Brutal Breast Torture
I was highly disappointed with Joan. And she knew it. Joan comes to me to fulfill her submissive tendencies. I met Joan at work, where she seemed to sense that I had the dominant nature that she desired. Although she is married, she has never asked that I make any attempts to hide the sexual damage that I do to her. Her husband is a pathetic wimp who won’t raise a hand against her, and never questions the various marks and bruises that she “mysteriously” obtains. I have attained immense pleasure from sending her home with embarrassing welts and swellings, knowing that her husband will ignore them, but wonder about what activities could lead to such injuries to her precious body.
Most of the men at the office are incredibly attracted to Joan, and with good reason. At 27, she still conveys an impressive glamour. She dresses impeccably, with her long, thick brown hair proudly worn down at all times. Her face is curiously flat, and her lips form an appealing, pouting frown. Her manner of dress downplays the size of her breasts, but cannot hide their fullness. She has highly arched eyebrows, and a pert but relatively large nose. Although only 5 ft, 2 inches tall, her legs give an illusion of incredible length and grace. Many have noticed the creamy whiteness of her skin, and the slightly full look of the flesh on her arms. She frustrates the men by walking very quickly, so that most never get the opportunity to drink in her full beauty.
We maintain a very professional relationship at the office, although I occasionally like to put her in her place. Usually, she submits to my will, but on this occasion, she displayed unacceptable resistance. My demands were modest enough: I merely wished to slap her small ass once as her boss approached us from several feet down the hall. Evidently, she didn’t want to be seen undergoing this by her superior, since he would consider her a slut for not protesting such a clearly insulting and illegal assault on her treasured body. When she refused, I left her immediately, returning to my office fuming. An hour later, Joan entered my office whispering apologies and explanations. “Don’t bother,” I said coldly. “Tonight you are to come to my house and make amends.”
“Anything,” she hissed quietly.
“No safe words tonight.” I told her. “You come and take your punishment or you’ll never receive my administrations again. I don’t need you. There are thousands of women who will gladly submit to my will. When will you ever find a man like me who will give you what you deserve? Not for a long while. How long can you live with the weak tenderness of that pussy you married without crying out for the pain you crave? And how will he look at you then? He’s a good provider, but is he willing to subject you to what you need? No.” Joan looked down sheepishly. “I’ll be there at 7:00,” she said. “Make it 6:00,” I demanded. We need to be finished before the sun goes down.”
“Why?” she asked. But she knew I wouldn’t say.
Joan was clearly repentant, since she arrived at 5:30. I made her wait until the appointed time, preparing my equipment, and forcing her to anticipate the torment that awaited her. She knew it would be the worst of our sessions. I occasionally glanced at her through the one-way mirror, and I could see that she was highly aroused at the unknowable ordeal that lay ahead.
Finally, I opened the door and led her into what was to be Hell for the afternoon.
She seemed taken aback by the sparse furnishings of the “dungeon.” The only furniture in the room was an ordinary coffee table. I held a length of coarse rope, and I had set up a video camera to record the event. There was also a cardboard box, but I didn’t care to reveal its contents to Joan yet.
Joan was still wearing the white silk blouse and blue skirt she had worn to work, as I had insisted. I put my hands upon the collars, and ripped the blouse down her shoulders. She winced, knowing she would have nothing else to wear home (she had long ago learned not to bring extra clothes with her in her car; she knew I would follow her home and be sure that she walked back into her house wearing whatever I wished. And of course I always insisted that she call her husband before she went home, with me listening on the extension, so that he would be awake to see her state when she returned to him). Next, I tucked my fingers under the beltline of her skirt and yanked with all my might. Joan’s lovely legs buckled under her and she fell to the floor, as her $80 skirt ripped off of her. I held the remnants of the skirt in my hand, and looked at her lying on the carpet. A sturdy bra held her soft breasts in place, and pantyhose covered her pale legs. I kicked her in the ribs hard, and she let out a squeal.
I didn’t have to tell her to remove the panty hose. She quickly doffed them, revealing her gorgeous legs. Next she pulled down her panties, and tossed them away, knowing she would never see those again. Finally, she released the hooks of her bra, and her magnificent tits fell into view.
From this point, she obeyed my commands without hesitation. I ordered Joan to sit under the coffee table. The table was the perfect height upon which to rest her tits. I took the rope and tied it tightly above her knees, spreading her legs to fasten them to the opposite legs of the table. I wound the rope about her arms, and tied them to the same table legs that secured her own legs, so that she was fastened to the table, unable to move, with her lovely boobs lying before her on the table top.
Now I revealed my plan to her. “I’m going to punish your left tit tonight. If all goes well, it will be twice as big as it was before!” Joan’s eyes widened. She was ungagged, as I wanted to her the inevitable screams of pain she would utter this afternoon. I undid my leather belt, and held it up threateningly. I feasted on the fear in her eyes, and then let loose with a savage whip upon her left tit, which lay immobile, resting on the coffee table. She screamed, as expected and desired, as the belt lashed across the top of her breast. Immediately, a violent red welt arose across that tender flesh. I quickly followed with three more lashings against her lovely boob.
I stopped to admire my handiwork. The last stroke had lacerated the skin, and a raw strip appeared, oozing streaks of blood. “I hope you enjoyed that,” I said. Joan looked up at me with a mixture of loathing and desire. She didn’t protest.