Crossing the Threshold Ch. 02

The crescendo, a series of full-strength blows to be delivered from each side as mercilessly as any I could land ... and it happened. I was delivering what was probably one of the final handful of blows before I planned to break, standing alongside the left hip and swinging low, aiming for the delicate sensitivity at the very base of the ass-cheek, and I missed just enough. The tips of several broad leather lashes bypassed their target, continued along their trajectory, wrapped across the back of her left thigh, and, accelerated by the wrapping effect, slapped solid, direct, brutal and dead-center upon the vagina hidden between her legs.

The chair to which savannah was bound cleared the floor as her body jumped to the accompaniment of her unabashed shriek. "Goddamn it!!" came her thick scream. "You said that wasn't a fucking pussy flogger!"

Yes, I was, indeed, laughing my ass off even as I checked to make sure that no real damage had been done. She was smart enough not to curse me too roundly, though I didn't begrudge her a few choice expletives as the ache of the impact settled in. I couldn't have done it better if I'd been aiming. I was laughing, still, as I changed the DVD, the current disk being within minutes of filling on us. We had hardly yet begun. Couldn't have our witness running out of steam. I wanted her to have a record, a memorial, to what I had planned, to what I'd been planning since I'd tested the waters, so to speak, the night before.

However, it was also now time to change the playground, so we'd wait before turning our all-seeing eye on. It took a few minutes to release my still-squirming submissive's bonds, to raise her upright on shaking legs, and reposition her upon the overstuffed easychair. She was facing the ceiling, now, head against the chair-back, the leading edge of the seat-cushion hitting right under the central curve of her ass. I bound her legs wide, open, gaping, ankles in the grip of the spreader bar's full 3 ft. extension. A loop of soft, nylon rope around each thigh, ropes drawn around the chair and anchored to that furniture's rear feet, guaranteed the helplessness of her spreading and her exposure.

She was flushed and breathing deeply, slowly, as I finished. Clearly, anticipation was already settling in. Roses bloomed on her cheeks, and a slow drip crept from between her legs. Her full, tan chest rocked slowly from side to side, sending sinuous ripples through heavy, rolling breasts whose hungry, over-ripe nipples reached toward the ceiling.

I took a moment to activate our silent watcher, and then returned to my play, this time with the thin, 6-inch leather lashes of my black leather pussy-flogger hanging from my hand. My savannah's hips bucked as I laid the bundled leather strips against the vertical slit dividing her loins and drew them slowly, gently upwards along that hungry smile. And then, again. The anticipation grew rapidly as I repeated the stroking motion, her hips rising subtly in the attempt to increase the stimulation tantalizing her flesh.

This was our second morning, and my lovely bottom's body was already well conditioned; there was no need to start with exceptional delicacy, shall we say. The first blow fell along the length of that vaginal cleft, the edges of the thin lashes biting hot and sharp against delicate flesh. I began by playing with the anticipation, pausing between strokes so that she never knew when the next would fall, letting her feel her need for the flogger's impact, watching as my wondrous pain slut attempted to spread herself yet further, to invite the lashes into her most private places.

Savannah's slit was wet and dripping by the time I stopped tantalizing her and began to rain blows upon her loins, leaving fine red imprints alongside that slit as I pounded her vaginal region with leather for many long minutes before settling into a rhythm of slashing impacts that fell insistently upon the ever widening gap between her labia, the rosy inner flesh attempting to open itself in hospitality to the torment raining upon it.

Broad, tan hips twitched, rocking subtly, telegraphing my beloved victim's yearning for more, when I finished with a crescendo of blows as hard and fast as could be delivered with this relatively small implement, maintaining that climax for several long minutes until savannah's cries turned to agonized whimpers and I knew that I had reached the limits of her endurance at this moment. Suddenly, the leather hail ceased; the moans of yearning elicited in response showed that my lover was right where I wanted her.

Stepping away, I took a moment to admire my handiwork. My lovely pain-slut's pussy gaped wetly, her loins shining, spattered with juices splashed from within that pussy by the tails of my flogger. Her body was rocking sinuously, gently, from side to side. The moans that provided this morning's sound track rippled from a serene, rapturous face, eyes closed, head back, framed by a corona of butt-length red hair like some demented halo. "My, my," I muttered with sincere appreciation, "you can't get enough, can you?" I chuckled. "That's what I love about you, my dear. What are you, my dear? Tell me what you want."

I had to repeat my question to get savannah's attention, to draw her from whatever psychic space she was occupying. Finally: "I'm your pain-slut. I want you to hurt me, please," came her thick, whispered reply.

"Oh, my dear," I replied, "I will most gladly and certainly hurt you, as intimately as I can. One day, we'll even find out if there's a real limit to how much pain you crave. But, for now," I continued, "we'll just have to continue upon our 'tortured' journey."

I knelt between my lover's splayed thighs, bringing the twitching swamp between her legs into easy reach. From where it waited off to the side on the floor, I plucked a blue Crown Royal bag; from that bag, I drew a first clothespin. With my left hand, I took a solid pinch on her right pussy-lip and pulled, drawing it tight. With my right, I took a deep bite towards the top of that fleshy cleft with the wooden jaws, pinioning close to an inch of delicate tissue within its grasp. The ecstatic gasp that accompanied a violent twitching of my pain-wrapped submissive's hips drove me forward, and I repeated my motions to place another bristling assemblage of wood and spring upon her left labia. Back and forth I worked between the two lips until four clothespins bristled from upon each lip. The moans and rocking of hips were nearly constant, now. My lover's labia majora erupted from her loins in a wide, stiff, fan-like arc, a stretched semi-circle of agony in whose grip the pussy thus framed was slowly dripping its juices to the floor beneath. Hmm ... I took a moment to place a towel there on the floor to save the room's carpet.

I spent a moment flicking and batting at the wooden bristles, watching savannah's face as the jostling of the clothespins caused them to pull and twist against the flesh pinioned in their grasp. Quiet moans flowed like music from a woodwind as I moved my hand between the columns of pale wood and ran it slowly, repeatedly, up and down the length of her dripping cleft, shifting and displacing the clamps as I did so and causing her loins to rock as she attempted to bring her pussy more fully to my hand.

There's nothing like torturing a pussy. The tissues involved are the most personal and intimate there are, and for a woman to hand herself to you in such a way, prepared to submit, to provide her vaginal tissues as the playground for your sadism, is an utterly magnificent feeling. There's a high, a sense of elation, as well as the warm feeling that comes from watching one's victim squirm.

Withdrawing my hand from its moist channel, I gathered the clothespins together in my hand, making of them a roundish bundle, forging them into a handle securely attached to the lips of my lover's cunt. A high-pitched wail burst from her lips as her body arched, chest high, head back, pussy forward, as labial flesh was stretched yet more tightly by my action. "Mmmm ... very, very good," I said with appreciative relish. "My pussy-slut likes her clamps. Now, let's show her what a handle is good for," I finished with a chuckle.

I began to pull slowly, inexorably, with my grip upon my new handle, drawing at about a 45 degree angle toward the ceiling and stretching already-agonized flesh yet, impossibly so, further. When I was pulling as hard as I could without wrenching the clothespins from their beds, I held her there, twitching, rolling, alternating between trying to raise herself to my grasp to alleviate the torture and pulling hard in resistance against my grasp to increase that same torment. The loudest cry, however, came when I released my grip and allowed the stretching of her flesh to subside. Lather, rinse repeat ... I reprised the process several more times, each time putting more strength into the stretching of her labia, taking more of her resistant weight upon those tissues.

"Now," I began, releasing my handle for the final time, "the best part about clamps on the labia is that they just keep on giving." Without warning, I took a clothespin in each hand and opened its jaws, removing the pressure and allowing blood to flood brutally back into bruised tissues and bringing a half-choked shriek from my beloved victim. "Isn't it wonderful when they come off?" I asked as I removed another pair. With the final four, I took my time, pulling each tight, one at a time, before releasing it and allowing the stretched flesh to snap back into place, drawing a scream from her with each repetition.

"My favorite part," I continued, "is this." The jaws of the now-removed clamps were clearly imprinted in reds and violets upon her now-lonesome labial flesh, and the sounds that came from savannah were ragged as I took each pussy lip between a thumb and forefinger and began to roll the imprinted flesh tightly, brutally, between those digits, massaging the tormented tissues deeply. My powerful submissive thrashed almost mindlessly as her pussy exploded with sensation beyond anything that she'd felt yet in this session. "Oh, god, yes, don't stop, please," burst from her flushed face, and I felt obligated to put everything left in the muscles of my hands into the activity. Juices literally shot from her gaping vaginal opening as her massively sensitized flesh was crushed in my grip, long minutes passing as I savored the intimate agony unfolding before me.

However, one must properly spread the joy around, and there is flesh that is more deeply intimate, yet, than labia majora. The minora nestled, glistening, within the crimson flesh of the wide-spread vaginal cleft, delicate petals already, themselves, flaming. Her gasp came hard and harsh as I took each of the delicate inner lips in one hand and moved the grinding torment deeper within, and her hips bucked wildly as the clamping pressure grew, and yet more wildly as I began to pull those tissues, stretching the thin bits of blazing flesh away from her my beloved submissive's body, lengthening those inner lips until they exited far above the outer.

She was swaying at the end of her inner labia, deep moans rolling through the room like distant surf. I held her there, perched upon that precipice of agony, as I slowly lowered my face toward my playground and, with glacial pace, touched the tip of my tongue to the rigid nub of flesh that awaited at the apex of her genital smile. My tongue's touch was electric, sending her into paroxysms against the delicate tethers within my grasp, and I could feel her effort to push excess force, excess demand into that wild, pinioned struggle, feel her body attempting to maximize its tormented ecstasy, seeking desperately for more, yet more.

My hands were beginning to cramp, and it was time for a break. I stretched the labia minora in my hand as hard as I could for a moment before releasing them without ceremony, savoring the scream that was drawn from my beloved Cherokee as the flesh snapped back, no-longer clamped tissues filling explosively, agonizingly, with blood.

A long pull on the ready-to-hand water bottle ensued, followed by a photographic recording for posterity of the flaming ruins between my lover's thighs. She was still quivering, rolling from side to side as if in search of the stimulation that had been withdrawn. A shiver rolled through me in response to the wanton tableau being embodied upon the cushion of the chair, before me.

I took up my position along her outstretched right thigh, this time, my right hand perfectly positioned to land with a sharp "crack" upon savannah's vaginal area, my middle finger landing within the gaping open cleft. A shrill cry ripped through the room, and her entire body bucked, the heavy easychair, itself, seeming to rise with her into the air before slamming back to reality and gravity. Without warm-up, the pussy-spanking launched into high gear, sharp slaps echoing one after the other through the chamber, my lover's bound, spread body convulsing in futility as the blows fell.

The choked wails that burst from the unseen face, behind me, were shrill, yearning, the twitching of her hips revealing more of an attempt to rise towards and embrace the hail of blows rather than one of escape. After many long minutes, I redoubled my pace, breaking into a sweat as my fatigued arm complained at the demands. She was apoplectic by now, caught in a fit, an electric current running directly between cunt and brain, mindful of nothing but the indescribable stimulation exploding through her from within that cunt. Finally, it seemed that she was beginning to lift towards orgasm, something that could not yet be allowed. We were going to have to change the dance, once again, to divert that release for a bit.

The black leather clapper of my riding crop fell squarely across the vaginal slit that gaped and gasped in blind desire before me. The blows exploded like subdued shots through the air as that square leather surface slapped repeatedly, mercilessly, upon her loins, loins the bloomed like flowers in the face of the dew. The moment was timeless as we were both lost in the process, wrapped in the rhythm, the blows, the music of her body as I played its percussion. Hard, fast, a drum-roll, sharp, hard, pronounced, many are the notes that can be played in such a way upon such a drum. Then, a crescendo, the Valkyries spreading across the sky, the heavens erupting for a long moment as the crop swung with near-wild, full-armed abandon, flaming imprints turning once-alabaster flesh from crimson towards purple as we passed her limits and held her there, not-quite screaming; the scream we now sought was the one that broke as the impacts stopped, as the crop and its symphony became quiet.

My broad, quivering victim jerked as my right hand stroked across her burning-hot flesh before scraping back and forth across those tissues with fingernails hungry for her gasps. I teased her starving, yearning pubis with my hand, letting her guess as to my intent, anticipation a wonderful form of torment. Suddenly, like a striking snake, my intent burst upon her as my right hand closed tightly, thumb to forefinger across her cleft, labia smashed between them, the scream breaking from her before she could silence it.

I released my handles after a few seconds, for this was not my project of the moment. I placed my left hand upon her crotch, my thumb and little finger facing one another across her clitoris. Spreading my fingers, I held her pussy splayed wide, helpless, gaping, dripping, and open before me. With my right hand, I drew from its waiting place upon the floor the short pussy-flogger that had patterned her external flesh so recently.

The blow fell within the center of that wide-spread carmine pussy, its tips landing full upon the gaping vaginal sphincter with a sharp snap, pulling a deep-throated "AH!" from my recumbent victim. My pattern was slow, deliberate, placement the key. You want to have full control when flogging the inner tissues, the clitoris, the vaginal mouth. With each blow, a squirt ejected from her spasming pussy, and it was like I could feel the electricity from her body as it passed up my own spine. The inner lips flowered, blossoming, expanding before my eyes into corrugated petals that reached explosively in escape from where they framed my love's grasping, gasping, gaping hole. Slowly, the force of each impact increased, though I held their rhythm slow, staccato, pronounced. Minute after minute passed as the torture continued, its pace designed to emphasize the inescapable nature, my love's helpless inability to do other than to embrace the tidal sensations overwhelming her. Without warning, my rhythm exploded, and I began to swing with solid abandon in a frenetic tango that carried savannah to the edge of frenzied madness, reason long forgotten in the thrashing of a body whose concepts of pain and pleasure had become decentered and indistinguishable.

I held my wondrous bottom upon that razor edge for a long, long moment, taking her just past that moment at which her tolerance, her limit, had been passed, letting her quiver upon that point before bringing silence explosively into the room.

Her entire body was trembling, shaking, as my right hand descended once again upon outer and inner tissues, rolling, pinioning, stretching, and establishing ownership thereof in a tattoo that went deeper than the physical, taking personal ownership. She ceded me control eagerly as I stretched and then rolled the unthinkably enflamed flesh, and I felt my love's hips ripple as she pulled back against my grasp, stretching herself yet further upon those tethers, making her torture her own agenda, her desire becoming synonymous with my own.

Long minutes passed as I kneaded that tortured, intimate flesh in my crushing grip, savoring the gasps and moans that flowed like a rapid forest brook to my ears, my eyes locked upon a face set like a diamond in the sublime peace of subspace, the face of a being in utter, ecstatic union with their surrender. Only once the moans passed, my beloved victim having entered so deeply into her ecstatic state that she was beyond the stimulation I was inflicting, only then did I cease my ministrations.

Savannah barely seemed to notice as I rose from her, so far away from this plane was she. One more round of preparation, I thought to myself as I studied the instruments available to me upon the floor. The medium flogger, I decided, yet had one final role to play. Bringing it to my hand, I turned to my swaying, twitching, drooling target, deciding upon the proper position -- what was to come was something normally delivered standing across her body when she was prone upon a bed.

I chose a stance with my right leg pressed against her outstretched left thigh, facing three-quarters out along the plane of her body, my back not quite turned to her, leaning into her just enough to give my right arm a reasonably straight downward stroke. I swung the flogger gently with a few test swings that came nowhere near reaching flesh, gauging the motion to come and targeting it in the still-awkward position. Finally, I was comfortable with the context.

I stretched the forearm-length falls carefully forward, towards my submissive's widely-parted knees, with my left hand, holding them there as I became one with my target. With a swish that broke the air, a blur of black leather slashed down upon the wet, gaping crimson flower between her legs, landing with a crack like a breaking tree-bough. A strangled scream gurgled through the room in accompaniment, and hips rocked upwards as knees reached for the walls of the room. The body before me attempted to open itself to the lash, reason standing upon its head, as the next merciless blow fell, and the next, and the next. Only the twitching of my beloved's belly and the rising of her hips to the rain of leather betrayed her consciousness; the moans were hushed -- more grunts than wails, almost imperceptible to my probing ear.