A Slave's Diary – Part 9 SeXStoRY

Susan was shaking with fury. She wasn't used to having her orders disobeyed, and the sight of me and Margo lying entwined nude on my bed enraged her. She came at us with a ferocity that shocked and frightened me. I was physically bigger and stronger than she was, but the anger and adrenaline gave her strength she wouldn't normally have. She pulled Margo to the floor by the hair, and began slapping her wildly. Her open-palmed blows fell on Margo's face and neck and tits. The sound of flesh striking flesh was startlingly loud in the confined bedroom. I should have gone to her aid, but I was intimidated. I huddled on the bed, with the sheets clutched to my chin, and watched in wild-eyed horror as Susan vented her rage. Susan's behavior recalled Mary Ellen's irrational rages. Suddenly, I was no longer a grown woman of thirty. I was once again the frightened, insecure c***d I'd been at thirteen. Margo screamed, and tried to ward off Susan, but it was no use. Susan wouldn't be denied. I thought Susan would tire, but her energy seemed inexhaustible. After she'd reduced Margo to a cowering, sniveling shell, she came after me. I scooted across the bed, and tried to flee the bedroom, but she was as quick as a striking snake. She caught me by my hair, and brought me up short. I tried to turn around, but she pulled me to the ground, and straddled my chest before I realized what was happening. Her muscular thighs dug into my ribs while her hands slapped my face. I was crying like a little girl, and had stopped resisting. I was guilty of disobedience, and some secret part of my heart acknowledged that, and told me to accept my punishment. After a while, Susan's fury abated. She released me, and got to her feet. Lydia had returned, and was standing in the doorway, watching. There was a sardonic smile on her face, and in that instant, I hated her. She'd taken a moment of incredible beauty and gentleness, and turned it into an object of shame and remorse. In the short time that I'd known her, I'd come to realize that Lydia could be hard and cruel, but I never thought she'd turn that cruelty upon me. I now knew better. Susan's hair and clothing were dishelved. Breathing hard through her mouth, she straightened herself as best she could. Margo and I were still huddled on the floor. I was filled with remorse. Susan had accepted me into her life, and I'd betrayed her trust by disobeying her. I wanted to make amends, but knew that it was too soon to make an overture. "Lydia, take them to the dungeon," Susan said. "I'll be along shortly." I had no idea what Susan meant, but both Lydia and Margo did. Lydia's smile widened, and Margo gave a gasp of shock. Lydia herded us through the house, and out the back door. Behind the house stood an unattached garage. I'd seen it before, but hadn't taken much notice of it. Provincetown is small, geographically, and Susan walked everywhere she wanted to go. I assumed she housed a car in the garage, but I'd not taken the time to look. The moment Lydia led us through the door, I saw that my assumption was mistaken. I also discovered why Susan referred to it as the dungeon. The entire interior had been made over so that it could serve as a bondage and discipline training center. Benches and racks and stockades were s**ttered about. There were devices I'd never seen before, and some whose use I couldn't begin to guess at. Lydia took Margo over to a device that resembled a squat rack. It was about seven or eight feet tall, and about three feet across. Along the length of both vertical beams were steel hooks. Margo seemed to know what to do. I could see that she was afraid, but she dutifully positioned herself within the frame's structure, and waited while Lydia got wrist and ankle restraints from a box near the door. Lydia put the cuffs on Margo, and used lengths of short, stout chain to attach her wrists and ankles to the hooks in the supporting beams. When she was done, Margo was secured with her legs spread, and her hands upraised, as though in supplication. Lydia took a length of thin white rope, and bound Margo's breasts. It was a more complicated binding than I'd seen before, with the rope winding around her throat. Margo was crying silently. The tears splashed down on her out-thrust breasts. Her lower lips quivered. When Margo was completely secured, Lydia turned to me. She took me over to a straight-baked wooden chair that had a hole carved in the seat. I was made to sit while Lydia tied my legs to the chair legs, and bound my hands behind me. She fit a ball gag into my mouth, and secured it with the Velcro fasteners. It was made of hard rubber, and stretched my jaw uncomfortably. I found that I couldn't stop myself from drooling, and soon, my lower face, and upper chest were slick with spit. Satisfied that we were both ready, Lydia left the garage, leaving us alone. Susan was a master psychologist. She kept us waiting, knowing that our imaginations would be working overtime. I kept looking at Margo, but she avoided my eyes. She was more terrified than I'd ever seen her. Her limbs trembled violently in her shackles. Her breasts turned pink, then mauve, and then finally red as the ropes around her tits cut into the bl**d flow. They were swollen, and when she moved, they bounced and jiggled like water balloons about to burst from the pressure of too much water. By the time Susan entered the garage, we were both on tenterhooks. Susan wore a black mask that covered the upper portion of her face. Around her neck, she wore a satin choker with a cameo at its center. Her breasts were bare, and she'd inserted a large gold ring through her left nipple. Below that was a tightly-cinched black corset trimmed with red. Garters held up black mesh stockings. Spike-heeled shoes covered her feet. Lydia, who trailed in her wake, wore a similar outfit. Both women carried whips. Susan walked languidly up to Margo, and fondled her breast. Margo shuddered at the touch. A low moan escaped her lips. "Was it your idea?" Susan asked. They both knew what she meant. Had it been her idea to make love to me? I wanted to say that the idea had been mutual, but I couldn't talk. All I could do was make incoherent sounds in my throat and mouth. Lydia glanced over, but Susan ignored me. "Yes," Margo admitted. Her voice quavered on the word. "I thought so." She turned to look at me. "These are what Margo is most proud of," she said, reaching out to touch her breasts again. Her fingers lazily trailed across the upper curvature of Margo's tit, then dipped, and captured the ring that penetrated the nipple. She tugged at it, watching Margo's pain-filled reaction. "When she first came to me, she was ashamed of them. She walked hunched over, like she was trying to hide them. She wore baggy clothing, and she even tried binding them to keep them hidden. Such a waste." Susan walked slowly up and down in front of Margo. I watched her buttocks undulate with the motion of her hips. She wasn't as full- figured as either Lydia or Margo, but she managed to project a sensuality neither of them could match. Sex oozed from every pore of her body, and underlying it all was a sense of danger so palpable, you could almost touch it. The mask she wore only added to the aura. I was affected by it, and so was Margo. She was shaking like a leaf in the wind, and her chest rose and fell with the intensity of her breathing. "I taught her how to take pride in her body," Susan continued. "But it was on my terms. Never hers. Margo had trouble with that at first, but she learned." Susan paused, and then said softly, "Or so I thought." "I'm sorry, Mistress," Margo said. She was crying brokenly now, and made no attempt to stop her weeping. "I'm sorry, Mistress." "Sorry doesn't cut it," Susan said, in a voice that was cold as ice. "You know my rules." Margo's head fell forward, then snapped abruptly up. The rope around her neck cut into her windpipe, forcing her to hold herself erect. I saw now the genius of Lydia's binding. Not only did it f***e Margo to look at Susan, but it f***ed her to arch her back so that her breasts were displayed as though on a shelf. They were naked and defenseless against whatever punishment Susan decided to administer. "Are you ready?" Margo, choking, nodded her head slowly. I wondered why she didn't ask Susan to stop, and then remembered the cardinal rule. If she asked Susan to stop, her life as a slave would come to an end. For Margo, it was worth suffering any indignity to continue in the lifestyle she'd willingly chosen. Susan and Lydia worked in tandem. It was obvious they'd done this before, so practiced was their beating. In the confines of the garage, the sound of the whips rising and falling, and Margo's cries of pain and humiliation echoed hollowly. It was a scene I was destined to never forget. Susan worked methodically. She whipped Margo's breasts with a slow, deliberate motion designed to prolong the agony. She used a modified cat o'nine tails. Each tendril of the whip ended in a knot that left a pea-sized welt on Margo's skin. It cut through the air with a sound like fabric being torn in two, and ended with a sharp, smacking report. Margo tried to suppress her screams, but it was humanly impossible. She cried at the top of her lungs, and shook and danced in the confines of her bounds while she tried, futilely, to dodge Susan's uncannily accurate blows. Simultaneously, Lydia whipped Margo's back and buttocks. She worked less methodically than Susan did, but it was still in perfect counterpoint to her partner. Each lash across Margo's back caused her to lunge forward at precisely the moment that Susan applied the whip to her breasts. The blows to her chest caused her to cringe backward, right into the path of Lydia's subsequent lashing. So it went, with Lydia and Susan whipping, and Margo caught between them like a helpless fly caught in a spider's web. It seemed to me at the time that the whipping lasted forever, but it couldn't have been more than five minutes in duration. After twenty lashes, Susan signaled a stop. Margo hung limply from her restraints. She tried to keep her head up, but the exertion was too much for her. With a sigh, she let her head slump forward. Lydia came up to her from behind, and cut the rope around her neck with a knife she'd secreted in the bosom of her corset. Margo drew breath in through her mouth with a harsh and ragged sound. Susan unlocked the ankle restraints first, and then released the wrist cuffs. Margo crumpled to the ground without a sound. She lay curled in a fetal ball, her hands grasping her red and tortured tits. Her butt was as red as a cooked beet. She trembled and shook and cried uncontrollably. "Take her inside," Susan said to Lydia. I was surprised at how easily Lydia picked Margo up from the floor. She was stronger than she looked. Cradling Margo in her arms like a sl**ping c***d, Lydia left the garage. When she had gone, Susan came over to stand in front of the chair where I was bound. She tapped the handle of the cat o'nine tails against her opened palm. Behind the mask, her eyes were dark and opaque. "Now then," she said. "It's your turn." End of Part Nine