13.As he stands at the bench with the cat in his hands he watches the women. He was aroused as he whipped the fairer one but Pia could not see that. She was absorbed in herself. In the pain of the whip and what that was doing to her mind and her body.
The brunette, the American, had felt his erection in the hands that were bound tightly behind her. She could feel his arousal as he moved himself against her hands. Barbara could sense his sadism, his growing excitement as he lashed her friend. But that was hidden, behind her, their secret, not to be shared.
He knew he was close. Too early. Too soon. No rush. There is time to enjoy them here. Back off. Step away. Away from the blonde with the red welts and streaks of blood. Away from the brunette's bound hands. Put the whip down. Calm. Calm. Breathe deeply. Watch them for a moment. See the fear and confusion in the brunette. Watch the Dutch woman as she slowly raises her head and looks for him through the blood- and sweat-tangled hair that straggles over her tear-streaked face.
A few purposeful steps and he is back beside Barbara. He ficks the knotted strands of whipcord across her breasts, just enough to bite, to get her attention focussed on him. Drape the cat, handle down her back, those knotted strands hanging between her breasts. She looks down, chin tight against her chest. Barbara cannot help but stare at them as they decorate her breasts. The fairer one too, eyes fixed on the knotted cords across her friend's breasts.
He leaves it there and goes back to the bench, to a small bar fridge, and comes back with a large bottle. His fingers in the brunette's hair, tight, tilt her head back and upend the bottle. Push it hard into her mouth. She gulps it, swallowing as much down as she can. Enough, but he holds it hard. Forcing her to gulp more. She feels the excess, rising in her throat, running down her chin, soaking the strands that hang, cold, cold on her breasts. Despite herself she feels her nipples respond. Erect. Lowers the bottle, release her head, cups her breasts, weigh them in his hands, roll and pinch those rubbery teats. Feel the brunette flinch, then push them into his hands.
Another bottle. Stand on a small stool, reach up. Do the same to Pia. Hand in her hair, tilt her head, upend the bottle in her mouth. Force her to drink, to swallow, to gulp it down or choke.
Watch what she can't swallow flood her breasts too. Nipples respond to the cold. Just as Barbara's did. Release her hair. Grab one breast. No gentle caress. Hard! Squeeze it hard in his hand. Crush it. A moan. Grab the other, crush it hard too. Feel her thrust her breasts forward, hard into his hand.
Different, these two. So different. Caress the brunette, a little pain. Here, there. Not Pia though. Rougher with her. Harder, harsher.
The cat now. Stand behind the brunette. Take the handle, slide the knotted strands up over Barbara's breasts. Watch as knots catch on nipples, lift a little, flick as they release. Flick. Flick. Flick. Then it is clear. Whack! What? Across her breasts. Hard. Not enough to break skin but enough to sting, to surprise her. Her head snaps back. A choked scream.
Then step to Pia. The cat is a much shorter whip. Stand close with this one. On her left, just to the side. Rip! Rip! Rip! Three vicious, raking strokes. Onto her right shoulder, rake it diagonally, down her back. The knots tear the skin, blood spots immediately.
Step quickly to her right, three ripping backhand strokes, high on her left shoulder, raking diagonally downwards again. Fresh red welts, blood drops.
Stand behind her now as she hangs there. Rake her back, ripping diagonal strokes. Alternating. A regular, flogging tempo. Strong forehand lashes high on her right shoulder, raking down. Now softer on his backhand. High on her left shoulder, raking down.
Pia is writhing. Pulling herself up with her wrists, arm and shoulder muscles tensed. But held back by the ropes spreading her legs, holding her lower body down. Screams continuous. The skin of her shoulders and upper back split, blood streaks, small rivulets running down towards her arse. Running into the furrow separating her taut buttocks.
Her arse now. Flog it. Hard, vicious, ripping strokes. No art, no science, no careful technique. Just vicious rips. Shredding the skin and the flesh over the taut muscle. How many strokes? 10? 15? 20? He doesn't count. Just lets his sadistic arousal build.
Behind Barbara again. His rock hard cock grinding against her bound hands. Attack the Dutch woman's front now. Rip the cat across her small tits. Down from the left, down from the right. The blood knots are well named. They rip her skin, tear her flesh, her tits are cut, bloodied.
She still writhes at the lashing, arms tiring but her hips dance an erotic rhythm. Her screams have changed. Drawn out groans now with each stroke. Long moans that time with his lash. He targets her belly, raking across it from side to side, tearing welts. Her shaven mound too, blood running more freely. Grinding himself in the brunette's bound hands.
Up between Pia's wide spread legs. Up across her sex. Tear her labia. In between as they part. She tries to drag herself up but she is a captive. The cat driving her up, the ropes at her ankles holding her back to the tearing knots.
Barbara feels him quicken. He is fucking her hands. She looks up at Pia, her friend's eyes are open but they are glazed, she is lost in her pain. Her mind and her body. Pia's writhing builds with his. More vicious tearing strokes and she stiffens, her back arched, sex thrown at the cat. A long drawn scream from Pia and Barbara feels him thrust once, twice, hard into her hands and she feels him shaking. Pia collapses, her body limp, a few spasms, but still now. Hanging from her wrists. Head down. Eyes closed.
He holds himself hard behind Barbara. The bloodied cat draped again over the brunette's breasts. Traces of her friend's blood mixing pink with the sweat of her own fear.
His eyes are fixed on the fairer woman in front of him. Her head hangs down. Her hair, matted with sweat cloaks her face. Below her head, angry red welts, all oozing blood, cover her breasts, her belly, her mound. Blood runs down, each trail gathering with others, before disappearing between her still-spread legs.
Barbara can feel his breathing steady. Feel him relaxing. Coming down from his sadistic high. Then he leaves her and walks to the bench, drops that ripping whip, and picks up another bottle. He raises it to his lips and drinks. She watches the lump in his throat rise and fall as he gulps down the cold water.
WARNING: If you suffer from any form of cardiac or respiratory malfunction, this thread must only be read in the presence of a qualified physician or paramedic.
Even if you don't, keep a phone handy