The Last Time Part II

[Kate]

When she came again he stopped. She looked at him, hate in her eyes, but she would not speak though a thousand things wanted to spring from her lips. “Now,” he said, “if you want me to be merciful and not make you bleed, you’ll crawl over to that scaffold. And don’t stand until I tell you or I get the bullwhip out. You remember the bullwhip don’t you. How I’d whip your ass and thighs until they bled. Yes you do, I can see it in your eyes. I’d fuck you so hard afterwards you’d beg me to stop and then when I was done I’d give you a few more lashes so you’d remember not to ask me again. Now crawl.”

“Obey, I must obey”, she thought, “he’s making me pay because it’s the last time he can ever do this to me. And no one will ever do it again. I might let someone turn me over his knee but none of this, never again. And she crawled obediently to the scaffold.

‘Up”, he said and she stood. The scaffold consisted of two posts, set far apart so that she was strained slightly as he cuffed her wrists and ankles to the posts. He sat in his chair, admiring his handiwork, looking in his cupboard and debating. He’d saved this for last, one last special treat. And he wanted to make it good, one both of them would remember.

He stood up, and went to her and ran his hands over her. He’d shaved her pubic hair and now he ran his finger over her, letting his them slip into her pussy until he found her clit and manipulated her until she was twisting and moaning. Somehow she didn’t seem to be able to control her responses to him. Then he took his wet finger and slid it up her ass, listening to her moans turned to screams.

“You’ll miss this,” he warned her, “Whoever he is he won’t do for you what I can. You’ll come back and beg for it. And I’ll send you back to him with bruises all over that pretty ass and your eyes all red and swollen from crying.”

The cane, that was it. Why hadn’t it occurred to him before? He went around her and she heard the whistling just before it hit her. By the third stroke she was screaming. She’d rather a thousand times be whipped than have the cane but it kept on coming and coming and coming and her crying, “stop stop stop stop stop stop stop, please stop”, did her no good.

When at last he did stop, she felt him come into her. His hands on her hips and buttocks hurt as he held her. He wasn’t just fucking her, he was pounding her, and she didn’t even feel it when he slipped out of her pussy and into her ass, using his fingers on her now, not letting up until her screams seemed to fill the basement and would have echoed off the walls had it not been for the carpet.

At last it was over. He came with a shudder and then pulled out of her. He went into the bathroom to clean himself up and then came out and sat in his chair again. He admired his handiwork—the cane would leave marks for days and there were a streaks of blood here and there. He’d like to use the bullwhip and leave a few permanent scars but decided he’d better not.

Her heavy brown hair fell over her face, and she sobbed uncontrollably. He remembered how she used to curse him and frankly preferred that to her silence or tears—he’d always used it as an excuse to punish her more. He went back to the bathroom and brought out a wet washcloth and soap. He cleaned her up and applied an ointment scented like fresh mint to her bruised ass as he admired the dark purple of the bruises on her ass and thighs.. His hands stroked her in spite of her recoiling from his touch.

At last he unshackled her. He caught her as she fell and laid her down on the carpet. He pulled her clothes, purse, and diary out of the cupboard and surprised himself by helping her get dressed and stand, and held her until she was steady on her feet.

“Are you all right to drive?” he asked, his voice almost tender but her reply was cold as ice.

“I’m more than all right. Physically I’m not but I can do it, and I will. I’m out of here now, for good.” The defiance was back in her eyes.

“You’ll miss me,” he said, “no one can do for you what I can. You’ll be back, just wait. You won’t be able to stay away”.

“No, you’re wrong. You’ve beaten me for the last time—and I won’t forget this Roger. No one, I mean no one will ever do this to me again. Never again, do you hear me? Never again”. And before he could answer she ran up the stairs and left, shutting the door on him and shutting him out.

He watched her go with a pang of regret. His anger had subsided now and he knew he had just watched the love of his life leave him. She’d never cared about his money, which had made showering expensive gifts on her a pleasure. She’d even agreed to move in with him, even after her first visit to the dungeon. It would take a long time to find someone like her.

He sighed. Oh well. He went over to the far wall of the room, and a hidden switch enabled him to swing back a door and reveal a large screen television. Then he opened a small door that revealed a video camera. He rewound the tape and set it to “play”. He sat down and picked up his scotch and watched himself, on screen, removing her clothes and hogtying her before he briefly left the room. He settled back and readied himself to enjoy a long, lovely watch.


"This could be the last time, this could be the last time,
Maybe the last time I don't know, oh no"

(The Rolling Stones, but only remember the name of the song, not the album)


Someone tell me why I write stories like this, and maybe I can figure out a way to quit posting them