Budget Correction

The tormentor lets this go on for a while. In fact, it looks like in spite of his efforts to resist, One is close to coming (not a snowball's chance in hell, I think). Two is livid. Then the connections change, and Two can only shock his balls and tits. Furious at this point, she gets into it, stinging him mercilessly. One completely flips, as he actually was getting ready for the pleasure of orgasm, completely forgetting that it isn't just a pussy and tits next to him.

As the anger rolls through him, the tormentor opens his return paths, but only to her vaginal probe. As he convulses with anger, he grinds helplessly into her; she has no way to know he can't help it either, her fury welling even higher. He, in turn, feels a surge of guilt as he realizes what he's doing, perhaps even enjoying doing to her. The guilt quickly changes back to anger as he recalls how it all started. I see a grin cross the tormentor's face, as both One and Two surge with rage. She's won, even if neither of them have yet. She opens all the regular paths, and the battle is joined.

From then it goes pretty much like battle number one, at first. They quickly learn to avoid the naughty bits, concentrating on the body blows. But this battle develops differently from Four's and Six's; it's more like a boxing match. So strange—it's like I'm watching remote control domestic violence. Each thrashes at the other, and each experiences the pain of slapping, smacking, beating. But every now and then the sex-only paths are restored, reigniting their anger.

Number one's fuel runs out first. Unable to parry effectively, he retreats, while Two beats him on the thighs, belly and arms over and over. He convulses in pain, but does nothing in return, and the tormentor brings the battle to a close.

There are only three of us left, so it doesn't especially surprise me when my body-map appears next. I can't see who my opponent will be yet—will it be Five or Seven? The tormentor fixes me in her gaze and locks me in a painful contraction. Seven's body-map appears, and I can't help telegraphing my disappointment—Five looks a bit disappointed also. As always in this chamber you don't get to choose, but all the same, how lame—how can pathetic, sobbing Seven possibly give me a good run?

The tormentor is staring, almost smiling at him, and the paths are engaged. Released from the tormentor's contraction I explore them, and Seven does the same, each of us wincing in pain from the other's movements. But something odd is happening. Seven isn't crying any more, and he looks, if anything, empowered, as if that were possible in here. He's probably never been able to inflict pain on someone else like he can now. He will be punished in response by me, but only with returned pain, not with guilt—he's supposed to do this.

So punish him I do, though the muscle movements required punish me just as much. Seven absolutely gets it—it turns out I'm up against a well-matched partner, and we thrash each other thoroughly. Sex parts quickly become off-limits by truce, and now I understand why. The effort and pain required to make a delivery there simply doesn't yield a proportional payoff, as Seven's calculated—with one exception. He's figured out how to hit my balls and nipples and he does so mercilessly whenever a chance opens up, getting a scream out of me every time. Hard as I try I simply don't seem to be able to find a return path as effective on him, and I'm getting more and more exhausted as I continue my frantic search.

Stamina has never been my strong point, and I sense that Seven has never had more adrenaline before in his life. I understand the end game now—I just can't seem to move my muscles to parry effectively any more—it hurts too much, and all determination on my part seems to have been drained away. Seven whacks my balls over and over, and the tormentor brings the game to a close.

Seven has won. I'm sobbing, aching fiercely all over. I thought I could do better, and I'm deeply humiliated, especially as I reflect with remorse on my disdain for Seven's behavior when he entered. The tormentor looks into my eyes, and I see a flicker of a smile. She's won too—the rest will be easy. She touches her pad to make me twitch painfully, and chuckles quietly. Thank you, thank you, for sparing me an explosion of agony, I think.

Five looks seriously pissed at this point. He's the only Bondo-battle virgin left, and must be wondering if he'll get to play. But a body-map appears in front of him, and then... in front of number six. OK, she won the first round, so she's the most rested of the winners—makes as much sense as anything else so far. Five looks pleased with himself—he's received a bye to the tournament final; he'll play the best. Not so lucky, I'm thinking, aching in the aftermath of my battle.

Five knows better than to screw around with Six's sex—he's been studying each battle as if they were in Clausewitz. In contrast, during battles two and three Six mostly seems to have been lost in other thoughts. Still, they both know that stamina is the name of the game, and the one who conserves energy the best will probably win. This could make for a tedious battle, so the tormentor steps in, heating things up with painful swats at both of them. It doesn't take long to light the fire and they engage, with all the twists, bucks, convulsions, grunts and groans which have gone before.

This is a true battle of wits and the tormentor has to change the paths frequently. It's also pretty erotic, not just on account of Six—Five is also attractive, and if sex parts are off-strategy, forcing sexy motions definitely isn't. They attack each other mercilessly, both of them writhing and grinding on their saddles. Five, Six, and the tormentor are definitely playing to the audience, though only the tormentor by choice. As I've come to expect, eventually one of them starts to flag, and it's Six. She's exhausted, unable to strike as effectively as Five, and falls behind, finally not responding much at all. She looks seriously irked, but I expect she's lost battles before and is as good a loser as they come. The tormentor closes the paths, and Six, after receiving the customary icy look and loser's whack, sinks into revery, analyzing her game.

Five looks pleased, but knows better than to show it too much. Caught in the tormentor's stare, he twitches, groans, and both Five and Six resume pulsing along with the rest of us. My geeky part notes that each battle seemed to go for exactly 5 minutes of wall time, the contestants ticking down around 3 minutes each. A little better than football after all. When not in battle we have not ticked down at all, so after around twenty minutes of battles, most of us got in about three minutes of "punishment". Does the "free entertainment" make up for the non-clocked discomfort of the bondage, I wonder?

++++

The tormentor frowns, glances at the wall time and touches her pad again. I feel my muscles start to contract rhythmically, the contractions passing smoothly from one section of my body to the next, round and round. Against the tight bondage it hurts somewhat, but not a lot by my new standards; our gags are not uncomfortably inflated. The stimulations don't seem to involve my sexual areas much, but all of us are moving, writhing in a similar pattern which is collectively almost obscenely erotic. Our clocks are ticking down, slowly—this apparently does sometimes meet the threshold for punishment.

A circle of numbers appears on the mirror, with the numbers 1-7 around it, shown both forwards and backwards—for our audience's and for our benefit, evidently. The numbers are flashing a bit, and I notice that the brightening is circling slower and slower, finally jumping visibly from one number to the next, slowing; six, seven, one, two, three, four, stopping on five.

Number five, who seems to be intrigued by every new turn, jerks to attention. But then the numbers begin flashing again—the first roll didn't count, I suppose. Number five looks relieved—does he know something I don't?. The flashing slows again; two, three, four, five, six seven, one, two... three.

Uh-oh, I think, though nothing seems to happen immediately. This is a lottery I probably don't want to win. My rhythmic contractions stop; the others continue their writhing. The tormentor's eyes lock me tighter than the straps which lock my crotch to the saddle and punishment pole. When she's turned eyes on me before it's always been followed by some sort of explosion of pain, so I wince in anticipation. Instead I feel my anal penetrator contract and expand, and my penis-sleve move slightly.

Yes, her eyes telegraph, this is it, schmuck. What was that crap about 'she knows that I know how much more pain I would suffer if I were to come; I would try my best to resist it?' Don't kid yourself—I could make you come in your pants in three seconds from across a crowded room with just a sideways glance if I wanted to. Here you are, naked as a newborn (well, sort, of), securely bound, helpless in my gaze. What makes you think you have a prayer of resisting? I hold every nerve, muscle and hole in your body in the palm of my hand, and I am going to make you climax so hard you will ejaculate your guts, your brains, even. And not because I care a tit about your pleasure—you have more than a thousand seconds left on your clock, and you will regret this orgasm for every single one of them. So just shut the fuck up while I do my job.

She's not really telepathic, I suppose, but it's as if I heard every word. She inflates my gag and administers a stinging shock to my balls and nipples as she increases the stroke of my sheath and thrusts my anal penetrator deeper. She loosens the gag, just a little. My muscles tighten against my bonds.

She's every bit as good as her word. I've never felt so bound, so trapped in the icy steel of her eyes. Her fingers fly over her pad like a teenager texting, which most assuredly she is not. She's playing me like a highly pitched violin—she's a Midori, though I am no Stradivarius. The music surges.

But she's not going to let me come too quickly. Maximum post-orgasmic sensitivity to pain will be achieved with a deep whole-body climax. As I climb higher and higher, she modulates me with intense muscle contractions, and occasionally with a sting to my nipples or balls. Up and down I go, all the while trapped by her mesmerizing eyes.

Enjoy this while you can, and relish the suffering to follow, she seems to say. I'll do my best for you now and for the rest of the session. I'll promise that for everyone here. You'll receive the best punishment I know how to deliver. This is my job, and I'm fucking good at it. You are so, so lucky.

Achieving climax during sex isn't a given for me—I have a tendency to reach a peak of intensity and then fall back, unable to go over the top. Trying to hold myself back would be the last thing I'd ordinarily be doing. But the eyes of steel invite me, playing with my mind.

Go ahead, try to resist. I've got you now. Play with me, pretend you could stop yourself from climaxing for me, pretend you can thwart the effectiveness of your remaining punishment. There's no risk—I will not let you down—you will come when I am ready—you no longer control your body, I do.

I'm flying like never before—she teases me, administering little punishments which in my excited state are unimaginably erotic, but also remind me why I'm here. I touch-and-go several times, higher and higher each time, and finally she pushes me over the edge.

Have you ever come to climax in bondage?

The orgasm wells up and up inside me. I close my eyes, breaking the bonds of her gaze. I'm flying solo now, though she continues stimulating me mercilessly. In massive surges I pump out my semen (and my brains, it feels like) as I thrash and buck in my bonds. My climax goes on and on, and on. I open my eyes a little to the room swirling around me, as her eyes invite my paroxysm to run its course. She hammers my anal penetrator against my prostate, squeezing out the last bit of semen as I convulse in ecstasy, the stimulation going on and on seemingly forever.

Now I'm plunging back to earth. The pain-oblivion of arousal is slipping away, the stress of bondage is rushing back agonizingly, far worse than before. The steely gaze returns.

I told you you wouldn't be able to resist. I was right, wasn't I. You've had your fun, now it's time to regret it, to suffer in my hands as I'm charged by the court.

My body explodes in agony, just as for prior steely gazes, only ten times worse. She spares me the embarrassment of a scream by choking me hard with the collar, making me gurgle and thrash furiously. I didn't realize that was on the menu—expect seconds, I think to myself. I resume the rhythmic pulsing, but it hurts a lot more than before. It took about four minutes.

The circle of numbers reappears, and the flashing numbers start to slow, five, six, seven, one, two... three... four.

Four grins. I don't think he understands why he's about to be made to come—how can he think that an hour of punishment includes an orgasm just so he can enjoy it?

The tormentor locks eyes on him and he explodes, without screaming, thanks to the collar. She starts to stimulate him, and he starts to writhe. She seems to be having a bit of trouble keeping him on high excitement without making him come too soon. He gets a whack now and then, bringing him almost completely back to earth, then she flies him back up. Finally she puts him over, thrashing and bucking, choking and gurgling, on and on. Now he's getting it, as his pain returns in spades. Once again she locks eyes, and he explodes with pain, screaming and screaming into his uninflated gag, then he resumes the rhythmic motion, groaning profusely now.

Again the circle of misfortune lights up, and the rotation slows. Three and four are still on the circle, but they don't brighten—we're done, as the pain of our involuntary rhythmic motion in bondage continually reminds us. The rotating highlight circles: five, six, seven, one, two... five... Six's turn. Should be fun to watch, I suppose, if I didn't hurt so much. The tormentor locks eyes on Six, who shivers for a moment.

No time to waste: Six starts squirming elegantly. I suspect there truly is something of a battle of wills taking place—I doubt that Six is big on public orgasm, and might be the only one of us capable of putting up effective resistance. The tormentor's working hard, her fingers flying over her pad, while Six's teeth grip her gag with intense counter-climactic effort. But before long Six relaxes, her face telegraphing submission.

An orgasm with poise and grace sounds like an oxymoron, but if anyone can do it, Six can. I get the feeling that she integrates whatever life throws at her, making the very best she can out of even the most unexpected situations. This one must surely take the cake. Six writhes and twists as if she were on the dance floor instead of hogtied to the punishment pole, exuding sensuality with every motion. The tormentor (Midori, Mutter, or perhaps MacMaster?) plays her like a violin as she played me, but Six surely is a Strad.

The effect when she's finally pushed over the edge is excruciatingly, magnificently erotic.

Six explodes with a scream, promptly choked off by the collar, and as she gurgles, thrashes and bucks on the pole I'm blinded by the radiant blast of a sexual supernova. Even the two of us who have come already feel the excitement; my bondage pain evaporates, though just for a moment. Everyone gets a brutal sting from the tormentor to bring us back to earth, and the wheel appears again.

The next lottery winner is Seven. He has the strangest look as his penis sheath slides for the first time and his anal penetrator wakes from its slumber. The tormentor's eyes are locked on his in the usual icy stare, but she's frowning. Something odd is going on, and it dawns on me—Seven must be a virgin. Maybe he's never even jacked off, living up to now in a world of guilt-ridden wet dreams. She's going to have to be careful. My God, I think, having your first waking orgasm in such excellent bondage, under the tutelage of such a competent practitioner, has to be a life-changing experience.

She continues with all the skill I've observed and experienced so far. I'd guess he's hair-trigger sensitive, and there's no guilt here—whatever happens is not up to him, not his fault. She convulses him tightly, making him groan with pain, and increases the stimulation. I see his pain melt away, but he can't come while so seized up. Each time he gets near the top she knocks him down just the right amount, riding him up and down as he writhes and struggles in ecstasy. He's red as a beetroot, perhaps at times for lack of air—she seems to be using the collar to good effect along with all the other tools at her disposal. Finally she pushes him over, and he explodes, almost as radiant as number six. He comes and comes, thrashing and bucking like everyone else before. I can see the pain roll back over him, but in spite of that he's grinning like a pig in shit. She gives him a little more time to come down than the rest of us got, but the inevitable icy stare and explosion of pain eventually happens. She chokes off his scream with the collar—no quarter for anyone, even fallen virgins. She's played him out for an astounding four minutes, the same time she seems to take for all of us. Precision, I think again...

The lottery wheel appears again, and it stops on number one. He must be as sexually experienced as Seven was naive, and clearly understands why he's being made to come—pretty easy to tell after watching the rest of us suffer post-orgasm, if he didn't already know. He also knows that resistance is futile, so he simply submits to the tormentor's ministrations. I get the sense that she's trying to keep his arousal level below the point where his pain vanishes, at least until close to the end. He comes just like we all did, his four minutes closing with the usual choked explosion of pain.

Number two is up. The tormentor doesn't seem to have been terribly interested in Two up to now. But as she engages Two in her almost supernatural pre-forced-orgasm interchange, I sense for the first time something that looks like compassion. I'm right next to Two and it's as if I overhear, or perhaps just recall I hold every nerve, muscle and orifice in your body in the palm of my hand. I'm the best, and I am going to make you come—but it doesn't sound like the threat it did to me.

It sounds more like You don't need to fake your orgasm here. Relax as I do my job, followed by butt out Three, this isn't about you. I get a nasty sting, the tormentor goes to work on Two; it's hard going. Though she's not trying to resist, Two seems just about un-arousable at first. The tormentor uses every trick in her book, muscle stimulation combined with sexual, occasionally even gentle use of the collar, and she maintains eye contact more than usual. Two finally melts and starts writhing more naturally, not just by electrical stimulation. By three minutes she's firmly in the tormentor's grasp. It's the closest thing to a love-sex act I've seen today, the tormentor easing Two skilfully to the top, then over. She prolongs her orgasm as long as she can and it's erotic as hell, but then it's back to business as usual. Two's pain returns visibly, and she gets the same final treatment. No free rides, even if you volunteer.

Five's turn. He clearly appreciates how lucky he is to go last. He can see how much pain Four and I have been in since we climaxed, while he's been allowed to enjoy a very erotic show with his arousal intact. He's almost ready to come just from watching. The tormentor locks eyes, flicks him a smile, and stings his balls for a yelp. She knows his abundant curiosity, but he's here to be punished, and she's going to do it. It's pretty low-key—she drives him up in one long slow crescendo, pushing him over the top just as the clock passes three and a half. His orgasm rolls to its end, and his bondage pain rolls back, clearly no surprise to him. He gets a choke during his terminating explosion—no need to make him suffer an embarrassing scream.