Gagged

The Deal-1

Chapter Three

The Deal

The Weems & Plath marine twenty-four hour clock struck four bells and Penny probably didn’t hear it because she was whimpering so loudly. Her eyes were full of tears and her dark make-up ran down her cheeks. “Whip me,” she whispered, looking at me over her stressed shoulder while she dangled from the massive wooden beam that ran the width of the nearly dark room. Her shoulder-length, dark hair spilled down across her face and made her whip-hungry eyes nearly invisible. A single candle flickered on the table before me and the fire in the hearth burned with the last glow of old coals from well consumed hardwood logs ignited hours before.

“Why the hell should I?” I said, quietly. “You have done absolutely nothing to deserve it.”

She whined, keeping her sweet, pink lips closed and turning down the corners of her mouth so that she looked hurt and offended. Her small, naked toes with sparkles over blood red nail polish danced in the air, six inches above the large hooked rug on the old, but recently refinished, wide pegged and planked floor. The picture of her was further enhanced by the knowledge that I had of how very much she loved being strung up by her wrists and tormented in this fashion. Penny had strong wrists and shoulders and this sort of activity only seemed to improve her endurance rather than cause her undue pain or discomfort. Of course, as an old Prussian noblewoman I knew once said, “we are not barbarians here,” and that was still true. Thus, despite Penny’s penchant for suspensions, I took the usual precautions by wrapping her slim wrists with layers of soft sheep skin finished off with ordinary duct tape. She objected, saying that she would not be denied the pleasure, (her word, not mine), of having her wrists chafed by the braided cotton rope that encircled each wrist and held her high enough so that my intended whip strokes would nicely wrap around her waist, hips and thighs. I had to correct a bit from time to time and reach a bit higher to get a good angle on her jutting white breasts with their small pink n*****s, but I would prevail and manage to see that my eight-foot, handmade Argentine bull whip eventually reached all of the designated targets.

I checked that the suspension was secure, ignored her and went back to contemplating the fire and reading DeSade on the k****e. I find DeSade by candlelight very relaxing.

“Jess,” she said after a few minutes of toes and ass-wiggling silence. “Whip my sorry ass. Please.”

Ah, the key word. Please.

I turned towards her in my chair, at once and as always aware of the incredibly erotic picture she presented, hanging there by her padded, duct-taped wrists, suspended from the beam, stretched out in her glory in front of the stone fireplace that her friends had recently finished. Her ankles were bound together with the same cruel 550 parachute cord that tightly circled her legs above and below the knee in three inch wide bands. Her wrists, over the protective layer of sheepskin and tape, were wrapped with quarter-inch, braided cotton line, straight from the marine store, and attractively colored dark green to match her eyes and the patterned silk scarf currently draped around her neck.

Ah, what the hell? I thought. Watching the muscles flexing under the thin red welt lines I had placed on her back, butt and thighs was far more interesting than trying to read the written lines of the whacked out French marquis.

As I walked towards her, it occurred to me, without even looking at her, that her ass was already well marked from yesterday’s flogging with the carpet beater that she bought in the nearby town’s general store.

“A bargain,” she said when Clance, the store owner, told her the price for the ancient item that he said had been in his inventory for years. I knew better. Clance was a clever old guy and a wizard at selling junk to well-to-do out of state tourists. Anything worn out or broken was fair game for his Secret Antiques & Groceries store. I was sure that in the back room he had another dozen or so of the carpet beaters, gathering dust and rust and waiting for the next sucker with fifty Euros to wander through his front door, stop and pet Bob, the dozing Golden Retriever, and ease themselves around the cluttered displays, searching for ancient treasures from the old country.

But the long-handled beater was a superb piece of equipment and fit nicely into our collection of devices intended to bring pretty young things to the very edge of orgasm and then, slowly, annoyingly, to the next level of s****l arousal. A flat, steel spring sort of thing that was about the size and shape of a tennis racquet, the Sears & Roebuck carpet beater was intended to allow housewives in early times to literally beat the dust and dirt out of rugs and blankets, once they were hung outside. (The rugs, not necessarily the housewives). Applied with discretion to ripe, taunt, young buttocks like Penny possessed, the beater took on another totally different appeal. One blow could probably cripple the victim if improperly applied. The sheer weight of the device could make a blow lethal. But properly handled, it could inflict tantalizingly diverse agony without doing any permanent damage. How did I know this? Because Penny, as soon as she bought it, demanded, no, whined and wheedled for me to use it on her ass as soon as we got back to the house. I waited the prescribed amount of time, withstanding the insults and pleadings from her sweet little mouth and then told her to go prepare herself in the “Interview Chamber” under the kitchen. Twenty minutes later, I slowly eased down the steep stairs to the stone walled room and found her there, strung up like a side of pork, gagged and blindfolded as I suggested. Her hands were already a nice grey shade indicating the circulation wasn’t what it should be and so, instead of using the rusted carpet beater immediately, as she desired, I lowered her to the dirt floor, brought her hands around behind her and put her into a lovely and extremely unpleasant strappado. Penny moaned behind the gag and contributed to the general mess on the floor below her crotch by sending a thin warm stream of crystalline liquid down her legs to quickly disappear into the century-old dust on the floor. I mentally speculated that this was not likely the first such pollution of the dirt nor would it be the last. The cellar had a long history of misuse and associated abuse of its unwilling occupants. I was told that the last owners of the property used it on and off to torment misbehaving farm workers, among other victims.

As ready as I was going to be, I swung the beater slowly and struck my intended target with enough force to cause Penny to surge forward until the rope from overhead pulled her wrist and elbow bound arms up even higher and her shoulders screamed along with her muffled voice. That was when I struck again, a harder blow that accurately covered both ass and thighs. The sound was unique. Something like slamming a heavy wooden door on the tail of a recalcitrant alley cat that had sneaked into the house. Penny froze in the pose. Arms out stretched nearly vertically upwards, body bent in a full one-eighty degree, head down contortion and her long hair spilling over her head and face. Taking advantage of this condition while she rearranged her mind and nerves, I used a short length of hemp rope to tie her collar to a rusted steel ring embedded in the dirt floor, thus holding her upper body in an even more restrictive position. Penny burbled through the gag.

The third blow as less impactful, but left a memorable mark from above her knees to the small of her back and I asked her pleasantly if that was enough for now. She groaned and wept and shook her head.

“Was that a yes or a no?” I asked, tugging on a bit of spilled hair. “I will assume that was a yes, so I’ll leave you here to restore some level of sanity to yourself and I’ll stop in later to see how you’re doing. Later, Gator,” I said and started up the circular stairs.

Penny screamed into the gag.

I stopped, went back down the stairs and cut the strappado suspension rope, but left her arms and wrists still well tied. She spilled forward into the dust, tear and sweat-soaked face quickly covered in the dry debris, sobbing quietly.

“Now, I really am leaving. See you after diner,” I said, and went up the stairs two at a time.

This was, of course, the first time I applied the beater to Penny and she said later that she found it unlike anything else she had ever encountered in her diverse and kinky life. In later sessions, a light swing brought the suspended wire mesh of the beater into direct contact with flesh in a wide pattern. Each tiny segment of the mesh left its own unique impression. Some, according to Penny, stung horribly without more than a few seconds pause. Other parts of the device landed without immediate impression, only to bring lasting and impossibly hurtful suffering a few seconds, or even minutes, later.

Penny said she loved it. In my more contemplative moments, I wondered about this aberration, but in the end decided that Penny was the mistress of her own private fate and who was I, a mere cog in the wheel of punishment and torment, to question the effects of the tools I wielded? My primary concern was simple: to flog while inflicting as much discomfort as possible without doing any permanent damage. With the carpet beater, this was not easy and required 100 percent concentration on the part of the beater and the beatee. One sudden move on Penny’s part could mean an unintentional blow to areas of her small body that were exposed, but could be irreparably damaged.

So here we were again, her sniveling on the floor, her breath slowly propelling random Golden Retriever dust bunnies across the oak planks. It was, I suppose, less arduous than hanging from an overhead beam while I busied myself selecting an instrument of torture with which to amuse this queen of physical abuse. Suddenly, I stopped in my tracks.

“You’ll have to wait,” I said, walking past her and running my fingertips across her reddened and swollen butt. “I’ve better things to do than flog you right now.”

Of course, the truth was that there were no other more important things to be done and whipping her lovely, heart-shaped ass was probably the most productive thing I could be doing, but in these times and places, one had to be flexible and consider all relevant aspects of one’s choice of entertainment. Beating Penny was like contemplating 678 different channels available on the international cable that we so dearly paid for in the house. You could simply turn on any channel and be disgusted with whatever drivel emanated from the flat, HD screen or you could doodle endlessly, seeking the holy of holies from some remote video transmitter. The former choice was often easier than the latter enterprise and certainly required less effort.

Not wanting me to leave just yet, Penny made a typically Penny-suggestion: “How about tying my feet to my hands in a nice compact hog tie?” She interrupted my devout buttock contemplation with yet another request. It occurred to me that once again there was a question of exactly who was in charge: me with the beater and her telling me what to do with it.

“Doing so, my little whiny piglet, would obstruct your ass, making my intended targets difficult, if not impossible to reach,” I intoned, knowing full well that she knew this too. I was being baited into giving Penny, once again, what she really wanted: the sweaty strain of a full hog tie that stressed dozens of muscles in the body and, if properly executed, soon brought cramps and muffled pleas for release, no matter how convincingly she had previously begged for the restraint.

I ignored her persistent bitching and went up into the kitchen and made an audio show of opening and closing the refrigerator door, a couple of cabinets and finally popping the top on a can of Dutch beer. Taking one sip, I poured the rest into Mel’s stainless steel dish on the floor. He got up from his favorite spot near the door and came over, put his head alongside my knee in canine gratitude and then went over and quickly lapped up the foaming brew. I knew Penny could hear him and me and was fretting about her hands, which were still partly numb from the suspension. She was being especially petulant today, perhaps because I refused her the luxury of a more onerous gag, a heavier collar and real blindfold. These might, just might, come later if she behaved…or, more to the point, misbehaved herself sufficiently to merit the additional accessories from the toy trunk in the bedroom. For now, I just let her lie there and complain, wiggling her toes and fingers to try and keep circulation going.

Mel and I went out the kitchen door into the mud room, and then outside for a bit of tug and pull sport. Mel was young enough to enjoy tugging fun and old enough to know how to do the things that any good Golden Retriever should do. He hunted, retrieved almost anything and dove underwater when the need arose. If he’d been a girl and if he’d looked as slick and beautiful as Penny, he and I would have been alone instead of harboring a bothersome, but smart and sexy brunette who, until a few minutes ago, hung by her wrists in our Interview Room. I named him after an old college friend whom I had not seen in forty years or more, but remembered for one of his less endearing habits of spraying spittle into the face of anyone who was close enough to be conversing with him. It wasn’t his fault, he just got so wound up when he talked or argued that the spit flew in all directions. Mel the GR was the same. When he got excited, he would salivate and then shake his big square head. His flat ears would flap and the spit would fly. Mel was one of many offspring from Bob, the local shop keeper’s Golden. Bob and Hortense, another local female GR, mated whenever they got together and the resulting litters were always scooped up within eight weeks of the whelping. Everyone knew that the pups would be charming, smart and easy to train, so Clance, his caretaker, saw no reason not to charge accordingly.

After an hour or so of yard play, we wandered back into the house. Mel went to his dish, inspected and licked it to make sure all the beer was gone and then went back to his spot and lay down. Down stairs, Penny was still where I left her, but she was quiet. Ah, the moment had arrived.

I picked up her rubber ball toy with the wide leather strap bolted to it and quickly stuffed it into her mouth, which had immediately opened wide when she saw the ball in my hand. This was not your ordinary ball gag with a strap or chain through the center. While I like the common version, I found out years ago that a great deal more ball could be jammed into open mouths if it was rigged somewhat differently with a two-inch long steel bolt through the ball, held there by a large washer. The end of the bolt was then driven through a wide leather strap and another washer inserted before the nut was put on, holding the ball to the strap. This arrangement allows the entire ball to be forced into the waiting, open mouth and the strap then covers the front of the mouth and is fastened behind the head. Various other types of security can be used, but this principal allows for much more gag material inside and has the additional benefit of not stretching the cheeks or cutting the corners of the mouth. Using this ball gag reminded me of a project that was still on-going in my work shop in the basement dungeon of the house. Another wicked young woman whose name I have forgotten, looked at this gag and suggested another variation which, she anxiously suggested she would test for me.

“What do you have in mind?” I asked, still holding the warm and sticky ball and strap in my hand.

“If you were to slightly extend the bolt and the length of the straps, you would have a rather unique p***y gag,” she said quickly without even slowing down, perhaps afraid that I’d stop her from her rather arcane and obscene suggestion.

“Okay, I’ll bite,” I said. “What’s a p***y gag? I didn’t know p*****s talked or screamed.”

“Oh, you of little faith,” she answered. “Look. You put a nice tight leather belt on the subject, then take the ball and slowly jam it into the waiting p***y. It might take a few tries and will help if your subject is able to relax her vaginal muscles. You can grease it up if necessary. Then you just stuff it in and quickly fasten the two long ends of the strap to the front and back of the belt, tightening it as necessary.”

“And you are sure it would fit?”

“Generally, yes. It will fit most, but not all. One size is not necessarily correct for everyone. But if a fresh infant can get its head out of that opening, a greasy soft ball can certainly get in,” she said with a grin. “Let me know how it works out.” Saying that, she got into her ancient Land Rover and sped away in a cloud of dust, leaving me holding the now dry ball in my hand. The experiment went well after some modifications and it was this revised model with the long straps and expanded interior bolt that now went into Penny’s wide open mouth.

Very accommodating, I thought. Nice big mouth that’s better off stuffed.

Since the green scarf was handy, I wrapped it around her head, covering her eyes and pulling it tight, then tying a square knot at the back, letting the ends hang down her slightly curved and nicely marked back. Then I went to the fireplace, took down the eight-foot long horsewhip and let her hear it as it uncurled and flowed across the floor, the flexible, braided leather making a slight swishing sound as it crossed rugs and planks like a sidewinder snake in the sand. Penny stiffened slightly at the sound. She bent her knees as much as the ropes on her legs permitted and started to wiggle across the dirt floor, away from me and my whip. This was one of her many little endearments that made owning her so interesting.

I say “owning”, but that is only true in the psychological sense. She was free to pack her bags and leave at any time. I probably wouldn’t even try and stop her. If she lacked adequate funds for a taxi or train or flight to anywhere, I would have provided it. But I owned her in the way that a top owns a bottom, the dominant owns the submissive, the sadist owns the masochist. It’s that ownership that makes the b**m world go around and Penny and I were part of that unwritten contractual deal, even if it was only until one of us changed our mind and walked away.