A couple of weeks after her ordeal as the ”Offering” at the Manoir, Tara receives a call from Sir Charles.
“How are you, my dear?” asks the old man.
“Feeling great, thank you. I’ve completely healed from our last meeting; no more marks, no more pain.”
“That’s great to hear.” He pauses for an instant, then resumes. “I have a favor to ask from your husband and you.”
“Please, go ahead,” she invites him.
“One of our most valued members has requested a special session and would like you to be our slave for the night.”
At these words, Tara's breathing tightens, and she feels her heartbeat quicken.
“That would be for this Friday night,” Sir Charles goes on. “The party theme is pain. Your pain. We will beat and abuse you all night long. Would that be suitable for you?”
On hearing this, she almost drops her phone. Her mind already racing, thinking about the unbearable pain her body just went through a couple of weeks ago, but also the incredible pleasure it procured her.
“How many people?” she worries.
“Just the four of us,” answers the man with a chuckle. “No big deal.”
Tara stays silent for a few seconds, thinking this over.
“Ok.” She finally says, closing her eyes, sealing her fate.
“Perfect,” approves Sir Charles. “See you on Friday.”
As he hangs up, Tara lets out a deep sigh. Now she has to tell Marc about this new meeting.
She has no doubt he'll be more than happy about it. Seeing her abused and humiliated the way she was last time gave him a thrill beyond words. And, when she was finally fit to make love again, it was with fervor and passion that he took her.
And, when her body could take a beating again, he took great pleasure in making her come again and again, belting and spanking her. Now, they have a chance to live all this all over again. Yes, Marc is going to be happy.
***
As last time, Sir Charles welcomes Marc and Tara from the top of the steps. With one difference: he's not alone. A woman accompanies him this evening.
Tall, her body is wrapped in a long black coat, and only her legs, encased in high leather boots, are visible. The top of her face is obscured by the shadow of a hat, from which her long blond straight hair escapes. Only the tip of her fine, straight nose and her full, blood-red lips are visible.
Marc recognizes her at once. She’s the dominatrix who sodomized Tara the last time. Her wife has no chance to remember her as she never saw her, only felt the pain she inflicted. And she seemed quite good at it.
"Good evening," Sir Charles greets them. "This is Susan. She's the one who requested your presence this evening."
At his side, the woman inclines her head slightly.
"I had the opportunity to enjoy this charming slave for a short ride, and I loved it. But it was far too short," she explains. "Tonight, I'd like us to go further. I'd like us to get to know each other better."
She raises her head a little, uncovering her eyes. Her icy blue gaze pierces Tara as a ferocious smile forms on her lips, leaving the young woman with no doubt about the treatment that awaits her.
"Well, now that introductions are made, let's get down to business," proposes the old aristocrat. "Please, come in."
Marc and Tara follow their hosts into the manor house. As Sir Charles had promised, there's no one else here but them. Their footsteps echo through the corridors of the deserted building.
For Tara, there's no special preparation this time. No bath, no make-up, no staging - this is a private session, not a show.
They pass through the salons but don't take the stairs to the cellars. Instead, they go out onto the terrace and into the alleys of the formal gardens. Marc and Tara are surprised; they'd never set foot outside the mansion before. The only torture chambers they know of are the manor's cellars. It seems the place holds other surprises.
Sir Charles leads them almost to the bottom of the garden, to a concrete structure, similar to a machine room, hidden in a corner.
"This is my private room," he explains, opening the door and ushering them in. "A place accessible to only a select few."
The inside has nothing to do with a machine room and everything with the pleasure of inflicting pain.
Looking around, Marc and Tara are not surprised to see a number of devices similar to those they have observed in use in the cellars. There are a couple of vertical posts with high crossbars - whipping posts - along with a number of various kinds of benches, usually padded and with rings and straps for binding the victim.
Chains hang from the ceiling in several places, and there are some waist-high bars obviously for bending a victim over. A couple of tables, a large X-shaped cross, and a few other unidentifiable items complete the furnishings.
There are several cabinets along one wall, and Sir Charles leads them over. He begins opening doors and drawers and showing them a variety of cuffs, straps, chains, and other binding devices, along with a truly vast collection of whips, crops, straps, canes, paddles and other flogging instruments.
“Remember. If at any time you don’t like something or want us to stop, just say so,” he states, looking at Tara. “Your safeword for tonight is kiwi.”
The young woman answers with a curt nod, still looking around. In addition to the binding devices and the beating instruments, she sees several vibrators, dildos, butt plugs and nipple clamps of different kinds.
All these instruments of torture send a shiver down her spine, a mixture of apprehension and excitement, as she knows well quite a few will be used on her tonight.
Her reaction hasn't escaped Susan, whose ferocious smile stretches a little wider. Hanging her hat and long coat on a peg beside the door, the dominatrix appears in all her splendor.
Aged around forty, her slender, lanky body is that of an athletic woman, with toned, perfectly sculpted muscles. Stripped of her clothing, she now wears only black leather undergarments that bring out her pale skin tone.
Her long blond hair, pulled back into a high ponytail, highlights the perfect oval of her face. Her full lips and elongated eyes further enhance her femininity.
She has the allure and poise of a Nordic goddess. Her generous breasts, with their bouncing nipples, almost spill out of her slender bra. The slenderness of her long, shapely legs is underlined by her high leather boots.
Thin black leather panties barely conceal her hairless crotch, highlighting her narrow hips and flat, toned stomach.
Hands on her hips, she points at Tara with her chin.
“I believe you are a bit overdressed, my dear,” she says in a flat tone.
Tara needs no further instructions. In a matter of seconds, she divests herself of her clothes and folds them neatly before depositing them on a chair. Completely naked, her flaming red hair illuminating her alabaster skin, she kneels before Susan.
Legs spread, hands resting on her thighs, back straight, and head bowed, she submits to the dominatrix's authority. Docile, she offers her carefully waxed intimacy for all to see.
"Good," Susan appreciates. Then she turns to Sir Charles and Marc. "Aren't you too warm in there?" she inquires, ironically.
The two men simply smile in reply and take off their clothes in turn.
"Let the show begin," says Sir Charles.
Taking a set of wrist and ankle cuffs, made of sturdy leather, well padded, with metal D rings attached, he puts them on Tara. Then he lifts her up and places her between the two wooden posts.
Using short pieces of rope, he ties each writ to an eyebolt at the top of the posts. He then uses more rope to spread her legs wide apart and tie them to the bottoms of the posts. Stretched wide and tight, Tara waits for her upcoming punishment.
From the corner of her eyes, she sees Susan picking up a cat-o-nine with two-foot-long lashes. The tails are single pieces of flexible soft leather, about a half-inch wide. Well oiled, not stiff and cutting, these tails will undoubtedly sting but not cut into the flesh.
“There won’t be any warmup tonight,” she warns. “For Pain is the theme of the night, pain you will feel, young slave.”
Susan then raises the cat and lets a hard stroke fall across Tara’s ass. A sharp cry escapes her lips as the leather leaves a red stripe on her backside.
Admittedly, Susan starts easy and seems to get progressively harder, until reaching a truly severe level.
The blows fall on the helpless victim, leaving her skin red, causing her to jerk against her bonds. Crying and screaming, she tries frantically to pull away, to no end.
Spreadeagled between the wooden posts, Tara can’t escape the leather tails that burn her skin. All she can do is moan and yell as the lashes leave crisscrossed red marks on her back and buttocks. Some blows even strike around her front and even her breasts.
After twenty blows, Susan puts away the cat-o-nine and takes another instrument: a single-tailed whip. It consists of an eighteen-inch wood handle topped by a four-foot braided leather lash. The single tail is fashioned of three pieces of leather, braided together, and ending with three inches of each of the separate leather pieces.
It also seems fairly soft, but, looking at it, Marc is sure it will hurt a lot more than the cat. The look on his face must have indicated just that because Sir Charles leans over to him.
“It looks pretty vicious and can do some damage if the wielder is not careful, but just watch,” he says. “Susan knows how to use it, and all she will do is leave a few small welts on your wife’s bottom. They'll be gone in a day or two.”
Marc is not sure how much of that to believe as Susan brings her arm down in a long, graceful arc, sending a singing blow down across her tight buttocks. The three-fingered tail wraps around her left hip.
She lets out a squeal, and her feet seem to almost do a dance for several seconds as she assimilates the pain of the stroke. A red line appears across her smooth skin. A second blow follows the first with a similar squeal and dance.
Marc can see the red lines appear and hear the effect of the snapping leather in the sound of her voice as she cries out. To no surprise, he feels himself growing hard at the sight.
Susan continues to whip Tara until she reaches twenty lashes. The poor victim is unable to hold back her cries since the tenth lash has landed.
Tears are flooding down her cheeks as Susan and Sir Charles remove her from the whipping posts and lead her over to a padded bench.
Tara is placed at one end of the beam, facing it. Her legs are widely spread, and her ankles are anchored to the supporting A-frame of the unit. She is then bent forward along the beam. That leaves her stretched along the length of the padded cross member, her breasts hanging down on either side. A wide leather belt is firmly tied around Tara’s waist, forcing her to arch her back, putting her bottom slightly higher and fully exposing her private parts.
Despite the tears on her face, Marc can see she’s smiling. She looks as though she is full of pride for having undergone the ordeal, so far.
“I am going to wipe that smile from your face,” warns Susan with a stern voice.
Taking up the cat-o-nine again, she starts applying some lashes to Tara’s bottom, but also whipping her flank and even the sides of her breasts.
When the young woman starts crying again, she stops and picks up the single-tailed whip. She delivers three harsh strokes in rapid succession, each bringing a cry and a red welt.
Susan goes on until she reaches twenty. The final lash is especially hard, wrapping the ends of the tails down into the crack of Tara’s ass, bringing a sharp scream from the bound woman.
“I guess she is hot enough for you now, don’t you think?” she says, turning to Sir Charles.
“Perfect,” replies the old man, moving forward with his sex fully erect.
Standing behind Tara, he places both hands on her red cheeks. The touch of the hot, red, firm flesh further stiffens his rod. Grasping her hips, he pushes himself against her. As his steel-hard penis touches her entrance, he discovers Tara is soaked and dripping. At once, Sir Charles plunges into that tight, wet tunnel which clamps onto him with a grip nearly beyond belief.
Feeling that rod of flesh entering her, Tara strains against her bonds and throws her head back as far as her bound position allows. She begins to groan and moan, driving Sir Charles even harder. Pounding violently in and out of that willing body, he drives hard into her, letting his weight crush her bound body against the beam.
After a few minutes of this, the old man can hold no longer. Shoving himself to the hilt into her pussy, he grabs her hips and pulls her back tightly against his groin. As his seed spurts into her bowel and he lets out a groan, Tara begins to wildly convulse, stricken by her own climax.
Marc watches his wife with a loving smile as she comes hard, both from the beating and the abuse. He is happy for her even though he does not really understand how much pleasure she can get from all this pain.
Watching him, Susan seems to have read his mind.
“Everyone is curious when they first witness things like this,” she says. “You’ve been with her for quite some time already. You should know what makes her feel good.”
“Yes. I know what kind of pain she wants,” he answers. “I just do not get it. How does she get pleasure from all this.”
“Same way you are getting excited to see her suffer. But it's not just the sting of the whip. Part of what makes it exciting is the helplessness.”
She looked over at one of the whipping posts.
"Imagine yourself there, your arms pulled high above your head, bound so you can't move them. You're stretched up on your toes, the muscles along the backs of your legs stretched taut, while you wait for whatever is to come. Doesn't that idea excite you?"
Marc realizes he is breathing slightly faster.
"I'm not sure. I think it does, but I still don't see why."
"Look. Let me tie your hands to it, and then you can tell me what you feel."
The man isn’t sure he wants this, but on the other hand, he isn’t sure that this isn’t exactly what he does want. His mind is mixed up, but he has to admit the picture of being bound helpless is having an effect he could never have imagined.
Susan takes Marc’s silence for acquiescence and moves to pick up a pair of leather cuffs, which she starts to buckle around his wrists. He is almost ready to pull his arm back, but the first touch of the leather unexpectedly sends a shiver up his spine.
He lets her apply the cuffs to his wrists, finding them actually quite comfortable. Susan then leads him over to one of the whipping posts. This is a pole, about five inches in diameter, set vertically and reaching a height of eight feet. About seven feet off the ground is a cross beam two feet or so in length.
Susan moves a small block of wood over to the base of the post and has Marc stand on it. She then uses chains attached to the ends of the crossbeam to pull his wrists high and apart. When she has the cuffs secured, she moves the block, which leaves the man stretched and not quite able to keep his feet flat on the floor.
The overwhelming helpless feeling that Marc is suddenly experiencing somehow seems to excite him sexually. He can feel his member begin to harden even more, and the exposed skin of his back feels now super sensitive to even the slightest of air movements.
Susan moves up beside him and lets her fingers trail down from his armpits, along his ribs, to his waist.
"Well, Marc, what does it feel like?" she asks as she sees him shuddering.
"I'm not sure," he replies. "I'll admit it excites me, but I can't really say exactly what I'm feeling."
"It can be a unique sensation," Susan says. "Being stretched. All of your body available for whatever your captor wants to do."
A ripple of movement and excitement goes through him again.
“Tonight, you will experience a number of different things,” she goes on. “I am going to work you over. Just relax and enjoy it. I will!”
The strain on his arms is quite strong, but he knows he will be in this position for a while. Susan goes over to one of the cabinets and soon returns, bringing with her a selection of whips, crops and paddles.
Looking at the instruments, Marc feels himself beginning to sweat. Susan is holding a small cat-o-nine, used to “warm” the victims before the punishment sessions. She approaches him, swinging the tails back and forth.
Marc stares at the swaying leather strands as she nears, his eyes following the mesmerizing movement. Susan stops about two feet in front of him and looks directly into his eyes.
"Just flow with it," she quietly said. "You're going to like it."
The long leather tails look like they could slice his skin into ribbons. Imagining such a thing might be really arousing, while the actuality might provoke an entirely different response. Susan again looks into his eyes, and then, still swinging the cat slowly back and forth, she moves around behind him, out of his field of vision.
He can hear Susan moving behind him. Then it becomes quiet. He can no longer sense any movement of the leather flails, and even the breathing of the woman is so shallow and quiet he can not discern it.