Rule of Thumb Pt. 01 - Sex Stories

Rule of Thumb Pt. 01

... appreciated her uniqueness and she believed utterly that he had her best interests at heart. And he maintained her dignity. Even while he had her performing for a house full of kinky voyeurs,she knewhe knew sheneeded dick and didn't judge her for what she did to get it.

But in making her a slave, something had shifted. She couldn't put a pin in it, but tonight seemed a whole lot less about her needs and more about His wants. She got off. Loads. But there'd been something a bit cold and brutal about the way she'd been used tonight.

Whatever

Claire didn't have long to ponder her feelings. Hands lifted her from the floor and guided her back to the cross where she was once more secured. Her evening came to an end as her previous tormentors undid their needle work on her skin. First, hickory paddles were used on her again before the needles were taken out. Raised skin was smashed flat against the metal spikes laying just below the surface. A dozen buried tips at a time were driven deep into meat from the impact of the broad paddle.

Alcohol was misted across her tortured flesh, bathing the hundreds of punctures in a stingy astringent wash. "Gotta sterilize the field, doncha know!" There was much merriment as she writhed from the burning of what felt like a hundred fire ants biting her at once.

Insertion of the steel had progressed slowly, precisely: tip inserted, shaft driven just beneath the surface, threading its way through fat and nerve endings, to emerge once ...

... more through the tough barrier epidermis. Then the shaft was forced further through the twin punctures until the tip could be plunged once more into velvet flesh. This last wound assured safety of those working fresh needles into the field. Three penetrations for every needle, worked in slowly to avoid sticking all but Claire.

Withdrawing the needles was is a more free-form event. The impaled flesh was stretched and twisted. More alcohol was spritzed onto the wounds just to make her scream. Then the drenched shafts were pulled back through the holes and she screamed more. Tips were drawn across skin in long shallow scratches. Some were plunged once more straight and deep into flesh as though giving her an injection. The pain was searing and, still hooded, she could've sworn her tormentors had actually figured out some means of making the needles white hot.

They spent another hour removing all their pervious artistry. Blood flowed freely from many of the punctures which they used to finger paint on the canvas of her tortured flesh. The dull red blood welling from her wounds was smeared childlike in whorls and streaks across a tapestry of purple bruises, scarlet whip lines and patches of milk white skin. At the end, she hung limp, anonymous in her leather hood, a carnal vision of raw depravity, spent anguish, and utter exhaustion. As they cut her literally from the cross, Mr. Lester hit the "Stop Record" control and logged the digital file as "Slave Claire: 1". Smiling ...