Daisy Gets the Treatment She Wants – ch 01
Daisy, a painslut from the UK comes to San Francisco and is beaten, glory-holed and tit tortured.
Daisy was beginning to interest me again. Her blogs had been subtly changing over the last few weeks and the change was a good one. She was having more depraved fantasies, having some doubts about whether she even knew where her limits were and wondering if she should go on. It was in those delicious moments of self-questioning that these submissives were the most interesting, the most vulnerable, the most compliant. It was when they needed to be reminded of their place in the scheme of things. It was when I got together with them in the real world.
Daisy was one of the few submissives I’d found interesting enough to meet in real life and one of the few I still followed online. We’d been together for a week about a year ago, she was from the UK but had flown to the States for a summer break in Las Vegas. Sin City. She sinned a lot that week. Her absolute obedience and near-complete lack of limits convinced me she was a “keeper”. She spent most of that week on her back or on her knees, entertaining businessmen and college kids, perverts and lesbians, drunks and derelicts. She went back with marks that she sent me pictures of well into November.
Daisy was different than most of the ones I played with – she was a bona fide pain slut. My flash point is humiliation, my goal, absolute control and quick, unquestioning obedience. Daisy started off that way — a red-headed Catholic girl from the UK who reveled in her own humiliation and sexual abuse — but quickly dropped hints that she wanted more pain than shame. It was new territory for me. But I’m a quick learner and had an eager student and before long, I was watching on cam as she spanked, poked, caned and pricked herself to orgasm after intense orgasm.
Her mantra, repeated in each email and online chat, was: “please, as exteme as You like. Pimp me out. Gangbangs and pain orgies. What You need to know is that i have no control over what happens to my body; i suffer for Your pleasure. i exist for Your enjoyment.”. It never failed to get me off to a running start for our next session.
And now, it seemed she was at another crossroads. Nervous she might be getting in too deep, anxious about the future, unsure that more pain would lead to more pleasure, wondering if there was something wrong with her. In other words, time for a good dose of reinforcement.
I arranged my schedule for 2 weeks off and reserved two hotel rooms in San Francisco. One was a suite smack in the middle of downtown, the other a dive in the Mission. I also contacted David, a friend who belonged to one of the local BDSM clubs. He was the one who helped me chose the hotels. The manager of the upscale place knew all about discretion and the dirty hotel was in an area that was visually scary but more-or-less safe.
David made an offer to help “set up” the downtown suite and I agreed, excited and enthusiastic. I reserved the downtown hotel two days early and put David’s name on the reservation. He went in with some friends and installed some toys. He sent me the photos just a few hours before I got on my plane. Amazing. He’d turned the entire reception room into a bondage playhouse. I barely survived the plane trip without running back to the head and jerking off.
Daisy’s plane arrived just forty-five minutes after mine. As instructed, she’d worn a shimmery red zentai bodysuit with a scarf wrapped around her waist as a makeshift, and completely inadequate, skirt. Her boots were knee-high with four inch heels. Everyone’s eyes were on her as she came out of the ramp, including the crew who very obviously disapproved.
She had only one carry-on bag, which I took. As we walked, I rifled through it, past the newspaper, paperback book, snacks, lipstick and makeup, and other bits until I found her passport and her small clutch purse. I handed it back to her and pushed the passport into my pocket.
I stopped in front of a trash can. “Throw it away,” I said.
Daisy didn’t hesitate, she pushed the bag through the small hole then stood with her arms at her side waiting for her next command. I watched her, fascinated and half-stiff already. I noticed a brown bag with silver foil sticking out and leaned to look closer. Someone had thrown away a half-eaten sandwich. I told her to dig it out and finish it. She hesitated, looking into the trash and looking up and down the terminal. It was crowded with people, dozens would see her do it. Slowly, she reached into the trash and dug out the bag, unwrapped the sandwich and took a bite. Heads turned, a mother picked up her little boy and buried his face in her shoulder. An old man stopped and stared, his eyes on fire with curiosity. Two guys stopped in front of her and looked at each other. “Gross, man.” “Yeah, what a pig.”
This was going to be a fun two weeks. For me.
David and three of his friends sipped wine and chatted while I connected Daisy to the ankle cuffs. When they were both firmly in place, I had one of them help me with the ropes. The ropes ran through pulleys at the outside upper corners of the big wooden frame and she was soon hanging upside down, her legs opened wide, her heels about six feet apart. I crouched down and ran my fingers through what was left of her hair. She turned her face, her eyes tearing up, trying to rub her cheek against my palm. I knew how difficult the shearing had been for her, she’d talked about her hair over and over in our chats, she was proud of how thick and lush it was. The man at the barber shop had been completely oblivious to any hesitation on her part, he’d taken the shears to her in a way to reminded me of those movies in which hippies got their first Army buzz cut. This wasn’t nearly that bad, but what was left was a cross between a pixie and a punk cut. Enough to grab on to but not enough to really need to brush out. I pulled her hair back hard, pulled her head upward behind her. Her back arched and I twisted her nipples hard, watching them stiffen from the pain.
Daisy wasn’t pierced, which was fine with me. David’s friend helped me tie thin leather cords around the base of her nipples, pulling them tight while she whimpered. I dropped her head and let her swing in the ropes while I screwed eyebolts into the cross piece that rested on the floor. We pulled the cords through the eyebolts, tightened and knotted them. Her arms were flailing at her sides and she looked silly so I tied them behind her back.
I started right in with no warm up. The first course was fifteen minutes of simple and direct cunt whipping. I used a one-inch leather strap and stood behind her. The end of the strap was tapered to a point and I aimed to have it snap right at her clit as often as I could. David and the other nodded, leaning forward with each jerk of her body. She’d curl slightly from the pain of the belt but force herself backward so the cords didn’t rip off her nipples. She twitched back and forth like that the whole time, her cunt turning bright red, her thighs straining to keep her body still.
For the next round, I untied the nipple cords from the eyebolts and let them hang free. I went into the bathroom and came back with two identical vegetable brushes, the stiff type with the wooden handle. I started at her ankles, just above the cuffs, and worked my way up and down the insides of her thighs, working both sides at the same time. She twisted and squirmed as layer after layer of skin was scraped from her body. I moved around to the backs and outsides of her legs, working all the way from her hips to her ankles. When every inch of her was bright red, I put down the brushes and picked up a leather paddle. I hung it in front of her face, letting her watch it flop back and forth as I moved the handle. She was trembling but still hungry. Egging me on. Asking for more.
I kept crouched there looking her in the eye and slid my hand up her belly and between her legs. She moaned out loud, a huge, heavy sound of arousal. I rubbed her clit until her body started shaking in pre-orgasmic release. I pulled my hand away, lifted it high and swatted her hard between the legs. She groaned and begged me to make her cum. I stood up and started working the paddle up and down her already-raw skin. She flopped back and forth, her head jerking forward and back, swinging and swaying in the ropes until I had to stop. I strung a rope through the eyeholes and ran it up underneath her armpits, through the rings, then underneath her other arm. I pulled the rope tight then tied it off. When I went back to work on her legs, she tried to move but the ropes bit into her sensitive underarms and she had to work twice as hard to keep still.
After twenty minute of that, her legs were on fire and she was hanging silent, limp as a side of beef. I went into the kitchen and got a cold beer, drank a few mouthfuls while we watched her hang there.
“Anybody want to fuck her yet?” I asked. There were no takers so I went back to work.
I still wanted to concentrate on her legs but I wanted to get started on her bottom too. I opened one of my cases and took out my most recent purchase – an updated version of the medieval Pear. It was metal and plastic but worked exactly the same way as its predecessor. I pushed it deep into Daisy’s ass and gave the knob a few turns. She knew what it was, she knew what it could do and the begging started immediately. I turned it twice more, the outside diameter was no more than an inch and a half but she sounded like it was already splitting her in half. I went into the kitchen and came back with a glass of ice water. I took a mouthful and spit it up into her open hole. She shivered and moaned. I rubbed her clit again, brought her close, then stopped. She just groaned. I twisted the knob another full twist, ignoring her whining and pleading. She was open enough now that I was able to drop two ice cubes into her. That had more impact than I’d expected and she nearly cut her underarms on the ropes as she tried to bend at the waist to escape the pain inside. I fished one of the the ice cubes out. I crouched down and ran it over her forehead. “Exhausting, isn’t it?” I teased. I ran it across her lips and let her lick it, a tiny bit of relief for her parched tongue.
I turned the knob another twist and she grunted something unintelligible. The indicator said she was open a full two-inches now, I decided I could let her adjust to that before I went any further. David and his friends and I distracted ourselves by throwing the ice cubes from four feet away. Only one of mine went home. Peter was three for three, I wondered if he’d done this before. The others didn’t score at all. As a consolation prize, I let them put their nine ice cubes into her by hand.
I went over her legs again with the brushes, this time also doing her lower belly and crotch. She went wild as the brushes ground against her cunt lips and when one of them held her open and I rubbed the brushes on the tender pink flesh inside, she passed out.
When Daisy woke up, I nudged her with my toe. “Let’s go.” She looked around and saw she was laying on the floor underneath the frame. I threw a short, flower print pullover minidress at her and a pair of black high heels and started for the door.
She got up slowly, I’d removed the pear but the dozen ice cubes were still melting inside her ass. Her leg muscles must have felt like jelly after hanging there for over an hour. And I’m sure her skin was on fire, the bright red looked like a bad sunburn. The uneven pattern might be identified as paddle marks by someone who recognized them. Anyone else would just thing “poor girl has splotchy skin.”
We walked to the strip clubs at the corner of Broadway and Columbus. Daisy was cramping badly from the ice inside her and brown-tinged water was dripping down the inside of her legs. I made her stop several times to look in store windows, enjoying her shame as the pool of water expanded around her feet. Several people stopped and stared, up and down at her then at me, then David and the men around us. I enjoyed their surprised looks for a little while, but then decided to use this opportunity.
The next time someone stopped — a pair of older guys in cheap suits — I asked them if they were curious. “Well, hell yeah!” one of them said with a Southern accent. “Daisy, tell them about the water.” She blushed, which I hadn’t fully expected, and said, “the ice cubes are melting.” I pushed her. “I think they need more detail, don’t you?” Her voice quavered as she said, “the ice cubes that are inside me are melting.”
“Whoo!” one of the men said. The other one just stared in amazement. “Kinky stuff.”
“They need to know more,” I said. Daisy took a breath and said, “the ice cubes that you and your friends shoved up my ass are melting and dripping down the inside of my legs.”
The men looked at each other in shock. I handed them a piece of paper. “You can fuck her later if you like. Call the hotel and ask for this room,” I pointed. The men wandered off in a daze.
David knew most of the owners and managers of the strip clubs and we had Daisy installed at a glory hole in no time. David took the first shift watching her to make sure she was safe, the rest of us went and had lunch. Daisy worked the glory hole for two hours before we took her back to the hotel.
“Just in case you’re wondering,” I told her, “I don’t really have any plans to feed you. When we get to the Mission, you’ll have a little free time to beg for something on the streets or offer yourself in trade for some food. But other than that, I suggest you drink a whole LOT of cum.” David rolled his eyes. I knew it had a bit of an amateur-ish ring to it and we both knew I wouldn’t let her starve but still, it felt good to say. And I’m positive Daisy thought it was true.
I focused the next hour on her body above the waist. The pear stayed in place, expanded to one-and-a-half inches (we had time) but for the most part, I left her legs and cunt alone.
Daisy’s titties weren’t large at all, which was fine with me. I started with the brushes again, their effect on her legs had been amazing and her response to this was even better. We had to tie her to a chair so I could concentrate on what I was doing rather than on keeping her from twisting and turning. I stayed away from her nipples with her brushes, saving them for later. But every inch of skin from her collarbone to the undersides of her titties got a thorough going over. And over. They glowed red as coals after the third pass and she sat limp in the seat, groaning and grinding her hips against the cushion.
“You’re the one who told me you were a pain slut, dear, so don’t complain.”
Through gritted teeth, she whispered, “I’m not complaining, you pussy.” I smiled and walked to the closet for my other suitcase. I’d obviously need to go into my other gear.
The first device I took out was the claw. It looked like a rabbit trap with added bars and chains. I sat it on the ground in front of her then took out the other one. I opened its jaws and lifted her smallish left titty, rested it on the small metal platform in the middle of the device. Then, I slowly let the spring bring the two jaws together, the jagged teeth biting into the base of her breast. The teeth weren’t sharp enough to break the skin, but the metal was a little uneven and it bit like hell. The entire thing weighed about six pounds. I lowered it slowly, letting her body adjust to the weight. By the time I finished attaching the other one, she was bent forward at the waist and swimming in pain, moaning and muttering something to herself. No doubt it was meant to distract and comfort her and it seemed to be doing its job.
“Parade for us,” I told her. She got up carefully and started walking in a circle around the room, slowly, trying hard to swing the devices as little as possible. When she came back around to where I was standing, I handed her the metal dildo I’d had custom made. It was tapered, flared to a full five inches, then back to two inches near the base. The whole thing was nine inches long, five it them after the big swell. The way it was tapered, it would slide up inside her and any number of inches would be hanging out depending on how far we pushed it in. She looked at it with curiosity but no fear. Until I showed her the remote control device and what happened when I pressed the button. A series of small, sharp spikes poked through the sides of the device. They were only about a sixteenth of an inch long, not long enough to pierce the flesh and cause damage or bleeding but damn long enough to cause a lot of pain.
I had her put her forearms together and hold the device between them. ‘It’s for punishment only. Any disobedience and…” I pressed the button and the points pushed out. She yelped and dropped it on the ground.
I picked it up and handed it to her. “Put it in.”
She spit on it, rubbed the spit with her hand and pushed the thing into her cunt. The first inches went in easily, but the biggest part was a challenge. She squatted, rubbed, pushed and pulled slowly until it popped through. The rest slid in easily.
“I don’t expect to see any misbehaving out of you, understood?” She nodded.
The weight of the claws was more than she’d expected and she was bending further at the waist without even noticing it. I told her to stand straight and stick out her chest. She tried but it was excruciatingly painful and she could only straighten halfway. I saw sweat starting to trickle down from her forehead down the sides of her face. Brave girl to be doing this to her own body.
“I’ll give you a choice. Straighten the rest of the way up or take twenty strokes with the cane across your titties.” I knew that she feared the cane most of all and watched her try to straighten up. It was no use, the pain was too much for her. “The cane,” she said.
I removed the claws and she nearly fell over from relief. Then the pain really started. She’d underestimated how bad it would be. I knew, so I had her tied before I started. She was sitting on a chair, rope around her waist, her arms pulled behind the chair, wrists tied then pulled down and secured. I propped pillows behind her back and waist so her breasts were upturned, offered fully exposed and even straining a bit. I ran my hand over the skin, telling her to look at it, how pretty and white it was, because it was never going to look that smooth again. Soon it would be criss-crossed with red welts. She teared up but I could smell her heat. Pain sluts were not usually my cup of tea and it still surprised me that a body could have both reactions at the same time, but hers did. I touched her cunt and she nearly came.
She took the first five blows of the cane without much more than a moan. The sixth was more challenging and she actually let out a small “ahhh!…” By ten, she was rolling her head from side to side and begging me to stop. I watched her struggle, her breathing getting shallow and fast.
David asked me to stop and let him examine her. He ran his fingers along the longer stripes, first one way then the other. He took one of the canes and ran the end along a welt, pushing hard and leaving a scratch mark right down the center of the caning stripe. She cried out then, but it was a cry of hunger and arousal not pain. He raised his hands and swung them down hard, slapping the tops of both titties, sending them shaking and her body shuddering. “Again!” she grunted. “Fuck!” he said, “amazing…”
I changed to a thinner cane and gave her the next three. A thin line opened along the top of her left tit, nearly breaking the flesh. I laid the cane across it, debating with myself whether or not to take the next step. She held her breath as I raised the cane, but I laid it back down gently in the same place. She jerked her body upward, pushing it away, trying to flog herself. We all laughed and she growled. “Go on,” she taunted me. I looked at her face. It was a combination of desparation and fear, I couldn’t tell which was more powerful but it turned me on. I raised the cane and swung it down hard but this time, I brought it down right across the tips of both nipples. She howled in pain and jerked her body backwards.
“Fuck, Peter! What was that?” David sat forward and asked. “That’s fucking cruel!”
“Really?” I asked, raising the cane. I brought it down again, this time just a litle closer to the base of the nipples. She was moaning and squirming now, again begging me to stop.
The next three blows were all targeted across the front of her body, just underneath the nipples. I placed all three along the exact same line. When the third one hit, she screamed and threw her head forward, panting and crying. I thought she’d passed out but her whimpering told me otherwise.
“OK, now. Time to get serious,” I told her.
David sat up. “Give her a rest, Peter.” He took a drink and stood up, walked to her and raised her head. “Look at her.”
I walked to her, crouched down and looked her in the eye. “I see.” I reached up quickly and took both nipples in my fingers, pulled then out and down, twisting them hard. She bit her lip hard and groaned but didn’t scream out. I looked up at Peter. “Do you see?” I twisted them harder, pulled further out, kept increasing the pressure until until she finally let out a gutteral sob. When I let go, the flood of blood back into her nipples jolted her and she shook her body, tears flowing freely, shoulders and belly trembling.
“But, you’re right, David. I think I can use a break. Bring her bed over here.” I pointed to the plastic hallway runner near the wall. David picked it up and his eyes widened.
This was a particularly creative piece of advice I’d got from John, a friend in Indiana. The hallway runner was six feet long and intended to allow office chairs to wheel freely over carpet. The surface was smooth plastic, nothing special. The underside was the secret. In order to keep the runner from sliding on the carpet, the entire underside was covered with 1/4 inch spikes, set about six inches apart in straight lines. Over the years, John — a seasoned dom who’d retired but still loved to give advice — had his subs stand, sit, and sleep on them. He’d made them fashion their own torture devices — small wedges that fit in their shoes, bras and panties. Jewelry made of the stuff, necklaces, bracelets, anklets. John told me he got to a point where he was ordering the carpet runners by the case, there were so many uses for them. The sub’s kitchen chairs, her sofa, the entire room of each floor in the house. The short, sharp spikes were a constant torment to his women, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. That was how they spent their “down” time between the whippings, gangbangs, and other sessions he put them through. He was brilliant if not exactly merciful.
I pointed to the runner and David untied Daisy. She lowered herself onto the plastic strip, testing and adjusting her body, trying to find the least painful position.
“There is no ‘least painful position’, Daisy,” I said. I pressed her gently with the toe of my shoe. “Just lay down and try to get some rest.”
As she squirmed and moaned, I went into the bathroom and returned with a bottle of talc. I sprinkled it in a wide circle all around the runner. “Please don’t get up. I’ll know if you do.”
We watched her for a few minutes. Her skin — already scraped raw and beaten — was bring tormented by dozens of tiny, merciless plastic spikes. Anywhere she turned brought another moan of pain.
“Try to get some sleep. We’re going out for a bite. Then we’ll start in on you for real.”