Folded, Spindled & Mutilated: A Love Story

Chapter Two-1

Chapter Two

Hang Nails

The Farm

“I want to be nailed down,” he said, not looking at her overly made up face and eyes.

Silvia’s eyes were darkly outlined, accenting the whites and her green eyes. Her facial coloring was nearly deathlike white, further stressing the crimson lips, gleaming white teeth and heavy black brows. Her attire contributed to this look and emphasized her assets like her long and well-formed legs presently encapsulated in the thigh-high back high heel boots, or her perfect, patrician neck, slender arms with hands that were deceptively gracious but deadly if she chose to wrap them around your neck and squeeze. The black, kid leather elbow length gloves and the matching black leather corset were just perfect accessories for this strong, assertive look she easily carried off. The theme today seemed almost Goth, Arthur noted. It wasn’t bad, he had to admit, but it was not the look he preferred. He was happiest when his dominatrix wore thigh-high, black hose without a pattern, complimented by a matching black garter belt and a waist cincher that appeared to be fabricated from steel ribs and chrome chains. This fashion was merely the window dressing for what she often wore on her upper torso: a minimal bra with chromed chains holding the cups in place over her astonishingly firm and projecting breasts. Silvia enjoyed the attention her outfits brought her and had no inhibitions about discussing the architecture of her work clothes as she referred to what little she chose to wear. She once told Arthur that as soon as she was able to afford it, she stopped buying clothing from stores and shopped instead either in person or on the internet, showing her own designs to talented artisans who were almost always willing to build anything according to Silvia’s whims and to charge her appropriately.

“This bra,” she told Arthur, putting her gloved hands over the shiny metal cups that barely enclosed her perfect t**s, “is made from titanium and the cups are formed to address the common complaint of most women that their t**s do not match perfectly. These cups take such issues into consideration so that although the structures are not identical, they present their contents to appear exactly the same. The holes at the apex allow me to put the nips through and secure them with a bar or ring or whatever. Note the little trap doors and how perfectly they are integrated into the overall design.”

Arthur had made the appropriate positive comments and then waited for the inevitable follow-up commentary about how much this one, extravagant piece of erotic lingerie cost.

“Fourteen thousand Euros each,” Silvia said with obvious pride.

“You mean you have more than one?” Arthur asked, following the script they often indulged in. He knew when to encourage Silvia and when to, as a good, loving sub, just shut up.

“Of course, per cup, you i***t, per cup,” Silvia responded on cue. “I have two breasts, twin boobs, double trouble t**s, so of course there are two of them.”

Oh,” muttered Arthur. “So the bra cost you about thirty thousand Euros?”

“Right, piggy d**k. And then some, by the time we got the chains right.”

“Of course,” Arthur said. “But worth every Euro, I am sure.”

***

“What did you say ?” Silvia asked, only half listening to him as he hung from the overhead rafter, suspended by a dozen course hemp ropes and slowly swinging back and forth in the light breeze that blew through the open French doors from the small private pool and patio.

“I want you to nail me to something,” he repeated. His breathing was slow and even, despite the bands of rope that encompassed his torso, arms and legs. A single thin, braided rope was tied tightly around his s****l luggage and descended below him to a four pound barbell that kept the rope tight and kept Arthur acutely aware that any movement brought a special kind of pain to his c**k and balls. This suspension was one of Sil’s specialties and she made sure that her victims got the maximum effect from the immobilizing web of rope. It was further enhanced by loops of rope around his chest with thin bands bisecting his hard, crushed n*****s.

“I don’t think so. I’m not interested in that sort of piercing,” Silvia said, returning to reading a hard bound volume of Japanese instructions roughly translated and entitled “Seven Ways to Suspend Your Slave.” The book had become a critical part of her continuing study of Japanese rope bondage and Arthur was the primary test subject. “You could get an infection.”

“I have had tetanus shots. We could sterilize the nails first. Please Mistress!”

“No. I think you need a gag.” Silvia put the book down and got up from her recliner, rummaged through the cotton duck duffle bag with the words “Better in The Bahamas” on the side. The bag lay on the floor under him and from it Silvia produced a leather combination gag and blindfold.

“I want to be nailed down. I want you to drive nails through my ball sac. I want….” he shouted as she stuffed the thick leather wadding into his mouth, first filling each cheek and then pushing the rest of the plug deep into his oral cavity. The blindfold portion of the apparatus covered his upper face and the gag section surrounded his mouth, leaving only a hole for his aristocratic nose to poke through.

“And I really don’t give a s**t what you want,” Silvia said. “Now you have earned an extra hour up there, so hang and stay quiet or I’ll nail something else. And by the way, apparently four pounds on your pathetic d**k and nuts isn’t enough, so here’s another pound of lead shot in a bag that looks curiously like your ball sack.”

Silvia attached the weighted bag to the hanging barbell and heard Arthur’s sharp intake of breath around the mouth plug and through his nose.

“Ah, you’re nose breathing again, eh,” she said. “A nice double nostril hook is probably in order,” she added.

The nose hooks were installed while Arthur winced and twisted in his ropes. The finished product was, Silvia had to admit, rather spectacular: Arthur hung six feet above the floor, hemp rope encircling his waist, shoulders, torso arms and legs; the harness gag in his mouth and blindfold over his eyes. The twin hooks in his nostrils nicely finished off the look, Silvia thought.

As usual, Arthur hummed a short, happy monotone tune and then was silent.

“If you weren’t paying so well and in cash, I’d dump your ass and get some new, less simpering fucker up here and have much more fun. You, Arthur, are duller than pigeon s**t on the roof and your constant demands, even though you pay for them, are boring the f**k out of me. I have to go to the village for some groceries. I’ll stop by Hanna’s Hardware and see if she has any sterile nails….”

Arthur hummed. He knew he would get his way. Silvia was his keeper: housekeeper, financial keeper, keeper of his deepest, darkest secrets and keeper of the keys that fit the cuffs and locks and chains that she used to keep him as he wished.

Although it might have seemed to be a relationship that would include s*x, it was not. Neither party wanted intercourse with the other and the bond that kept Silvia employed and Arthur totally subservient to her was one based on money and S&M foundations, not copulation. I say “copulation” rather than s*x because it was a given that s*x was also a core element in the two- way street that this unlikely pair shared. s*x meant Arthur satisfying Silvia orally as she demanded. Arthur got off on Silvia’s creative restraints coupled with floggings, penal abuse and having his butt f****d either by his strap-on equipped Mistress or one of her occasional guests, male or female. Having his asshole drilled by an aggressive young woman who Silvia had violated enough times to make her nearly a member of “the family” was a sure way to get Arthur squirting his c*m across the room on into the mouth of some other sub acquaintance of Silvia’s.

Silvia was the dominant personality, having grown up always having her way with everyone she encountered. Her natural beauty was, by any standards, striking. Her voice was like the sound of the sea washing up on a pebble beach at low tide, quiet, but powerful. Silvia had only to look you directly in the eye to bring her power to bear. She used this power since she was a child, getting her parents to do things that she wanted, regardless of what they wanted or believed. She used the power of a glance, a squint of the eyes, the come-on of crossed legs with her skirt hiked up to her crotch, body language that screamed sexuality, facial expressions that included a slow, contemplative licking of her lips with her tongue, the blinking of the deep green eyes, the slight tilt of the blond head, all to influence other people to do as she wished.

As she got older, she realized that she now had additional, powerful assets as well. Her chest blossomed beyond any teenage girls’ most hopeful expectations. Her hips and ass filled out, but remained in defiance of gravity while her waist stayed the same impossible size it was when she was a preteen. Silvia was no body-builder, but she worked out both at home and when traveling to assure that her strength and muscle tone remained at a level well above that of the average woman of her weight and height. This implausible combination of physical attributes and a mind that worked constantly in search of ways to have her wishes fulfilled, yielded immediate benefits for Silvia. Well aware that her looks and wealth might someday lead to unwanted attentions or even violence, Silvia quietly engaged the services of two Korean, martial arts women, Cynthia and Ling Me, who trained her in both self-defense and no holds barred attack combat. No colored fabric belts were awarded. No recognition plaques hung on the wall, but Silvia was soon capable of taking on two or three attackers and neutralizing them or even worse. This skill was slowly honed by daily work-outs with her Korean instructors until one day, as Silvia was walking to her hotel from the hydrofoil in Macau, two young thugs bracketed her in the shadows of a high rise casino and demanded her jewelry, purse and watch.

“Of course,” she said. “And you’ll want these shoes too.”

In her head, Silvia quickly surveyed her surroundings and her instinctive reaction was to smile, start to remove her watch while bending her right leg so that she could remove her spiked, four-inch heels.

“They are Jimmy Choo shoes,” she said quietly, removing the left shoe as well. “They are worth nearly one thousand dollars. They are yours if you let me go.” She said all of this in fluent Mandarin while again trying to get her diamond studded Cartier watch off her wrist.

The two thugs were surprised and puzzled. First, because they had assumed she was just a stupid, wealthy tourist and second because she was so totally submissive to their demands. The latter assumption was quickly terminated by Silva whirling to her right and jamming the heel of one Jimmy Choo shoe into the eye socket of the taller assailant while kicking backward and connecting with the nose of the second thug. Shocked and hurting, both attempted to flee, but Silvia wasn’t finished with them. Removing the bloody shoe from the eye of the first man, she brought up her knee and smashed him in the balls. The man crumpled, moaning and clutching his crotch and shattered eye hole. Thug number two was searching for the easiest escape route when Silva swung her shoulder bag containing, among other overnight things, a single gold ingot that she planned to use at the casino in exchange for gambling credit. The ingot, padded by the leather bag, impacted the assailant’s ear in an oblique blow that cracked his skull and he went down with a thud.

Fascinated observers called the cops, but the duty cop from the Hydrofoil, walking a bit behind Silvia as he headed for his evening job, witnessed the whole episode. Ready to insert himself into the melee, he quickly diced that his presence was unnecessary when Silvia went into defensive action.

Silvia told the Macau police what happened and the hydrofoil cop verified that she had been defending herself. Nevertheless, protocol required that all partied be questioned interminably when he cops realized that both men were either comatose or dead. It took hours of bureaucratic time-wasting at the local police headquarters, but Silvia went free; the on-duty magistrate certain that the two dead goons were known as muggers and that Macau was better off without them. It didn’t hurt that the chief magistrate was a client of Silvia’s and a short phone call to him by the head cop brought apologies for the delay and a free ride in a police car back to Silvia’s hotel.

She enjoyed dominating everyone, mentally and physically: parents, teachers, innocents on the street who, by no fault of their own, made the mistake of giving this stunning woman a second glance. When they turned to look at her as she passed, they were assaulted by Silvia’s powerfully aggressive return looks that dared the observer to try something, anything that might signify a desire to know or touch her. She would stop on the street, or when in a vehicle, if she thought she was being stared at and return the stare, conveying a combination of the strongest brush-off coupled with, if she wished, a look of deep annoyance and hostility. In a store, bank or office building, such an encounter usually flustered the looker, communicating what they interpreted as a “get lost” message. Normally, the glancing party just hurried off in the opposite direction, certain that the woman they had just encountered was at best a demon from Hell and at worse, something so evil that it defied identification. The occasional encounter with more adventuresome or even potentially criminal personalities was something Silvia relished. The sidewalk drunk lurching out of the shadowy doorway and grabbing for her purse was rewarded by a hard kick in the balls followed by either a stunning blow to his bent over neck or a knee brought up smartly under his chin. The sounds of bone or teeth breaking were pleasant to Silvia’s ears and she made no apologies for her occasional mistaken judgment that someone was going to assault or attack her. The innocents who accidentally brushed her in passing might merit only a stern look, or, they could receive a heavy blow from the weighted shoulder bag that Silvia quickly swung in an arc ending with painful impact on the shoulder or head of the would-be attacker. When such behavior resulted in a complaint to police, Silvia simply played the victim and always, always, got off with no more than a reminder that the cops should handle any threats.

The i***t office worker who made the mistake of trying to grab a little ass in the metro or elevator usually got a similar response and more than once bystanders witnessed Silvia departing a metro subway car, leaving behind one or two moaning men crumpled in the center aisle, certain that their s*x had been permanently slammed up into their pelvic cavity. Such performances always merited an enthusiastic response from other women in the lift or subway and perhaps a smattering of applause that followed Silvia out the door as she exited.

Silvia carefully cultivated her ability to handle people. She was very good at it. By the time she was twenty, she had essentially everything she needed to proceed through the rest of her life without a worry or care. She owned several houses outright, enough money in various international banks to weather any economic downturns and plenty of business and social contacts to bring her whatever she needed at any time. Now and then, when in especially venturesome mood, she dabbled in equities and real estate, always ignoring the plaintive suggestions that, even if things were headed downward, she should, as a few trade-fee-hungry advisors told her, to “stay the course.”

“Stay the course? You motherless asshole?” Silvia would scream. “I should stay the course while you make money on my losses? Not likely. Empty the account and send me a check…or checks…a week apart and make sure you keep the checks under ten thousand. I don’t need the government snooping into your mismanagement of my accounts.”

Doing business with Silvia was always a challenge. The few arrogant, self-confident traders who persisted is an unsolicited engagement financial with Silvia were punished; sometimes by having to absorb a career terminating loss or, if Silvia took their acts personally, they quietly disappeared, to end up in a foreign open pit slave camp, digging minerals out of the rocky soil with chained wrists and ankles and damned little else to show for it.

When a Billy Ray and Donna Jean Gross, young couple she met at a party, convinced her to purchase a shared interest is a long range private jet, Silvia, realizing that their proposition was a reasonable idea, bought a controlling share and used the jet for getting to and from places inaccessible to the commercial carriers. When maintenance and permit costs spiraled out of control, Silvia rewarded the couple with a free flight to Laganistan and a week of free accommodations at a newly opened five star hotel. The couple, grateful for the freebie, failed to arrive at the destination. They perished, along with the two pilots, in a freak crash deep in the Himalayas in the middle of winter. By the time search teams managed to locate the wreckage, there was little left to investigate and the military government of Berglandesh, the tiny, third world country where the crash took place, closed the case before spring.

Silvia’s insurance took care of her investment costs and a bit more, so she walked away from the deal, well aware that the chief pilot, who was a minority investor in the aircraft and the copilot were partners in a drug smuggling enterprise had been using the plane for their own purposes. As usual, Silvia was untouchable. The covert arrangements she made through several third parties left everyone pleased and well paid and if she knew anything about the drug smuggling, it was never revealed. In the end, it was a triple cross. The smugglers’ competitors arranged for the aircraft to crash in an inaccessible area and they also managed to abduct the two pilots and the shady couple at a remote airport where the drug delivery was supposed to take place. The plane landed, the four on board were kidnapped and an unknowing gypsy jet jock was paid to fly the empty plane, now containing a time bomb, over the mountains to a destination where he was promised a substantial reward when he turned the craft over to a group of Muslim terrorists. Everyone, except the abducted passengers and crew, (and the free-lance pilot), was happy with the outcome. Billy Ray and his wife ended up separated when they were quickly auctioned off in a local slave market somewhere in Central Asia. Both found slavery less pleasant than the five star hotel they never saw.