Tales 12

Tales 11

Tales Vol.9

Deep Waters

Tales NHSP 8

Challenge of Love

Tales Vol. 1

Coming of Age

In The Dark II

Breanne's Three - Chicago BDSM

The Society of the Golden Rose

The Silver Locke

Michael Alexander Stories

Choose Your Own Destiny - The Club


13b – On the Rack

The torments of the beautiful dark skinned sex slave attract your eye and you decide that symmetry is a beautiful thing.  Leading Breanne over to the other rack you give her that look: the one that promises unspeakable torment followed by mind blowing orgasm.  For a moment you wonder what makes this girl tick.  What encourages this desire to submit, to allow these torments?  Is it just lust, the over whelming need for orgasm?  Is it the money?  Or does a decent spanking and a painful nipple clamping really change the nature of the beast?  Does it really make her orgasms more powerful?

Now that you are closer you get a better look at the medieval torture device.  Rather than being just a wooden slab, you notice that it is covered in thick dark padded leather.  Each end of the table incorporates a restraint system: metal carabineers, each attached to heavy steel chains, perfect for attaching to the padded leather cuffs already wrapped neatly around Breanne’s wrists and ankles.  To your surprise, there is even a crank, clearly designed to tug the limbs of your red-haired beauty and you wonder what safety mechanism is in place to keep Breanne’s arms and legs firmly in their sockets.  You shrug, knowing that the device’s designers would no doubt keep you from doing something permanently disabling to your willing victim.  But you keep it in mind anyway.

Breanne stands patiently, waiting for your commands, hands held behind her head.  The two wooden clothespins still on her nipples seem to bob up and down with each breath of anticipation, bringing your eyes back to her breasts over and over.

“Strip” you order, nodding toward the bunched up cloth around her waist.  It’s not as if the scrunched up dress is covering her anyway.  Without a sound Breanne lowers her arms, pushing the rest of her dress down and off her body, stepping out of it with a grace that seems impossible.  She turns to face you, once more lacing her fingers behind her head.  Her feet are spread apart, exposing the pink cleft of her sex. 

You guide her forward, helping her up onto the table.  It is merely an excuse to put your hands on her, fingers gliding along her sides, feeling her skin.  It is soft, pliable, perfect for whipping, stroking, or even more diabolical torments.  The small table next to the rack is filled with items perfect for your mind set.  Several candles are even lit, waiting patiently for someone to pick them up and hold them over Breanne’s waiting body.

It takes only seconds for you to secure her wrists and ankles, stretching her quite completely.  You turn the crank and her arms and legs are pulled taut and outward, spreading her slightly on the rack.  She is not spread-eagled, but there is an openness to her legs that would even enable you to mount her if you wanted.  The clothespins lift and fall with each of breaths and you spend a moment, fingers extended, flicking the wooden pegs back and forth, watching the little wince of pain in Breanne’s eyes.

After several minutes you remove the clothespins, having sensitized her nicely.  A small bottle of oil lies on the table and you quickly squirt a generous amount onto to Breanne’s body, working it into her breasts, squeezing and clenching your fingers, only to glide upward and pinch her nipples with cruel twists that slowly break free of your grip as the oil turns her skin golden.  Her eyes are closed but she lets out tiny cries of pain, of pleasure as well, and despite the fact that you have put not a drop of oil onto her clit or sex, she is glistening there as well, clearly aroused by the torments she is experiencing.  You can’t help chuckling cruelly, as if this was true sexual suffering!

You release her breasts and move downward, over her belly.  Oily hands slip there way across her abdomen and then find their way into her moistened slit.  You catch her clit between two knuckles, squeezing and pinching the tender nub rapidly between moving fingers.  She gasps, eyes flying open, her hips arching upward as you manipulate that little kernel, so capable of bringing both pleasure and pain.  A quick lift of the hand and you flick her clit as hard as possible, eliciting a sharp squeal from your willing victim.  Then, before she has time to adjust, you drive the three middle fingers of your hand into her body, penetrating her deeply.  She gasps, her back arching, as you begin rapidly banging them in and out of her sex.

It’s an old technique, but one not widely known, and in a minute she orgasms.  She tries to ask permission before she explodes, to contain it, to control her own body, but the slight wriggling of your fingers, your palm against her clit, the upward force are too much for her to deal with.  Her begging is nothing more than gasps and she ignores your demand to not cum.  You know she won’t be able to stop it.  That’s the point.  Even better, her eyes roll into the back of her head and she begins twitching, suffering from an overload of the body’s nervous system. 

You don’t hesitate a second, reaching over to the small table.  The thick red paraffin candle flickers briefly as you pick it up, already turning it on its side.  The crimson tinged pool of liquid wax glows golden as it starts to fall, pouring in a thick stream rather than as individual droplets.  The was splashes down on Breanne’s oiled right breast, completely covering it in the space of a single heartbeat.  Her scream of anguish fills the dungeon and it even attracts the attention of the club’s attendant.  You look up to see a smiling face nodding approval.  Breanne pulls hard against her bonds, her scream turned to whimpering as the heat sears her breast.  The wax is already hardening, leaving her creamy pink tipped mountain covered like chocolate encased cherry.  You put the candle back down on the table, one hand going back to her sex while the other grabs a second ruby candle.

Once more you drive three fingers into her, causing her loins to spasm.  Trying not to spill the wax, you once more begin finger fucking her, pressing your palm heavily against her clit, your fingers not only wriggling inside her, but pushing upward, stroking the insides of her well.  She is multi-orgasmic, a job requirement for girls of the Club and she can not help herself as you have her in the throes of passion in less than a minute.  You feel her body responding, quivering, closing in on orgasmic pleasure.  A pressed thumb against her clit and she lets out a cry of relief, of release, and of pain as you pour the melted contents of the second candle’s fiery byproduct down upon her other breast. 

This time you do lose her, but only for a few seconds.  You remove your fingers from her well slowly, savoring her wetness.  The candle is replaced on the table and you move a little farther down the rack, resting one slightly fatigued elbow on the leather pad between her legs. 

Sometimes sexual torment is not about pain, or even penetration, but about desire.  Lightly, with an almost grazing touch, you begin fluttering your fingers along her slit, stroking the petals with an almost indifferent attitude.  You frequently touch her extended clit, but make no special effort to pinch or focus on the little nodule.  Fingertips explore her outer and inner labia, all the way down to the little button of her rear, even gently probing.  At first, Breanne only moans in contentment, the endorphins flooding her brain reacting to the light and pleasurable stimuli.  For you, it is rest.  After a minute her sex again becomes charged and you watch as her hips lift, trying to drive your fingers into her well.  Two minutes pass and she is whimpering in need.  At five she is like gelatin, quivering in desperation.  For you, the caress is soft, light and easy.  You could go on for hours.

Instead you opt for only a few more minutes.  To Breanne it makes no difference.  Minutes, hours, days even, it’s just non-stop sexual need.  You can feel her desire, her wanton lust with every little mew and gasp, every time she thrusts forward, trying to impale herself on your fingertips.  Her eyes are closed, lost in the forever darkness of sexual pleasure.  You grab the first candle, knowing that its supply of melted paraffin has been renewed.  She doesn’t see it, doesn’t sense it, doesn’t know what’s coming.  And it isn’t her.

You pull your hand away only as the liquid heat falls directly on her clit.  It splashes down, completely coating her pussy, the tender and sensitive petals before she can even scream.  Her body tenses as she lets her throat respond to the intense heat.  You touch the warm yet semi-solid coating.  It’s not that hot.  It’s that she is sensitive.  You just spent almost a full ten minutes stroking her, focusing her attention, attenuating her nerves.  Her body spasms as her pussy is cooked, skin flushed from the heat.

You step back to admire your handiwork.  Three full thick red wax shells cover Breanne’s delicate parts.  It is high quality wax.  There is no cracking, no breaks.  If you wanted to, you could actually peel them off her body, keeping for all eternity a visible reminder of her sexually.  But that is not your plan.  What would you do with them, place them on your mantle?  A visible monument to your conquest?  Instead you pick up a thick leather sap, a small rectangle of black leather connected to a thick wooden handle.  You swing it experimentally a few times.  It is not made for full arm strokes, but the more rapid wrist smacks.  You turn back to Breanne, whose eyes are now open and she looks at you with calm eyes.

“Are you ready?” you ask her.  It is a silly question you know, since it doesn’t really matter if she is ready or not.  If she is you will hit her.  If she isn’t you will hit her anyway.  She nods however, licking her lips.

“I’m ready, Master.  Please hurt me,” she whispers.  “I’m a bad girl.” 

The grin on your face is infectious and she returns it just as you slam the sap into her breast.  The wax casing explodes, tiny chips of crimson paraffin scattering like leaves on a cold autumn evening.  She gasps, but doesn’t scream, even as your wrist jerks and you bring the sap down repeatedly, aiming for her turgid nipple.  It only takes fifteen or so strokes to break her, the thin wail turning into a head tossing cry that once more draws the attention of the attendant.  He gives you an approving grin and despite the fact that you were ready to move to the other breast, you give Breanne a few more licks with the sap on the already abused spot.  Her cry of anguish is delicious.

The other breast is an inviting target, and you waste no time in crushing the wax covering and scattering it across her body, the padded leather rack, and even onto the floor.  Breanne’s chest heaves as you smack her, letting the thick yet pliable leather enflame her already red tinged skin.  Her breast jiggles under the impact, its softness, its natural shape and beauty taking every blow.  There are no implants at the Club, no fakery.  It’s also a job requirement.  She bucks, trying to twist her body away even as her cries fill the dungeon.  You turn the sap sideways and saw at her tender nipples in response.  Tears fill her eyes.

You are ready to move on, but she is not.  She knows what is coming next, her entire body tense, almost frightened.  You move down her body, flicking errant pieces of wax from her stomach.  Above her clit you hold the sap, waiting until her eyes find you.  Still you hold and finally it is too much for her.

“Please Master!  Hit me!  Hurt me!  I’ve been a bad girl!” she says, her voice a coarse whisper, damaged from her screams.  “I need it!”

It is not what you want to hear.  You want her to beg you not to do it.  She is such a slut; a nympho humiliation pain slut.  But despite your longing for her to beg, it is the pain and pleasure that motivate you; her pain and your pleasure.  So you smash the sap down onto her pussy, shattering the wax bikini and allowing your displeasure at her wantonness, her sluttish needs to add power to your strokes.  The wax afforded no protection to her pussy and in seconds the leather sap is turning her already bright pink and swollen petals fire engine red.  Breanne cries out, her hips lifting upward to meet the sap and you focus on her clit.  It is already well extended past the hood and seems swollen to extremes.  No matter, it merely makes it a better target. 

The direct impact of your sap takes Breanne back to the abyss, pushing her over the edge to orgasmic ecstasy.  It is pain induced and laced with the fiery glow of her waxing, but the repeated blows to her clit has sent her into oblivion. You watch as once more tremors rock her, her body exploding with release.

For good measure you give her a few light taps on her clit and then on each nipple, just to remind her who is command.  She winces, but only small whimpers escape her lips as you put down the sap.  She is exhausted, her lips parted, lost in the hormonal and chemical mix of sexual release.

You want the same release.  While there are more torments you could do to her, lying there on the rack, you feel your own pent up tension and want it gone.  You glace around the room, examining your options.


The barrel seems to be a perfect option.  Take her to the barrel and throw her backwards over it.  Then you can plunge yourself into her hot depths and release some of YOUR pent up tensions. (16a)

You decide that the Vault is the perfect option.  You can lay her over it, face down, and give her the spanking she so richly deserves.  Then she already is in the position for a decent fucking. (16b)