Dr. Winthrop Samuels Series

Chapter One-4

“Good girl,” I commend, master to dog.

I hear sniffling. I am somewhat heartened that one cannot become accustomed to the intensity, that Sunny feels the same pain and will feel the same pain with each press and resulting snap.

I swab to the left and just a tad lower. I gather a tuft. I align. Grommet number five. The click, the snap, the yelp, the blood, the dab.

Sunny once again shudders with the ordeal, her bindings adding to the torment in that she cannot more demonstrably exhibit resistance to what her psyche craves. Yes, the mental dissonance of the masochist, the deep desire for suffering, nature’s instinctive urge to avoid pain.

My hand smoothes over her buttocks. A wondrous covering of gelatinous flesh with impressive firmness beneath. Slipping between her thighs, I explore her mons. Wetness again. Sunny is predictably aroused... her reaction to my governance one of stimulation.

I step to the front and unhook the clasp from her nose grommet. She sighs in relief. Elbows remaining high, I grasp a clump of hair and guide her mouth to my zipper. She begins her evening task, and she is reasonably dexterous, if such is the proper term for a nimble tongue.

***

Within a week, Sunny’s spine is paralleled with columns of grommets, one line right, one line left. And I’ve had great blow jobs. There is something triumphant in spending so deeply, copulating with her face. Not a word of protest, just a satisfying murmur as a gush of male seed seemingly explodes into her stomach... though I know it to be merely splattered into her well disciplined throat.

In the quiet confines of my office I retrieve the pictures torn from magazines, those fostering Sunny’s curious request and precipitating our nightly rendezvous.

Yes, arroycoo. Anthropologists believe the practice began as a method for tormenting, perhaps better termed torturing, the captives of opposing tribes. Later, enduring the torment became a form of training for warriors. The inability to withstand arroycoo indicated lack of fortitude, which if captured, the warrior would too rapidly concede, crack under duress and bring disgrace to his tribe.

Later than that, the advent of civilization ending internecine conflict, arroycoo became a form of hazing. Young males eager to display bravado challenged each other. Thus what began as a form of torture became a form of adolescent dare. There also evolved the method of restraint. Formerly penetration of the flesh utilizing sharpened wooden stakes preceded arroycoo. In the picture before me, the virile males of some unknown tribe are instead restrained by tightly pinching sizeable tufts of skin on the back or about the pectoral muscles.

Yes, one cannot help imagining the slow anguish as the entire human form dangles vertically, head high, feet held off the ground, utilizing wooden stakes, suspended by his own flesh. Originally skewered, now held by vise-like lengths of wood.

Obviously, as opposed to ancient times when the captive was left to slowly die, the modern version has become a contest... who will first implore for relief... to beg for the restraining rope to be lowered, for the pinched skin to be relieved of large clamps of wood. Yes, it is apparent that the initial agony of the pinched and stretched flesh forestalls the phenomenon of orthostatic syncope, the body’s tendency to shut down when positioned vertically and immobile for long periods. Soldiers standing at attention often experience syncope.

And that is how I perceive that many of the challenges conclude... a draw is declared when the contestants faint. If returned to a horizontal position within a reasonable time, there is no long term effect from orthostatic syncope. However, remaining vertical brings eventual death as endorphins flood and overwhelm the endocrine system and the body shuts down.

How could Sunny, my masochistic toy, not find attraction? One’s own flesh becoming the source of slow suffering. The control factor quite apparent. Hanging as someone’s puppet... a puppet in slow inextricable pain.

I stare at one photo. A group shot. Two African males hang facing each other. A circle of tribal members observe. The looks on their collective faces resemble those of spectators at a sporting event, smiling in amusement. Then my eyes shift to the contestants. There is agony yet determination. Each bears formidable clamps just above the mammary glands, huge tufts of skin wedged between dowels with wrapping strands of cowhide assuring a steadfast grip. In ancient times the pinched flesh would be skewered for good measure, adding to the suffering and the security of the restraint.

I am amused to note in one photo that two women stare in rapture as the bulge in the contestant’s loin cloth evidences a second phenomenon... the tendency of the male to tumefy as tension is applied to the spinal cord.

He who endures wins the admiration of tribal elders... anointed as a warrior. He who first beseeches for release, to be lowered and relieved, loses face.

And so one can understand the entertainment offered by the contest. For the males, displays of bravado as with many modern sports... for the females the exhibition of the rampaging phallus.

I envision my plans for Sunny. Augmenting the torment will be the extreme humiliation I shall instill. And I will assure that release does not bring the loss of face of surrender... for her entreaties will be ignored.

My watch indicates it is time for another cab ride to Ludlow Street. I spent Saturday afternoon furtively working in the machine shop. New grommets. Specially sized. A neck collar. I also modified my contraption, increasing the separation of the prongs. I can now penetrate thicker flesh. Since it is Friday evening, Sunny will have the weekend to acclimate... and she will need it.

***

Sunny has become somewhat accustomed to her walks, unfortunately. Still I believe there remains the inner thrill of being outdoors and naked, akin to the childhood quiver of delight experienced in skinny dipping, the fear of being caught.

She now relieves herself upon command and knows not to resist the leash when an interloping truck or car turns onto the isolated street... that I am in control and that she is to quietly obey... that I will decide whether to exhibit her or lead her to the simple cover of a nearby garbage bin or alleyway.

“Tonight will be quite painful, Sunny. I am going to penetrate deeply. Snag a muscle. You’ll be somewhat lame over the weekend. I will check on you.”

She nods. In her reticence it is difficult to judge her level of apprehension... eager for the arroycoo to begin, yet knowing the pain to be borne. The mental conflict is oddly welcomed in the masochist.

We return to the building. The elevator grinds away as Sunny kneels at my feet.

“You will hang me soon?” that deep voice unusually sullen.

A condemned prisoner inquiring about his/her execution?

“In time. I’ll want you thoroughly restrained. No nominal bindings such as in those pictures you gave me. I’ll want you and my frame to be one. I’ll want you to sense complete helplessness.”

She nods as the motor stops and I work the massive metal elevator doors.

Into her apartment I lead to my frame. The nose leash is tied first. Then the elbows are disconnected, drawn high and secured right and left forcing her to bend further at the waist. Thereafter, it is time to corset my naked toy. Another cord is strung from the front pipe, tied to where the nose leash is secured. I then unravel and thread the loose end through the spinal grommets... top right, top left, second right, second left, third pair, fourth, fifth... there are eight pairs. Then the free end is pulled taut and tied high to the rear pipe. In tugging, the cord becomes a defacto corset. Sunny gasps as the single strand forces the sets of grommets to move together, tightening her flesh, pulling the skin of her torso and more forcefully presenting those marvelous breasts.

Yes, a skin corset, bringing a sense of total confinement as every square inch of flesh, neck line to belly, is stretched to tautness.

“Feel good?” I taunt, knowing the sense of thorough bondage can overwhelm.

“Yes sir.”

“Good.”

I load the modified grommet device. I swab the top of the left buttock with alcohol, a larger expanse than at the elbows and spine. I pinch a massive section and align.

“This will require a moment, Sunny. I want to catch some of the gluteus maximus muscle. The penetration will be quite deep.”

I press, there is an initial click then snap, the device strains. Sunny howls. One moment. Two. Then comes the final click indicating the penetration is complete and the grommet perimeter has been thrust completely through and the edge rolled for permanency. I dab. More blood than other penetrations, but limited considering the size and depth of the newly made aperture in Sunny’s skin.

I step to her side and caress her left breast to sooth. Her knees begin to buckle, for the first time sensing a degree of arroycoo as the cords bear more of her weight. In feeling the pain, her flesh holding her weight, she struggles to renew normal posture.

“Yes, quite cathartic, deeply penetrating to catch the muscle. You will be lame until you acclimate.”

I move to the rear to swab the right buttock. Sunny pleads.

“Please not again!”

“Just one more, Sunny. Be a brave girl for me.”

I take my time, not only enhancing Sunny’s apprehension, but also ensuring a symmetrical penetrating grommet. I detect a sob as I carefully align the device. Then a muffled cry of anguish as I press and the grommet forcefully works its way through thick layers of epidermis and a modicum of muscle. With the final click, I think to myself as I dab away... Sunny has no concept of what such deep penetration can bring. But as her knees give way... she is beginning to learn.

***

Saturday afternoon I take the subway to the lower east side then walk. It is a pleasant day in late September. I purchase some Danish on Mulberry Street, continuing onward to Sunny’s loft. She will need food.

I assume the noisy elevator announces my arrival for I find Sunny’s door unlocked and when I push it open she lies nearby the entrance on the floor. I smile. She has greeted me naked, as instructed. And as expected I will not soon be walking her about Ludlow Street.

“Sore?”

She nods.

“Now you know why it’s a common act of revenge to stab your adversary in the buttocks. Quite prevalent in prisons, getting shanked there. You can imagine the immobility inflicted with a full penetration of the gluteus. I only nicked it with the grommet. Come.”

“I can’t stand.”

“That cramped? Well we’ll have to tend to that.”

I move to the bathroom, really just some internal partitions added to the vast open space to offer privacy. I run hot water in a sizable bathtub. I return to my naked minx, bend and pick up her svelte form. Her one hundred pounds feel like feathers

“Hot bath and massage. Then you must walk about. It’s the only way to loosen up.”

I place my toy in the tub kneeling on all fours. She knows to keep her knees parted, offering an enticing view of her charms. I retrieve soap and cloth and as one would bathe an infant begin to lather and lave. Her skin is sublime. Knowing of her penchant, the many grommets of dull nickel cobalt bring strange attraction. My restricting augmentation, embedding some twenty circles of metal into her very flesh, announces to the world the wondrous proclivity of Sunny Sudenskaya. In nakedness, she will no longer, cannot deny, her flawed psyche. She needs governance, craves discipline, too much enjoys the attention of a correcting and controlling hand.

Soaped and cleansed, I have her rinse, momentarily dunking her cramped buttocks into the hot water. I have her return to all fours. She smiles as I begin to knead, forcing from one of the largest sets of muscles the stiffness induced by my penetrating device. She has a lovely posterior.

I cannot help soaping a finger and impaling her anus as my other hand works. She’s tight. She moans and clenches in resistance.