I move up the table, lifting the right arm. The left arm hesitates for an instant, then follows the right, and I strap the wrists in place. He has surrendered.
I move quietly around the table so as not to disturb the sense of dislocation. For me, this body is an instrument, a challenge. I want to awaken the animal in it, to help it find release. At last, I begin with a soft brush, drawing it up from the right ankle along the inside of the right leg. It twitches--a reflex--and lips twitch. I press two fingers to the lips. I repeat the brushing, this time on the left leg. Then, I brush the soles of each foot until he nearly laughs.
The sides of the torso are next: up from hip to armpit, then down. I walk as I brush, slowly circling the table, so he cannot be sure where I will touch next. I brush lips, forehead, the insides of arms, the nipples, the ears. Sometimes, muscles twitch beneath the skin, sometimes the body jerks against the straps, sometimes it laughs, or struggles to keep from laughing.
The cock is growing.
I squeeze the nipples now, one at a time, while the brush continues to explore. A bit of pain, or perhaps mere discomfort, and the brush in exactly the right place on left side. An unexpected tap with the brush handle on the end of the penis triggers a sudden tightening of the whole helpless body. Next, an awkward position for me, with my left armpit close to his nose while the fingers of both hands tease the nipples. I flick them with my fingers, aiming just at the tips, and feel breath against my arm.
I shift, after a minute or so, to my right armpit and continue to tease the tits, flicking them, rolling them between my fingers, tugging at them. And then I withdraw my touch. I imagine he struggles to hear my footsteps, so I mute them. I've moved away. Time passes and then there is a sound near the bottom of the table between the calves, and the body shivers. I gently spread the right big toe away from its fellows, and set a clothespin on the web of flesh between them. I am working slowly but systematically, left foot then back to right, one pin after another, forcing the toes apart. The feeling, I know, is more strange than painful--at least at first.
I strike the soles of his feet now, softly to start, with a length of bamboo. Soon, the legs are struggling pointlessly, since I am attacking the feet at random. One of the clothespins flies off, and there is a gasp. I keep striking for a bit, then pause to replace the pin, then continue, striking harder. I adjust the strokes a bit, so more pins fall off. I replace them.
The cock is stiffening.
I put a clothespin on each tit.
I put a clothespin on each earlobe.
I put clothespins on the insides of both thighs, working upward towards the genitals. The body is well- muscled, and there is little loose skin, so every once in a while a clothespin pops off. And has to be replaced. I add another clothespin near each nipple. I place one on the outer flesh of each nostril. The navel is an innie, so I surround it as best I can with clothespins. Slowly, lines of clothespins march up the sides of the torso, and then along the insides of the arms.
The body is squirming now, so pins are popping off and I'm kept busy replacing them. I touch his scrotum and the body goes rigid: several pins fly, clatter on the table or drop to the floor. I ignore them for the moment and begin placing pins near the balls, then I slowly replace the ones that have flown off. The pain is growing, now. I remove a clothespin from between the toes and add it to the scrotum.
Another. And another. All this movement and touching has made the cock rigid. I begin putting clothespins on it where I am able. The cock swells, the skin tightens, pins fall off. I replace them. When the toes are free of clothespins, I begin to remove them from other places: the tits, first. I put a finger on each side of each clothespin and spread the flesh so it eases out of the wooden grip. The last, thinnest bit, filled with nerves, stings the worst as the pins fly off. I remove the clothespins from the earlobes, the nostrils, the thighs.
At last, there are none left but those on the scrotum and the cock. Removing them takes perhaps five leisurely minutes, punctuated with gasps and whimpers.
The room is warm, and the candlelight shimmers on sweat-covered skin. I wipe the body down with a cloth wrapped around some ice cubes. I revive the cock with lubed fingers until it is erect again, and then disappear once more.
Spring clamps, this time, one on each tit at right angles to the clothespin's bite. Short, sharp breaths. Muscles tighten, fighting the pain, holding the animal back with clenched jaw.
I have a riding crop. I drag it across his lips so he can smell the leather flap at the end. "Lick it," I whisper, and he does. I drag it down his face, under the chin and along the neck, brush the spring clamps, continue to the middle of the chest just at the bottom of the pecs, and begin tapping. The taps are light but swift, fanning out as I work my way down the abs and then back up, toward the nipples.
I stop. I touch the spring clamps, first left, then right, then left, then--quickly remove the right one and a cry forces its way through the gritted teeth. When the chest stops heaving, I remove the left clamp. There is no cry this time, only an explosion of breath and then panting. I pick up the crop and once again begin, this time from just above the pubic hair. I watch the muscles tighten, the hands become fists, as the crop works its way toward the nipples.
The taps get harder as I cover the nipples. It's tricky, since the torso is shifting frantically. The crop works its way down, this time almost to the base of the penis. I put the crop under the end of the cock, lifting it and then dropping it, so it becomes more rigid. Now, I work my way down the thighs and onto the soles of the feet, and the blows get stronger, stinging. I work to slap every part of the body, always moving, striking at random, bringing the blood up so the flesh reddens from bronze to copper.
He gasps, moans, whimpers, struggles not to yelp, struggles to avoid the slaps. It's almost musical, hypnotic. I dance around him.
And then it stops. No doubt he hears the crop fall to the floor. I massage him now, digging my fingers into the pecs first, then the arms, shoulders, abdominals. The tops of the legs are next. I imagine myself tearing the muscle from the bone. I flex the feet, pull at the lips and ears, tug the fingers and force my fingernails into his palms. I dig into the deltoids, the biceps. When at last I stop, we are both panting.
I kiss him deeply, then close my teeth on the nipples, first right, then left. There is almost a purr. I grip the tits with linked clover clamps, pull the jaw down and hook the chain behind the teeth. And then we kiss again, and each movement of the jaw tugs at the clamps. I climb onto the table and slide my own cock into the gaping mouth, and hold it there while the tongue squirms against it and he gasps for breath and the tugging at the nipples grows more intense. Perhaps he thinks if he makes me cum it will end.
When my cock can stand no more pleasure, I pull it free and get off the table, dragging my knee across the body. I remove the clamps, slowly. Again, I work the cock to a full erection. A drop of pre-seminal fluid appears, and I stop. "No!" I hiss and disappear. I drink a little water, then wipe the body down with the icy cloth again. I finish with the armpits, then squeeze some of the water into his mouth. I light another candle, let him hear the match and smell the sulfur.
The first drops hit the chest from high enough that the wax is almost congealed when it strikes. But the body is already bracing for the pain. The wax slowly covers the tits. I let wax run down the sides of the torso, slowly approach the crotch and then skip to the legs. I force the feet back so I can wax the soles. I work carefully until I succeed in pulling a word from him: "Fuck!"
"No talking," I chuckle. "Have to punish you for that!" He trembles, bites his lips. And the first drops fall on his balls.
"Please no!"
More wax. "Shall I whip you, instead?"
For a while he does not answer, though his chest is heaving. The candle comes closer, and at last-- "Please! Oh, shit!"
I let him hear me blow out the candle, let him hear me walk to the wall and get my flogger, let him hear me walk back. I let the straps of the flogger fall on his face. One tail falls into his mouth. "It's this, or the wax. Beg."
"The flogger, please, Master," he gasps around the tail. He is still breathing rapidly.
I lift the flogger and more or less drop it on his chest. The next blow is harder. I work my way down the body in a slow, steady rhythm. The pain, I know, is building up. The trick is to let the next blow fall just as the pain from its predecessor is fading, so the endorphins build up. The dance of pain and pleasure is at last releasing the creature inside, and it moans, agony and ecstasy weaving together, dancing like the snakes of the caduceus, of Hermes the god of athletes and tricksters. The tails fall biting. I know what to hit, and where. Muscles struggle against the restraints; there are tears and roars of rage, and at last the desperate explosion of sperm, of life seeking a last chance at survival, and I drop the flogger and watch, hypnotized again, as the chest seems to burn and each muscle for a moment convulses as if it would burst through the skin.
For a while I simply watch, until the creature is back in its place and quiet. Then, I release his arms and pull away the blindfold and he embraces me, sobbing, and I whisper, "You are so beautiful, so strong," and he says "thank you" between sobs and he is settled and released and we go upstairs to bed and sleep embracing.