Final Meetings - Part 2 of 6

Part Two - Bound to the iBench

Madeline brings not a chair, but a bench. It is on wheels, made of reinforced aluminum, and resembles a capital letter "I". A black leather bad is belted to it. I watch with trepidation as Madeline slips the upright posts into the corners of the frame, putting it together with expertise. Julie leads me to the bench and I sit, only to be laid back, arms and legs drawn outward, the bondage cuffs at wrist and ankle secured. Additional straps go around my legs at mid-thigh, then around my waist, just above my hips, preventing movement. I am at their mercy now. The bench can tilt, back and forth and I am lifted a few inches so my head is higher than my exposed, vulnerable, and wet slit. 

I am rolled to the side, out of the circle, and Julie brings a dildo gag. I do not want it. I hate gags, but they can't have me disrupt the performance. Two submissives: Wendy and Georgia, are to dance. An erotic, sexually explicit dance. I am turned so I can see them as they prepare. Georgia is wrapping a purple, silk ribbon around her breasts and loins. She is beautiful and I can't help comparing her toned, athletic form to my lush, soft, and overripe curves. Wendy is just as beautiful as she dons a green ribbon. She less toned than Georgia, but still sleek and muscular. A dancer. I am forced to bite down on the rubber cock in my mouth, saliva already working its way around the edges of my mouth. I dread this, the spittle dripping from my chin, trickling down my cheek and onto my neck. 

As Georgia and Wendy prepare, Madeline is passing around a bowl and each submissive is taking a number, passing the paper up to their mistress. Except Julie. She has no submissive on the floor. She gets no number. I see bartering, trading. Mistress Margaret, with her puppy dog Lisa, goes over to Julie and begins talking to her. As the surrounding lights are dimmed, I see Savannah grinning, a tightly held slip of paper in her fingers. She is first and I realize, as she looks toward me, that I am the prize. 

Mistress Savannah heads toward me and I feel the tension. She is a beautiful woman physically. Her eyes are blue and penetrating. She licks her lips as she approaches, already clutching her weapon of choice: a crop. Behind her is Kylie, crawling across the floor. Savannah stops near my right foot, lifting the black stick and little leather flap up, stroking my arch and instep with the tip. It feels good, but the promise of pain is there. I expect it. So I am unprepared when the first thing I feel is Kylie's tongue lapping at my clit, followed by a thick, shaking, rubber coated phallus being pushed into my pussy.

It is pure, unadulterated pleasure and it streams up through my body like lightning. I gasp. Tightening, thrusting my hips up into Kylie’s mouth and against the dildo, relishing the direct and utterly sexual nature of her ministrations. I whimper in longing, the gag inhibiting me as I suck rubber cock. Despite my earlier orgasm, I am almost instantly ready again, wanting and wanton. 

Music starts and I see the lights on Georgia, then Wendy. The dance is lyrical and representational. They meet. They are attracted to each other. Swirling around in mesmerizing patterns, each sweet contact removes a ribbon. They are cast off like flaming stars. Between my legs Kylie laps at my nub, leaving me breathless, while her hands push and pull the phallus in and out of my gash. Another ribbon flies off Wendy, a breast bared, her body and soul exposed as they simulate eating, playing, talking. Then something strikes my foot, a flash of hurt. More blows strike my arch, my toes, my heel. It is Mistress Savannah’s crop beating out a stinging tempo in time with the music. 

It hurts. Hot and bitter. My ankle twists on the cuff, toes curling as my body struggles to get away. Savannah is good though. She anticipates my movements, striking the bottom of my right foot until I am keening through the dildo gag. Then the crop strikes my ankle, right above the cuff. Then my calf is targeted, the crop snapping, biting, and working its way up my leg. Each blow is sharp, but not enough to do more than sting, and through it all Kylie is devouring and fucking me. She is sucking on my clit, stabbing it with her tongue, swirling back and forth across it until I am cross eyed with pleasure and pain. The crop skips over Kylie's head and begins to work its way down my left leg, to my other foot. 

Across from us, in the circle, Georgia has bared herself almost completely. She twirls, looping the last ribbon around Wendy, who is almost as naked as she is. The ribbon becomes bondage and Georgia ties the ribbon around Wendy's torso, just under her breasts. There is a flurry of exaggerated kisses down Wendy's arm, then across her bosom, and even I can see the glistening wetness where Georgia has left a trail across Wendy's bosom. 

 The crop reaches my left foot and Savannah focuses on my arch. I tremble, struggling to pull my foot away. Pain shoots up my leg, but it mixes with Kylie's probing tongue and the incredible sensation of penetration. I realize I am panting. My hips thrust and grind, my pussy squeezing the dildo inside me. I've never been more desperate in my life… or have I? Am I always this way? The crop leaves a stinging shot to the underside of my toes and I squeal, biting down roughly on the synthetic dick filling my mouth. 

Wendy is now bound in ribbon and Georgia dances around her enraptured. Every movement emphasizes control and Wendy turns to focus on Georgia. They are still dancing, even as Wendy is dropped to the floor and spun, ribbon twined around her bare foot and up her leg. Georgia drops and with sudden intensity, runs her tongue through Wendy's exposed sex. But the lick starts with Georgia's foot, her leg arching, her hips cocking to the side. The spine curls and her head tilts so that Georgia's extended tongue is merely more of her. My mouth waters at that lick, the rapture on Wendy's face, the electrifying sensuality of it. It was chocolate and sex and utter ecstasy all rolled into one sensation. Even knowing it was contrived and part of the dance, I still want it.

Kylie sucks my clit into her mouth at the same time I am filled to the brink. I am now on edge. Orgasm is a risk and I tremble as energy surges through my loins, around my head, and down to my toes. I pull on the bondage cuffs, vibrating with need. I lift my head and look down. Kylie is too focused, her attention on pounding the dildo through my slit and licking my clit. I yell through the gag and am unheard over the music. And then Savannah snaps the crop against my nipple, the padlocked, pierced, point jumping as the leather pad snaps and presses, stings and pounds the delicate tip. This hurts more and in seconds I am at my limit, breast throbbing as snap after snap of the crop strikes my breast. I shake my head, squealing behind the gag and Savannah merely switches to my other breast, the one that's pierced but without the gold padlock. My breasts burn and sting and I am screaming, nerves on fire, desperate to cum. 

Wendy is folded, on her back, arms bound, legs open and accepting. She moves still, wanton and supple. Georgia mounts her, entwined with her, melds her body to hers. Fingers and toes together, twisting, pulsing, tongues extended, in each other with exaggerated movements until they settle, shudder, and perhaps even cum. It us exotic, erotic, entrancing. And I am right there with them, teetering on the edge of orgasm. The pressure inside me is more than I can bear.

Savannah speaks. "Move your head, Kylie."

The sucking sensation on my clit disappears but the thick, solid vibrator is still inside me. I barely register the absence of Kylie's mouth when the crop falls upon my sex. My back arches and I surge upward, arrested by the bondage cuffs holding me down. The leather loop at the end of Savannah’s crop flicks toward my clit again, striking with heat and fury. I go rigid, eyes wild, body thrashing as the fire blasts through my pussy. I hear the applause as the assembled mistresses and their submissives show their appreciation for Georgia and Wendy’s performance. For me, I rock between utter agony and desperate longing. I have to cum, badly. But it hurts so much! Savannah’s beating of my cunt is both blistering fire and cold, sweet bliss and I gyrate wildly between polar opposites. I am on the edge, unable to be thrust in either direction, and Savannah knows me so well. Stroke after stroke slaps at my focal point, getting stronger and stronger, until my orgasm is cresting. Then the vibrator is yanked from between my legs, the brutal impact of the crop no longer smashing down on my clit. I am left panting, hurting at the tips of my pierced breasts and between my legs. I cry out, not even the dildo gag sufficient to conceal my struggle, my fury. Oh God. I need to cum so badly!

The beating of my clitoris has stopped. This is a blessing, but the crop moves to my inner thighs, just enough so that the edge of the loop of leather catches my labia. It stings, but is no longer the acute burn I’d been taking. Savannah doesn’t stay there long, moving the end of the crop back down my right leg to my foot. I squeal as she once more begins striking my instep, fast, whippy blows that feel as if I’ve stepped on a hornet. I wish that Kylie, Savannah’s submissive would lick me again, or at least put the vibrator back in.

I lose count of the spanks to my right foot. My mind is in a flurry. Most of my body is pleading with my brain to make it stop, all while a few, more pertinent parts are begging for more. Savannah seems to know this, because as she brings the end of the crop back up my leg, this time Kylie’s head isn’t in the way. My pussy get another few love taps, hot and strong, before Savannah moves back down the other limb. I am trembling, burning, stinging. She gets to my left foot and pain erupts from my arch. 

“Savannah? Time’s up, darling.” It is Mistress Lynda with her submissive Brooke. She is holding a piece of paper. There is a “two” on it.

Savannah nods. “Just three more,” she agrees easily.

“Certainly,” Lynda agrees.

I am confused. Three more minutes? Savannah lifts the crop away from my foot. It suddenly hovers over my left breast. Snap. It flicks down, smacking my nipple hard. I quiver. Mistress Savannah moves to the right breast, the pierced and padlocked one. The extra hardware does absolutely nothing to absorb the force of her strike and my nipple feels like it’s about to burst. Then I understand. I know what she means. Three. Three blows of her crop.

My clit is the last target. The last blow is the hardest.

My legs pull on the straps as my body reacts, jerking as I squeal into the dildo gag. It is perhaps the worst of it all, my clit stinging and burning and hurting and wanting and swollen and… thank God for the gag. 

Because I would have begged for more.

Mistress Lynda is a doctor in real life, a plastic surgeon to be precise, and her submissive Brooke is one of her nurses. This does not relieve me in the least. As Savannah walks away, Lynda inspects me, her fingers delving across my skin. It feels good, but there is an aspect of humiliation to it as well, a clinical exploration that makes my skin crawl. She spends some time at my sex, feeling the hot and slippery petals, gingerly lifting my clitoris, even pushing two fingers deeply into my depths. It is confusing for me, because my body wants it to be erotic, treats it as such, while my brain recognizes the pathology for what it is. I am being examined.

 Mistress Lynda speaks softly to Brooke, who scurries away. The lights of the meeting room have come back on and the Society of the Golden Rose moves on to their next stage. Trading. Each mistress can barter their submissive in exchange for another girl. There are favorites. Alissa for example, is a popular choice. I understand this. I am frequently traded as well, at least when I’m not bound to a bench. The mistress who asks for me the most is Mistress Lucille, but Julie rarely lets her have me, unless I’ve been a snit, sarcastic and caustic. Lucille is a true sadist. 

Brooke returns with a ball tip massager and she kneels down between my legs. I want it against my clit. I can imagine how it will feel and when Brooke begins to rub it against my splayed open, crop sensitized petals, drawing up and down through the girl goo, I moan with satisfaction. I am soaked, on the edge, hips thrusting lightly. I am almost embarrassed. Brooke pushes the narrow, marble sized vibrating head into my slit and I groan. But then she pulls it out, down toward my perineum. I gasp as the vibrations seem to intensify, then shudder as it is removed from my pussy, and down to my bottom. It is an intense sensation, erotic and disturbing, but without the pressure against my pussy, the immediate need to cum begins to ebb. Brooke rubs it around in slow circles, massaging my bottom and I tighten, thrusting upward, whimpering with need. I can’t help thinking it’s in the wrong place!

It is then I feel the pins. 

Mistress Lynda is wearing a vampire glove in one hand, and is wielding a Wartenberg pinwheel in the other. She grabs hold of my left breast, the fingers pressing into the soft skin. The glove itself is studded, tiny pin pricks all over my breast. Of course the pinwheel goes down on the other tit, finding my nipple, leaving tiny shoots of pain throughout my top. The dichotomy between the soft vibrations not quite on my pussy, and the hurt at the tips of my breasts makes me vacillate between sensations. I want to beg them both, to stop and to continue, and I’m not even sure which. 

Brooke senses my need and the massager sweeps upward toward my clitoris. I brace myself for it, expecting the soft, rubber head to push me over the edge. Mistress Lynda switches breasts, her vampire gloved hand now squeezing and hurting the right side of my chest, while the pinwheel crisscrosses my left areola. Then, as I am panting and squirming, Mistress Lynda rolls the wheel down my side. I gasp, pinpricks making me jerk. I feel the pinwheel roll up over my hip, aiming straight for my pussy. I squeal into the gag, a muted, high pitch noise, trying to warn Brooke as she rubs the massager over and through my folds. But Brooke moves out of the way, lifting the massager away from my tingling clitoris. Mistress Lynda rolls the pins across the apex of my sex and down one side of my pussy easily, metal spikes biting into my labia. Then the pinwheel moves across my thigh and my back arches as the pain hits. The vampire glove comes down, cupping my pussy, a thousand needles, pinpricks everywhere.

I am rigid, muscles locked as Mistress Lynda lifts the glove from my sex. My body quivers with tension. I am a pressurized vessel, ready to burst apart at the seams, but it doesn’t seem that I am allowed to explode. Eyes wide with expectation, I look down at Brooke, who is smiling, her pretty little face grinning up at me over the swollen, engorged bulging of my clitoris. She lifts the massager and I nod frantically, my gagged mouth making pleading noises. The bulbed and vibrating tip touches my clit and sweet euphoria shoots through me for a second. Then it disappears as she slides the massager away, down through my petals, over my perineum, back to my bottom, pressing the wet tip into my brown button.

Mistress Lynda looms back over me. “You’d like to cum, wouldn’t you?” She whispered in my ear. “But I’ll hardly allow that. You know what you are, right Bre? You’re incorrigible. You’re the best and worst of all the submissives. You’re coddled instead of disciplined. For you, there is no difference between punishment and play, because you like the punishments. But I know what hurts you,” Lynda whispers. “So suffer.”

She flicks a hand at Brooke who pulls the massager away from my ass. The pinwheel flows again, fast and hard, digging into my skin, hurting me over and over. My back arches and my toes curl as Lynda aims for the delicate parts of me. Under my arms, along my side, across my hips and loins, and then over and over my pussy. A minute, maybe two, goes by until I’ve lost almost every bit of arousal. It just hurts. Sort of. God I am so fucked up!

The pinwheel comes up off my stinging clitoris. “Now,” says Mistress Lynda, but not to me. “Lick her.” Brooke, still kneeling, puts her mouth on my sex. She sucks in the nub and I am washed with warmth and soft swirls. For a second my brain seizes, unable to cope with the difference in sensation, the move from pain to pleasure. Instead of relaxing, I tighten even more, in different places, gasping through the gag.

“I wouldn’t let her cum,” announces a new voice. My head turns reflexively. It is Mistress Isobel. Behind her, on her knees, arms tucked primly behind her back, is Madeline. She is the only submissive permitted clothes. Or more accurately, instructed to wear them. The outfit provides no concealment for her charms however, with both breasts bared and resting upon frilly white lace. The gold of the padlock on her right nipple, hanging from the circle piercing, glimmers in the light. The skirt of the costume is so short that it does not cover her loins. Maddie’s sex is light pink, shaved clean and clearly dripping.

Evidently, I'm not the only one having fun.

Mistress Lynda bows. “I’m guessing my time is up?” She asks sorrowfully. Isobel nods. Lynda takes a disappointed breath. “Ten minutes to torment this slut is just not enough time to do it right,” she mutters. But she taps Brooke on the head and the tongue on my slit goes away. “Come along, little one.”

I watch as the doctor walks away with her nurse crawling behind her. Then Madeline is there, rising to her feet. She has a bottle of oil and pours so much of it onto my chest that I feel it literally stream downward toward my stomach. Her hands catch it and I realize that Mistress Isobel is nowhere to be seen. I focus on Maddie. She is gorgeous. Petite, beautiful, with a slightly upturned nose, I realize she looks very similar to Kylie, except her hair is darker and longer, falling in ringlets. Madeline’s fingers glide over my skin, spreading the oil. She touches my sex, but only for a moment, and not in an overtly arousing gesture. Then her hands come back up to my breasts, swirling around them, more oil slickening across my skin until I glisten from chin to my sex. She moves down to the end of the bench, to where my legs are spread, tied open, and she oils my thighs, my calves, and then, much to my concern, the bottoms and tops of my feet. She spreads my toes, working oil into each little crevasse as her fingertips caress my soles.

I know how I must look. Mistresses frequently prefer their submissives oiled, and lately it has been a fetish at the Society. I’m practically dripping there is so much lubricant on my body. Worse, it is scented. Chocolate. I inhale deeply, the aroma enticing, mixing with expectations. Over the last year I’ve begun to associate the scent with sexual climax. A fucking bon bon will set me off. Will this night be any different? My body is demanding it. Still, it is relaxing. Madeline caresses me, massages me, with no incessant stimulation other than soft pleasure. She doesn’t avoid my prurient parts, but doesn’t seek them out. In moments I am slipping away, relaxing into utter bliss.

Just as Madeline finishes with my skin, her hands running up my sides to coat my arms, right out to each fingertip, Mistress Isobel returns. She holds two glass cylinders in her hands and light flickers deep within both. Instantly I stiffen, recognizing the coming pain. They are candles, fitted into glass jars. The wax has already been softened, sitting in a crockpot full of water, heated to almost liquid consistency. The wicks are lit, but it would take only a fraction of the lit flames to turn the paraffin into liquid. Madeline backs away and Isobel looms over me, holding the jars. A surge of panic flashes down my body as the jars begin to tip. My back arches and my chest rises and falls in fast bursts as I suck in air around the dildo gag, screaming. I watch, thrashing against my bonds, unable to avoid the first falling stream.

Heat. It bursts against my breast like a firebomb, heating my skin until I feel as if I’ve been placed under a heat lamp to cook. Hot wax, lots of it, envelopes my left breast, coating the nipple and areola in less than a second. Burning melts run off down my ribs and toward my tummy. The heat is intense. Not enough to burn me. No. But hot enough to make me think I am on fire. Even as I rock and twist, Mistress Isobel moves to my other breast, coating it with the same liquid torment. I cry out, tears filling my eyes. It hurts. My chest… it hurts. The falling drips she lets land on my stomach is nothing compared to the searing heat cooking my bosom.

I am so lost in the burning torment that I do not mentally prepare myself for what is coming next. Mistress Isobel moves the candles down until they hover above my spread open sex. I am not even looking, eyes shut against the cooking of my breasts. Then the liquid paraffin falls, splashing and covering, coating and splattering, my clitoris, my folds, my inner depths, my thighs, until there is wax covering every inch of my open pussy. It runs down between my legs, over my perineum, and into the brown button of my ass. Hot flames seem to lick at my clit as my skin is superheated and flash fried. Every muscle in my body goes into spasms and I can’t help feeling that I am being roasted alive.

I do not even realize that I’m having trouble breathing. I am crying, and screaming, and begging, and blubbering. Then I can’t seem to get my breath. I gag. I gasp. I bite down on the dildo in my mouth. Isobel jams the candles into Madeline’s hands and she quickly rips the dildo gag off my head. I suck in a breath of air, but it is only so that I can cry out in agony. A long wail erupts from my mouth, filling the cavernous warehouse space of the society’s meeting room. It seems to echo.

Mistress Isobel makes a brushing off motion to Madeline and then begins to soothe me. Her hands are soft on my head, brushing my hair back as I struggle to catch my breath despite feeling as if I were in an oven. My breasts and sex are still coated, heavily, in hot wax. It has gone solid, but is still so, so hot! I whimper, tears spilling from my eyes. All of the arousal that I had is gone. I feel nothing but the pain and the heat.

Then Maddie returns. Her eyes look sad, as if she sympathizes with my torment. She knows what this feels like. It’s been done to her. And she knows intimately what is coming next. She holds out the flogger to her mistress and Isobel takes it. The strands are leather, thin and long. Each ends in a tiny knot. It will sting. But as Isobel loosens up, rolling her shoulder as she draws the twenty or so leather strands through her fingers, she looks down at me. “It is acceptable to scream. Please be as vocal as you would like.”

I blink at the warning. Or is it a warning? Is it an order? Scream? What does she mean? Why would I need to…

 The flogger cuts through the air with a swish and the very first stroke impacts across my chest with a wax cracking force. I gasp, pain exploding behind the heat. I shudder, violently, toes curled, my arms and legs pulling so hard on the frame of the iBench that it literally creaks from the strain. The shells coating each breast are no match for the vicious fury of blows that follow and wax chips fly from my body with each impact. Isobel swings and swings, slashing down on my top, hammering my breasts over and over until my eyes are squeezed shut and I’m blubbering. I am not sure if she is whipping the wax from my body, or really just whipping my breasts.

Something wet and cool touches my left nipple and I gasp, back arching. Then a breeze blows across my nipple and I open my eyes. Madeline is there, next to me. Her lips are pursed and she licks at my nipple, wetting it again. Another blow, this time cold, makes me shiver. She picks a piece of wax out of my piercing, dropping it to the ground. The paraffin on my breasts is almost all gone, unable to claim purchase thanks to the oil. Not even small flecks. Madeline takes another breath and then releases it and I shiver. It is only then that my brain realizes the danger, cataloging the heat still covering my loins.

Isobel has moved between my legs and her wrist snaps forward, causing the flogger to whip through the air. It lands, crashes even, right on my wax covered cunt, breaking the mold into a thousand pieces. Isobel cocks her arm even as my legs jerk, my hips thrusting upward, but not even the crooning cry from my lips can stop her. She swings again, striking me hard between the legs. The leather straps bite into my sex, flaying my labia and opening me up as my swollen clit takes a beating. Three, then four, and five more blows leave me mindlessly yelling, my loins hot and blistered and raw. And Maddie continues to lick and blow on my nipple.

Mistress Isobel leaves two more strokes on my sex, eliciting cries of pain from me with each stroke, only to bend down herself a moment later, and like her submissive, lap at my scoured and scorched flesh with her tongue. With Madeline at my left nipple and Isobel at my clit, I whimper as wet and cold begin to mitigate the heat and pain. I shiver violently, sucking in a ragged sob. I want to be let up. I want it to stop. I want to cum.

Then Isobel looks up. She gives me a sad look. “I’m sorry, Breanne.” She says it deeply, and meaningfully. I blink, lifting my head to look at her.

“Why?” I manage to gasp.

Then someone who is behind me slips the dildo gag back into my mouth. It is buckled on tight as I struggle with it. Isobel straightens. She looks at Madeline who backs away and gives me a little wave. I am left gagged once more, aching and whipped. There is a new voice. I recognize it and the chill I feel seems to make the hot waxing welcome.

To be continued tomorrow... 

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