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When The Itch Becomes Too Much

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Before we had time to react, more staff were called in, and the husband and I swiftly had our hands tied behind our backs. The women were dragged to their feet, and secured in the same way, the wife begging to be allowed to have her second orgasm, then they could do what they wished with her, number 76 whining that it wasn't her fault, everyone else just jumped on top of her. Both were ignored.

Forced onto our knees in a line, we stared at the floor as we were berated. "Fucking animals...no self-control...too stupid to obey a simple instruction, like face the wall...fucking depraved perverts...and, worst of all, DIDN'T pay the premium rate to use the group sex room after your treatments!"

The insults and accusations were roared at us, until it just became one long stream of invective. That is, until the final sentence. "...need to make a fucking example of all four of you arseholes!"

I looked up. What could that mean? Before I had chance to ask, we were being hauled to our feet. "Take them outside, to the open-air arena" snarled the Master, "they want to push the masochist boat out, so let's help them!I think it's time we tested that new batch of crosses we had delivered last week!"

I screamed as we were frog-marched out, down the corridor and towards the door which revealed daylight as it was opened. All I heard behind me was the Master laughing...
 
Barbaria1 said:
Uh oh, in for it now :eek::rolleyes:
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fat slave girl said:
...depraved perverts...and, worst of all, DIDN'T pay the premium rate to use the group sex room after your treatments!" ...
"Take them outside, to the open-air arena...I think it's time we tested that new batch of crosses we had delivered last week!"
Click to expand...

Getting quite good now. And you actually paid for this treatment (but somehow didn't think you'd get horny, which I find difficult to believe)? :confused::p
Crucifixion was in the fine print, wasn't it, which somebody didn't read again? :rolleyes::devil:
 
Jollyrei said:
Getting quite good now. And you actually paid for this treatment (but somehow didn't think you'd get horny, which I find difficult to believe)? :confused::p
Crucifixion was in the fine print, wasn't it, which somebody didn't read again? :rolleyes::devil:
Click to expand...

probably moi :oops:
 
With a shove, each of us was sent stumbling into a large yard, illuminated by the early afternoon sunlight. And it needed to be large - it was playing host to a good number of activities, all of them involving some kind of punishment or sexual excess for at least one of those involved.

A fistful of my hair was grabbed by the Master, who started to force march me to the far end of the yard, with a staff member doing the same for each of my three fellow condemned. As we went, the Master gave us a running commentary on the scenes that we passed, his tone sadistic and gloating. "This isn't just where we bring freeloading chancers like you lot" he told us, "it's for special clients, those who pay more because they want something a bit different, usually something a bit taboo. Like her".

We turned our heads as we passed what at first appeared to be a typical whipping. A fit-looking black woman in her late twenties or early thirties was hanging by her wrists from an upright post, her knees sagging, animal groans escaping her mouth as each stroke of a particularly viscious bullwhip landed. The coal-black skin of her naked body, which was muscular and fit, glistened with sweat and drops of blood from her back and well-curved bottom and thighs. "She has the ultimately shameful fantasy for an Afro-Caribbean woman" the Master explained, "wants to be a slave on a plantation, and get punished like one. Try finding a white man who'll play that game without holding back or feeling self-conscious! Luckily, our man is paid enough to overcome such weaknesses!". As he spoke, the bullwhip landed across the black girl's body again, cutting her from right shoulder to left hip. She cried out, then gasped "thank you, Mass'er!" I looked at the man whipping the poor girl, and realised his shirt, trousers and riding boots were all authentic mid Twentieth Century.

We were dragged further along to see another poor girl in bondage. This one was white, with very long dark hair and pale skin. She was flat on her back on a narrow bench, her arms stretched above her, and her thighs spread. She was beautiful and very young, maybe only in her late teens or early twenties. Her wrists and ankles were shackled to the bench. Her pussy was shaved clean and her nails were painted immaculately, a deep shade of green. "A choice of colour to celebrate her homeland" said the Master. "She comes from Cork, and visits at least once a month for a good hard torture session. And he picks up the bill". The Master indicated a good-looking but older man standing above the victim. In his hand was a single tail whip, and across the young naked body beneath him were numerous marks it had left. As it landed again, the girl squealed through the large ball gag which was firmly strapped in her mouth. The nipple clamps she was wearing couldn't have been comfortable, either.

The couple disappeared from our eye line, to be replaced by a much larger group. Four naked men stood shoulder to shoulder, their arms tied behind their backs like ours, their feet slightly apart. Each one wore a heavy leather mask, which would have completely blocked any vision. Four more naked figures knelt in front of them, one between each pair of hair thighs. Each kneeling nude was busy giving the man above them enthusiastic oral sex. Three were women - I even recognized the slave with the Scottish accent that I'd seen being pulled around on a dog lead, much earlier. But one was a man. Slim, crop-haired and with a good selection of colourful tattoos, he clearly walked the gay path. In fact, the Master overseeing the sucking line of had no cause to land a whip of encouragement on his tight little tush, instead strapping the women into greater efforts.

"We call this blow job roulette" our Master chuckled. "It's for big guys who just can't admit it to themselves. They get sucked off, but they have no idea who by, and we never tell them. It's a real mind fuck, a they can never quite be sure whether they've actually had faggot sex or not!"

As we were dragged past the line, I saw that the third man in the line was actually crying. "Please let it be a woman! Please let it be a woman!" he sobbed from behind his mask. I wonder how he would have reacted, if he'd been told he was actually taking part in gay sex.

Finally, we reached the far end of the yard, and we gssped as we saw our own fate. On the ground were a series of crosses, about ten feet tall, and each with a hole dug into the ground next to it. They were very modern, the wood smooth and varnished, intended for repeated use. They had footrests and fixed leather cuffs at the points where ankles and wrists would go. Protruding from each at the area where the waist would be was a large plastic phallus, each eight inches long. Two crosses were already upright, a groaning naked body on each. I gasped as I looked up - there was number 82! Her beautiful young face was contorted with pain, and her limbs glistened with sweat, but her pussy also appeared moist, and pouting just as much as when I had put my fingers inside her. Next to her was a pretty blonde girl that I had not seen before. She was moaning to herself, and while I could not understand the words, I recognised the language as French.

"Four more customers for you!" the Master said to the team of three burly male staff whose job appeared to be crucifixion team. "We don't use nails" the Master said, throwing me roughly to the hard ground, "we do need you to be able to come back and pay for more sessions. But don't expect a few hours up there to be anything except painful, humiliating and excruciatingly uncomfortable! Do your jobs, men!"

I felt powerful hands gripping my arms, as I was hauled back to my feet and towards the next available cross, and I asked myself if this could really be happening...
 
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fat slave girl said:
With a shove, each of us was sent stumbling into a large yard, illuminated by the early afternoon sunlight. And it needed to be large - it was playing host to a good number of activities, all of them involving some kind of punishment or sexual excess for at least one of those involved.

A fistful of my hair was grabbed by the Master, who started to force march me to the far end of the yard, with a staff member doing the same for each of my three fellow condemned. As we went, the Master gave us a running commentary on the scenes that we passed, his tone sadistic and gloating. "This isn't just where we bring freeloading chancers like you lot" he told us, "it's for special clients, those who pay more because they want something a bit different, usually something a bit taboo. Like her".

We turned our heads as we passed what at first appeared to be a typical whipping. A fit-looking black woman in her late twenties or early thirties was hanging by her wrists from an upright post, her knees sagging, animal groans escaping her mouth as each stroke of a particularly viscious bullwhip landed. The coal-black skin of her naked body, which was muscular and fit, glistened with sweat and drops of blood from her back and well-curved bottom and thighs. "She has the ultimately shameful fantasy for an Afro-Caribbean woman" the Master explained, "wants to be a slave on a plantation, and get punished like one. Try finding a white man who'll play that game without holding back or feeling self-conscious! Luckily, our man is paid enough to overcome such weaknesses!". As he spoke, the bullwhip landed across the black girl's body again, cutting her from right shoulder to left hip. She cried out, then gasped "thank you, Mass'er!" I looked at the man whipping the poor girl, and realised his shirt, trousers and riding boots were all authentic mid Twentieth Century.

We were dragged further along to see another poor girl in bondage. This one was white, with very long dark hair and pale skin. She was flat on her back on a narrow bench, her arms stretched above her, and her thighs spread. She was beautiful and very young, maybe only in her late teens or early twenties. Her wrists and ankles were shackled to the bench. Her pussy was shaved clean and her nails were painted immaculately, a deep shade of green. "A choice of colour to celebrate her homeland" said the Master. "She comes from Cork, and visits at least once a month for a good hard torture session. And he picks up the bill". The Master indicated a good-looking but older man standing above the victim. In his hand was a single tail whip, and across the young naked body beneath him were numerous marks it had left. As it landed again, the girl squealed through the large ball gag which was firmly strapped in her mouth. The nipple clamps she was wearing couldn't have been comfortable, either.

The couple disappeared from our eye line, to be replaced by a much larger group. Four naked men stood shoulder to shoulder, their arms tied behind their backs like ours, their feet slightly apart. Each one wore a heavy leather mask, which would have completely blocked any vision. Four more naked figures knelt in front of them, one between each pair of hair thighs. Each kneeling nude was busy giving the man above them enthusiastic oral sex. Three were women - I even recognized the slave with the Scottish accent that I'd seen being pulled around on a dog lead, much earlier. But one was a man. Slim, crop-haired and with a good selection of colourful tattoos, he clearly walked the gay path. In fact, the Master overseeing the sucking line of had no cause to land a whip of encouragement on his tight little tush, instead strapping the women into greater efforts.

"We call this blow job roulette" our Master chuckled. "It's for big guys who just can't admit it to themselves. They get sucked off, but they have no idea who by, and we never tell them. It's a real mind fuck, a they can never quite be sure whether they've actually had faggot sex or not!"

As we were dragged past the line, I saw that the third man in the line was actually crying. "Please let it be a woman! Please let it be a woman!" he sobbed from behind his mask. I wonder how he would have reacted, if he'd been told he was actually taking part in gay sex.

Finally, we reached the far end of the yard, and we gssped as we saw our own fate. On the ground were a series of crosses, about ten feet tall, and each with a hole dug into the ground next to it. They were very modern, the wood smooth and varnished, intended for repeated use. They had footrests and fixed leather cuffs at the points where ankles and wrists would go. Protruding from each at the area where the waist would be was a large plastic phallus, each eight inches long. Two crosses were already upright, a groaning naked body on each. I gasped as I looked up - there was number 82! Her beautiful young face was contorted with pain, and her limbs glistened with sweat, but her pussy also appeared moist, and pouting just as much as when I had put my fingers inside her. Next to her was a pretty blonde girl that I had not seen before. She was moaning to herself, and while I could not understand the words, I recognised the language as French.

"Four more customers for you!" the Master said to the team of three burly male staff whose job appeared to be crucifixion team. "We don't use nails" the Master said, throwing me roughly to the hard ground, "we do need you to be able to come back and pay for more sessions. But don't expect a few hours up there to be anything except painful, humiliating and excruciatingly uncomfortable! Do your jobs, men!"

I felt powerful hands gripping my arms, as I was hauled back to my feet and towards the next available cross, and I asked myself if this could really be happening...
Click to expand...

OMG!!! We are all going to be crucified .... nowhere in the small print did I see anything about that!!!:eek::eek::eek::eek:

Where is the exit? ... I don't want to die!!!
 
I landed on the wood with a thump, howling as my raw whipped back, bum and thighs made contact. Before I could react any more, my arms were pulled out at each side. Leather cuffs were buckled tightly around each wrist and I was trapped.

The rough hands quickly moved to my ankles, which were similarly cuffed. Then one of the staff knelt beside me, taking a tube from his pocket. Squeezing a large blob of lube into his palm, he reached under my bum and rubbed it over the length of the phallus. "You'll use it" he leered, "and when you do, you'll be grateful to me for this!"

Then he was gone, and I felt the cross being lifted. I gasped as my body slipped down the smooth wood, until the cuffs and the chains to which they were attached stopped me, my arms being jerked painfully in their sockets. I managed to get my soles onto the footrest, which gave me some relief, but the position was definitely not comfortable.

The crucifixion gang moved onto the next cross, and very quickly it was being raised and dropped into place. I looked to my right and found myself staring into the beautiful eyes of number 76.

I looked down at the phallus fixed to her cross. It also glistened with lube. The one on my cross was jabbing painfully into my buttocks, flogged raw as they were. There was only one way to fix that. Number 76 returned my stare, and I know she wanted to as well.

"On three" I called, "One! Two! Three!"

I pulled myself up with all my strength, then sank back down again. The hard plastic slipped easily inside, thanks to the lube and my own hornyness. I breathed a long sigh of relief, and looked back to number 76. She was smiling beatifically, the phallus now buried inside her sweet pussy.

I looked beyond her, where the husband and wife had been raised. They had clearly had no compunction about using their phallusses, impaling themselves on them immediately. The husband was even moving about on his, probably trying to locate his prostate. Evidently, from the groan of pleasure and the rising of his cock for a third time within an hour, he succeeded.

I looked out across the yard. The black woman was still being mercilessly whipped by the plantation owner. No doubt he would own her too, before long, and I looked forward to the grandstand view I would have when his white cock speared her cunt. The young Irish woman was being brought to the edge of climax by the older man, then denied release. I wondered how many times he'd do that before showing her mercy. The first of the men in the Blow Job Roulette line had just cum, the woman - and it was a woman - gulping as her mouth was filled with his seed.

Something caught my eye at the too of the wall which surrounded the facility. A webcam! My God, they're streaming this! I guess there are plenty of people who'll pay top dollar to watch a show like this! Better give them a good show, then!

Flexing my arms and tugging at my cuffs, I look back at number 76 and call out to her. "Hey! Know what I'm going to do, as soon as they take me down from this fucking cross?"

"No?" The big eyes were filled with tears, and all the more beautiful for that.

"I'm going straight to reception, and demand - fucking DEMAND...!"

"Yes?"

"...that they book me in next week, straight away!"

The gorgeous brunette laughed and I knew she'd be making a return booking too. As the husband groaned and ejaculated on the cross next to ours, his latest offering splattering onto the ground below, I just hoped they could fit us in at the same time.
 
fat slave girl said:
I landed on the wood with a thump, howling as my raw whipped back, bum and thighs made contact. Before I could react any more, my arms were pulled out at each side. Leather cuffs were buckled tightly around each wrist and I was trapped.

The rough hands quickly moved to my ankles, which were similarly cuffed. Then one of the staff knelt beside me, taking a tube from his pocket. Squeezing a large blob of lube into his palm, he reached under my bum and rubbed it over the length of the phallus. "You'll use it" he leered, "and when you do, you'll be grateful to me for this!"

Then he was gone, and I felt the cross being lifted. I gasped as my body slipped down the smooth wood, until the cuffs and the chains to which they were attached stopped me, my arms being jerked painfully in their sockets. I managed to get my soles onto the footrest, which gave me some relief, but the position was definitely not comfortable.

The crucifixion gang moved onto the next cross, and very quickly it was being raised and dropped into place. I looked to my right and found myself staring into the beautiful eyes of number 76.

I looked down at the phallus fixed to her cross. It also glistened with lube. The one on my cross was jabbing painfully into my buttocks, flogged raw as they were. There was only one way to fix that. Number 76 returned my stare, and I know she wanted to as well.

"On three" I called, "One! Two! Three!"

I pulled myself up with all my strength, then sank back down again. The hard plastic slipped easily inside, thanks to the lube and my own hornyness. I breathed a long sigh of relief, and looked back to number 76. She was smiling beatifically, the phallus now buried inside her sweet pussy.

I looked beyond her, where the husband and wife had been raised. They had clearly had no compunction about using their phallusses, impaling themselves on them immediately. The husband was even moving about on his, probably trying to locate his prostate. Evidently, from the groan of pleasure and the rising of his cock for a third time within an hour, he succeeded.

I looked out across the yard. The black woman was still being mercilessly whipped by the plantation owner. No doubt he would own her too, before long, and I looked forward to the grandstand view I would have when his white cock speared her cunt. The young Irish woman was being brought to the edge of climax by the older man, then denied release. I wondered how many times he'd do that before showing her mercy. The first of the men in the Blow Job Roulette line had just cum, the woman - and it was a woman - gulping as her mouth was filled with his seed.

Something caught my eye at the too of the wall which surrounded the facility. A webcam! My God, they're streaming this! I guess there are plenty of people who'll pay top dollar to watch a show like this! Better give them a good show, then!

Flexing my arms and tugging at my cuffs, I look back at number 76 and call out to her. "Hey! Know what I'm going to do, as soon as they take me down from this fucking cross?"

"No?" The big eyes were filled with tears, and all the more beautiful for that.

"I'm going straight to reception, and demand - fucking DEMAND...!"

"Yes?"

"...that they book me in next week, straight away!"

The gorgeous brunette laughed and I knew she'd be making a return booking too. As the husband groaned and ejaculated on the cross next to ours, his latest offering splattering onto the ground below, I just hoped they could fit us in at the same time.
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And I thought you were going to demand a refund....tricked me.:D
 
After hearing about this special service provider from FSG and after much soul searching. Bobbie finds herself before the receptionist and nervously begins to fill the questionnaire passed to her.

Male or female disciplinarian?
A mature experienced stern Mistress​

Which implements and how many strokes?
A cat o'nine tails flogger for a full body flogging. Flogged till orgasm or unconsciousness.

Nude or just bare bottom
Completely nude
​
In the public punishment room, or a private booth?
In the public punishment room at a time when there are many onlookers.​

Quietly clinical, or with harsh verbal humiliation?

With harsh verbal abuse regarding my physical appearance, my age and this desire I need satisfied.​

Just punishment, or corner time before/after?

corner time both before and after​

And of course - will Madame be requiring any "personal time" after her punishment?

yes plenty of personal time to hopefully recuperate with a special personal friend​

Any other boxes the beautiful white-coated receptionist might be required to tick?

The receptionist checks a box saying no safe word requested. The applicant accepts the judgement of her assigned Mistress.​

Bobbie asks FSG to review her answers to the questions before signing it. She then returns it to the receptionist.

The receptionist reviews her answers and then stares at the two mature full figured women standing before her. She recognises one as a returnee.
 
not strictly on-topic, but a bit I've written for a FSG PM thread that I'd like to share here:

The ugly dwarf (God knows where he comes from, he's been part of my nightmares/ fantasies since I was a wee bairnie, something deep in my girly subconscious) seizes my leather-bound wrists with his grabber-like oversize hands, and forces me forward. I see my Maestro waiting, bow my head and flex my knee instinctively, in courtesy but not humility. It's a gesture he recognises and acknowledges. I step forward proudly, lifting my breasts, no need for the dwarf to be goading me with his sharp cane, but that's his role.

At the stake he unties the leather, I hold up my wrists for Maestro to clamp them in the manacles that hand from the heavy ring high on the post on chains long enough to let me move pretty freely. The dwarf gropes and pinches my bare flesh, it hurts, yet arouses me, I keep my pride.

As Maestro steps back to admire me, signalling his foul assistant to fetch his precious instrument, with a toss of my hair I flash my dark eyes at his, feeling my own breasts rise and fall, eager, defiant...

It's a long-thonged lash from Andalucia, made from the hide of a fighting bull, lovingly plaited by girls who know the sting of true mastery on their own bare thighs, where they stretch and twine its slender strands. With a serpent's hiss and a thunder-crack, he flicks it, my body swerves instinctively, though I know it's only a practice swing.

Two or three more, and then 'Arsa!' he yells, and strikes with whoosh like a swooping falcon, tearing across my breasts - with a cry, of pain and anger too, my dance begins! To left and right, back and forth, I step and swing, twisting and turning, bowing and leaping, as the fire sweeps round my bare ribs, waist, loins, thighs. There's a sharp, steady rhythm to his whipping, like the pulse of flamenco, my legs, trunk, shoulders, shackled arms respond, my dark hair swings, my eyes flash fire, my sweat-soaked skin gleams in the evening light, the flickering firebrands.

The crowd are thrilled, clapping to the beat, echoing my sharp squeals with their olés. The filthy dwarf is rubbing with his huge hands his huge erection. My Maestro's pleased, he grins in satisfaction, gradually speeding his pace, urging me on with shouts of 'Toma, asi se dansar!'

The chemistry between us is so intense, it's as if we're one being, his strokes, my body's moves in anticipation or response form a mystic, wild harmony growing very more intense, more frantic. As if by telepathy, I understand what he expects of me, with only a nod he tells me to turn to face the harsh, blood-blackened wood. I feel its roughness chafe my bleeding breasts, my thighs instinctively enclose its phallic firmness.

Still I writhe and squirm under the stream of torment, rattling the chains with my flailing arms, throwing my head back, kicking and biting at the well-chewed wood - so many girl like me have suffered in ecstasy in this place! Blood's oozing down my back, my mouth and nostrils full of the hotness of the evening air, my blood, my sweat, my woman's juice, the threatening fires that wait to claim me.

He's slowing now, my moves are growing more adagio - still an unceasing flow of muscles tensing and easing, but now more jerky, more controlled by pain. Yet still I keep my pride, I glance over my shoulder, see him leer in triumph, shake my head and stick out my tongue. Provoked - as I intended - he resumes the battery with furious force, no mere forest-wench mocks the Maestro.

I feel my punishment, accept it willingly, to be defeated by this hombre's my reward, my cherished prize. My legs no longer dance, they strive to hold me as I shake beneath the axe-blows of the whip. I feel my glistening body slipping down the wood, my fingernails claw in vain, I'm swinging as if lifeless on the chains.

The crowd are in uproar, cheering his magnificence, the girls in the crowd throw flowers, they long - I know - to be where I am. He unlocks the manacles, I sink to my knees, "Gracias señor" I whisper. He nods to the dwarf, that creature has me now, the little monster drags me from the Plaza down dank, dripping steps to a cellar where he works his evil will in all my orifices, I submit, knowing this is my fate.

At last, he lays me on the Rack, binding my wrists and ankles in tight leather thongs, begins to heat the branding irons. 'When Maestro pleases, he shall come for you,' he snarls, with a broken-toothed grin, stroking my sore pussy with his monstrous claw.
 
No need to book. Just turn up, they said…
I am standing at the doorstep.
Just turn up…
Hypatia has a mission; Hypatia is a team coach.
And no team without teambuilding.
The folks at the office are bored.
Bored of another cooking contest.
Bored of another paintball battle in the woods.
Bored of another afternoon of faking a survival mission.
It is time for teambuilding.
And they wanted something new, something exciting.
Exciting!
It was up to Hypatia, the team coach, to find something.
Something exciting! The ‘ng’ sounds like an echo of doom.
The doom of duty.
The burden of a team coach! Keep it all the time excitingngngng!
This will be exciting!ngngngng!
Exciting as never before.
The team will learn to know each other as never before!
Naked, barked and snapped at, getting tied up, humiliated, whipped.
Together! As a team!
If we will do it.
First I have to try it out myself.
The burden of a team coach.
A team coach standing at the doorstep.
Behind these walls, the gardens of lust, or hell, or both?
If I will go in, I will enter a world of…a world beyond my imagination?
A thought that makes me afraid, but even more curious, more and more.
How will it be inside there?
I am looking at the form.
‘Male or female disciplinarian?’ it reads.
‘A disciplinarian’? As if Hypatia would need one! Poor disciplinarian that crosses the path of team coach Hypatia!
‘Which implements and how many strokes?’
Strokes!
“Hypatia, what do you think you are going to do?” I ask myself.
Is this a good idea?
I am still standing on the doorstep, looking inside.
‘Nude or bare bottom?”
Nude! Of course! All nude! Yes!
Wait a minute! I am shy! Too shy for all that! Definitely!
Shy! But curious! Imagination! Beyond my imagination!
‘In the public punishment room or in a private booth?’
Public room!? Are they serious?
I am too serious for all that!
Serious? Curious, Serious, Curious!
Curious! Imagination! Anticipation! Nude! The public room! Strokes! Nude! Public room!

Nude? Public room? Me? Shy! I am too shy for that!
I am still standing at the doorstep.
Is this a good idea for a team building?
Is this a good idea to go inside?
 
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