windar
Teller of Tales
Chapter 5: Carole Tries to Write
Carole watched the sky outside her bedroom lighten after what had probably been the most uncomfortable night of her entire life. It had started with James making her lie on her back and tying her arms over her head to headboard of the bed.
The position was uncomfortable in and of itself, but made much more so by the tenderness in her butt from its encounter with the strap and the cane. Even her softest sheets chafed the raw flesh. Her position did allow her to turn partway onto her side, but that stretched her arms and shoulders, such that she could only hold the position for a short time, before being forced to collapse back onto her back.
What had made things even worse was the insistent sexual arousal that she was desperate to satisfy, but was unable to find a means to provide the needed stimulation. And that bastard James seemed impervious to her pleas to fuck her until she produced her literary magnum opus.
She had laid there, a prisoner in her own house while he amused himself. The sounds she could hear from the living room suggested that he was watching a ball game. He was probably drinking up her beer from the refrigerator as well.
After a while, she heard the TV shut off and soon he appeared in the doorway, staring down at her. “Comfy?” he asked.
“No,” she replied. “Not in the slightest.”
“I’m sure that this will motivate you to write a bang-up story tomorrow,” he said. Then he proceeded to strip, tossing his clothes in a random pile on her dresser-he had made her fold hers neatly-and went to the bathroom to do whatever he needed to do.
Very shortly, he was back, crawling into bed next to her. She couldn’t help noticing that he had the beginnings of an erection. He turned towards her and began stroking her breasts. “Have I told you that you have beautiful breasts?” he asked.
“I believe you did.”
He smiled. “I guess I did,” he said, and continued stroking, as his cock continued growing. Soon the stroking evolved into him kissing her breasts, licking the soft peaks and nibbling on her nipples, something that never failed to arouse her.
Carole moaned with pleasure. “Don’t you think it’s silly to be in bed with a woman who’s desperate to get laid and not take advantage of the situation?” she asked.
“Oh, believe me, I’d love to. You can feel how hard I am.”
And indeed she could. His erection was pressing insistently into the side of her waist.
“But,” he continued, “It will have to wait. I’m sure tomorrow you’ll write a terrific story and we can spend tomorrow night screwing our brains out. But for now I’ll have to make do with this.”
And ‘this’ turned out to be him kneeling astride her belly and placing his cock between her tits, which did nothing whatsoever to relieve her horniness. Aside from that, his weight pressed her butt into the sheets, aggravating the still tender flesh. She moaned, now in distress rather than pleasure.
He ignored her distress and rocked his hips back and forth, sliding his cock in between her tits, a look of bliss on his face. “That feels so fucking good,” he said.
Carole wished she could say the same.
Mercifully, after what were probably only a few minutes, but seemed to her like hours, he sped up his motions and groaned “Oh, fuck!” as he orgasmed, sending the first couple of spurts onto her neck and chin before dribbling the next few onto her breasts.
After a few moments to catch his breath, to her great relief, he climbed off her and rolled onto his side.
“May I please have a washcloth?” she asked.
He turned towards her, examining her carefully. “You look lovely just like that,” he said, then rolled over and was asleep in no time. Carole laid beside him listening to him snore while she felt his semen drying on her skin, felt the discomfort in her butt and feet and the cramping in her arms and shoulders. She figured that she may have nodded off for a few hours of fitful sleep at various points during the night from sheer exhaustion, but she really felt like shit this this morning. Now she was supposed to write something great? And if she didn’t, she’d face god knows what punishment?
Eventually, she felt him stir and stretch. “How’d you sleep?” he asked.
“Like crap,” she replied.
“Well, I slept great. I’m refreshed and ready to take on the day!” He examined her boobs and neck. “You see, it dried just fine. You can barely tell there was cum there,” he said.
“I feel gross,” she said. “I really want to wash it off.”
“No time for that,” he said. “Focus on your writing.”
She looked at him. ‘Seriously?’ she thought. ‘Like I can’t spare ten seconds to wash my face and boobs?’
“Oh, and our ‘date’ is over. I’m ‘sir’ to you from now on until you finish your story.”
‘He’s really playing with me,’ Carole thought. It was frustrating, but she wasn’t up for another flogging just now. Her ass was still sore and she was pretty sure her feet would give her grief as soon as she stood. “Are you going to untie me, sir?” she asked. “I don’t think I can write like this.”
“Of course,” he said and set to work undoing the ropes. It took quite some doing, as her movements during the night had caused the ropes to tighten, but finally she was free. She sat up rubbed her sore arms and shoulders.
Finally, she started to stand. The movement sent a shot of pain through her ass, and her when she put weight on her feet, they let her know that the bastinado was no joke. But she righted herself and limped to the bathroom.
She wanted to close the door for some privacy, but he said, “Uh-uh, sweetheart, I know what you’ll do as soon as the door closes. I need to watch you to make sure your hands stay by your side.” He stood in the doorway, dressing, watching her the whole time as she sat on the toilet and emptied her bladder. She would have turned her bank account over to him for the chance to rub one out, but no dice.
When she was done, she glanced in the mirror. She looked terrible-bleary-eyes, hair a mess. Despite what he said, there were clear traces of his secretions on her tits, neck and chin and it grossed her out, but orders were orders.
She craned her neck to try to see her butt. It seemed the redness was diminished from yesterday, but the weals were still quite visible.
“Those lines are perfect. I did a good job, if I don’t say so, myself,” he crowed.
He stepped out of the way and followed her to the kitchen. She could sense his eyes trained on her ass the whole way.
“What’s on the breakfast menu, sweetheart?” he asked.
“I hadn’t planned anything, sir. I can make coffee and heat up a couple of bagels and there’s apples and bananas and grapes.”
“That’ll be fine,” he said.
She started the coffee, put the bagels in the toaster oven and set some fruit in a bowl. Then, she set the table and put the food and the coffee out and started to sit across from him.
He held out his hand to stop her. “As I said, our date is over now. We’re not husband and wife or boyfriend and girlfriend. I’m here for a purpose-to motivate you to write. We shouldn’t sit at the table as equals. Stay there,” he ordered and went out into the living room.
She knew it was forbidden, but while he was out of sight, she couldn’t help herself-her hand strayed down to her pussy. “I knew it!” he cried when he returned and saw her. “I leave for fifteen seconds and you’re trying to get off. Well, these will take care of that!” He held up the handcuffs from yesterday. “Hands behind your back!”
“But, sir, how will I eat with those on?”
“Are you questioning an order?” he demanded, sounding angry.
“No, sir,” she replied, putting her hands behind her so he could cuff them. He sat and pointed to a spot beside his chair. “Kneel!” he ordered.
She knelt. She found it hard to keep her balance with her hands behind her, but, with considerable effort, she managed. He pulled out his phone and scanned the day’s news as he sipped his coffee and chewed on the bagel.
“Hungry?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.” It was humiliating to her that she had no control even over something as basic as eating.
He peeled a banana and fed it to her, as he’d fed her his cock yesterday. Then, he let her carefully sip some coffee.
After a while, he stood. “OK, let’s see if yesterday’s treatment had the desired effect.”
It wasn’t easy for Carole to stand with her hands behind her back, but after a couple of attempts and with great effort, she did and followed him to the living room. He bent to reach into his duffel bag. Her heart was racing, wondering what instrument of torture he was going to pull out.
He emerged with an old fashioned spiral bound notebook and a dime store pen.
She stared at it. “But, sir, I publish on line. I write on the computer. How would I publish from that?”
“Don’t worry. If it’s any good you can type it in after. I don’t want you distracted by going on web sites,” he told her. “Now, go sit down,” he said, indicating the chair that sat in front of the desk by the window. Fortunately for Carole, its seat was well-padded and she was able to sit without too much distress.
“Sir, how can I write with my hands behind my back?”
“I didn’t expect you to, Carole,” he told her as he unlocked the handcuffs. “But keep your hands up on the desk where I can see them. I’ll be watching.” He sat down on the sofa with his laptop and started reading something that she couldn’t see. Periodically he looked up to see what she was doing.
What she was doing was trying to pull herself together to start writing. It wasn’t easy with someone watching you, knowing that some undetermined, but almost certainly terribly painful punishment awaited you if you failed only added to the pressure. And the distraction of a sore ass that flared up every time she shifted in the chair definitely didn’t help.
After a while he strolled over. “How’s it going, Carole?” he asked.
She showed him a short opening paragraph. It was a story about an American student in some foreign land who got into trouble and ended up in prison. She knew it wasn’t great, but it was what she had right now.
“Meh!” he said. “I hate to judge just on the first paragraph. I want to see two pages this morning minimum.
She tried, she really did, but she kept losing the thread of the story. Her eyes were having trouble focusing from lack of sleep, her ass and feet ached and he kept looking at her.
He stood and approached her. “Give it to me,” he ordered. She handed it to him. He read it, tore the pages out of the notebook, ripped them into pieces and dropped them on the floor. “This is garbage, Carole, and I think you know it.”
“Yes, sir, you’re right.”
“Obviously yesterday’s punishment was insufficient to motivate you, so we’ll have to try something a bit more severe.”
Carole felt sick to her stomach. ‘More severe than yesterday?’ she thought. “I don’t think I can take that, sir.”
“You should have thought about that and written something up to your usual standards. I’m afraid you’ve earned the whip.” He went to the duffel bag and quickly found what he was looking for. He grasped it by its wooden handle brandishing the five two foot long rawhide thongs that were attached to it. “It’s not quite a cat o’ nine tails since there are only five, but I assure you it is extremely effective at motivating lazy sluts, which you seem determined to be.”
Carole was close to panicking now. She slid off the chair onto her knees. “Please, sir!” she begged. “Give me another chance. I know I can do better.”
“Sorry, you’re out of chances. Remember, the only way out is through.” He laid the whip on the sofa, rooted around in the bag and extracted a metal rod with metal rings on each end. It looked like the rod that holds a shower curtain. He found a screwdriver and a small plastic baggie containing screws.
He went over to the doorway between the living room and the kitchen and began screwing the rod in place an inch or two below the top of the doorway. “Don’t worry,” he told her, “I’ll take it down and patch the holes before I leave. Or you can leave it in place and do chin ups.”
The fact that he wasn’t going to permanently damage her house was not that reassuring to Carole.
He found a couple of bungee cords in his bag. “Over here!” he ordered.
She rose unsteadily, but seemed frozen in place. “Sir, please, I’m ready to write now.”
“If I have to drag you over here, there will be extra,” he warned her.
Slowly, reluctantly she came over to stand under the bar. He wrapped the bungee cords around her wrists. “Turn and face the living room,” he ordered.
She turned. He raised her arms and wrapped the cords around the bar, stretching them tight. “Ideally, you would be hanging with your feet off the floor or at least on tiptoe, but the doorways in most houses aren’t tall enough, so this will have to do. The upside is that you can dance under the whip.”
She was near tears now. But there was more to come.
He went again to the horrible duffel bag and pulled out something that made her heart skip a beat. It was a video camera, with a tripod. He set it up in front of her and ran a cable to her TV.
“You aren’t going to film me, sir?” Her voice was quavering.
“Yes, I am. I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this, so I didn’t record yesterday, but you’ve left me no choice.”
“What will you do with it, sir?” she asked. She would just die of shame if anyone she knew ever saw it.
“I don’t know. I could put it on a porno site.”
Carol imagined a co-worker or one of her friends or a parent or sibling coming across it. She started crying, her body shaking with shame and fear.
“I might just keep it for my own pleasure. Or maybe erase it all when we’re done. It depends on you. Now, it’s show time,” he said.
Carole watched the sky outside her bedroom lighten after what had probably been the most uncomfortable night of her entire life. It had started with James making her lie on her back and tying her arms over her head to headboard of the bed.
The position was uncomfortable in and of itself, but made much more so by the tenderness in her butt from its encounter with the strap and the cane. Even her softest sheets chafed the raw flesh. Her position did allow her to turn partway onto her side, but that stretched her arms and shoulders, such that she could only hold the position for a short time, before being forced to collapse back onto her back.
What had made things even worse was the insistent sexual arousal that she was desperate to satisfy, but was unable to find a means to provide the needed stimulation. And that bastard James seemed impervious to her pleas to fuck her until she produced her literary magnum opus.
She had laid there, a prisoner in her own house while he amused himself. The sounds she could hear from the living room suggested that he was watching a ball game. He was probably drinking up her beer from the refrigerator as well.
After a while, she heard the TV shut off and soon he appeared in the doorway, staring down at her. “Comfy?” he asked.
“No,” she replied. “Not in the slightest.”
“I’m sure that this will motivate you to write a bang-up story tomorrow,” he said. Then he proceeded to strip, tossing his clothes in a random pile on her dresser-he had made her fold hers neatly-and went to the bathroom to do whatever he needed to do.
Very shortly, he was back, crawling into bed next to her. She couldn’t help noticing that he had the beginnings of an erection. He turned towards her and began stroking her breasts. “Have I told you that you have beautiful breasts?” he asked.
“I believe you did.”
He smiled. “I guess I did,” he said, and continued stroking, as his cock continued growing. Soon the stroking evolved into him kissing her breasts, licking the soft peaks and nibbling on her nipples, something that never failed to arouse her.
Carole moaned with pleasure. “Don’t you think it’s silly to be in bed with a woman who’s desperate to get laid and not take advantage of the situation?” she asked.
“Oh, believe me, I’d love to. You can feel how hard I am.”
And indeed she could. His erection was pressing insistently into the side of her waist.
“But,” he continued, “It will have to wait. I’m sure tomorrow you’ll write a terrific story and we can spend tomorrow night screwing our brains out. But for now I’ll have to make do with this.”
And ‘this’ turned out to be him kneeling astride her belly and placing his cock between her tits, which did nothing whatsoever to relieve her horniness. Aside from that, his weight pressed her butt into the sheets, aggravating the still tender flesh. She moaned, now in distress rather than pleasure.
He ignored her distress and rocked his hips back and forth, sliding his cock in between her tits, a look of bliss on his face. “That feels so fucking good,” he said.
Carole wished she could say the same.
Mercifully, after what were probably only a few minutes, but seemed to her like hours, he sped up his motions and groaned “Oh, fuck!” as he orgasmed, sending the first couple of spurts onto her neck and chin before dribbling the next few onto her breasts.
After a few moments to catch his breath, to her great relief, he climbed off her and rolled onto his side.
“May I please have a washcloth?” she asked.
He turned towards her, examining her carefully. “You look lovely just like that,” he said, then rolled over and was asleep in no time. Carole laid beside him listening to him snore while she felt his semen drying on her skin, felt the discomfort in her butt and feet and the cramping in her arms and shoulders. She figured that she may have nodded off for a few hours of fitful sleep at various points during the night from sheer exhaustion, but she really felt like shit this this morning. Now she was supposed to write something great? And if she didn’t, she’d face god knows what punishment?
Eventually, she felt him stir and stretch. “How’d you sleep?” he asked.
“Like crap,” she replied.
“Well, I slept great. I’m refreshed and ready to take on the day!” He examined her boobs and neck. “You see, it dried just fine. You can barely tell there was cum there,” he said.
“I feel gross,” she said. “I really want to wash it off.”
“No time for that,” he said. “Focus on your writing.”
She looked at him. ‘Seriously?’ she thought. ‘Like I can’t spare ten seconds to wash my face and boobs?’
“Oh, and our ‘date’ is over. I’m ‘sir’ to you from now on until you finish your story.”
‘He’s really playing with me,’ Carole thought. It was frustrating, but she wasn’t up for another flogging just now. Her ass was still sore and she was pretty sure her feet would give her grief as soon as she stood. “Are you going to untie me, sir?” she asked. “I don’t think I can write like this.”
“Of course,” he said and set to work undoing the ropes. It took quite some doing, as her movements during the night had caused the ropes to tighten, but finally she was free. She sat up rubbed her sore arms and shoulders.
Finally, she started to stand. The movement sent a shot of pain through her ass, and her when she put weight on her feet, they let her know that the bastinado was no joke. But she righted herself and limped to the bathroom.
She wanted to close the door for some privacy, but he said, “Uh-uh, sweetheart, I know what you’ll do as soon as the door closes. I need to watch you to make sure your hands stay by your side.” He stood in the doorway, dressing, watching her the whole time as she sat on the toilet and emptied her bladder. She would have turned her bank account over to him for the chance to rub one out, but no dice.
When she was done, she glanced in the mirror. She looked terrible-bleary-eyes, hair a mess. Despite what he said, there were clear traces of his secretions on her tits, neck and chin and it grossed her out, but orders were orders.
She craned her neck to try to see her butt. It seemed the redness was diminished from yesterday, but the weals were still quite visible.
“Those lines are perfect. I did a good job, if I don’t say so, myself,” he crowed.
He stepped out of the way and followed her to the kitchen. She could sense his eyes trained on her ass the whole way.
“What’s on the breakfast menu, sweetheart?” he asked.
“I hadn’t planned anything, sir. I can make coffee and heat up a couple of bagels and there’s apples and bananas and grapes.”
“That’ll be fine,” he said.
She started the coffee, put the bagels in the toaster oven and set some fruit in a bowl. Then, she set the table and put the food and the coffee out and started to sit across from him.
He held out his hand to stop her. “As I said, our date is over now. We’re not husband and wife or boyfriend and girlfriend. I’m here for a purpose-to motivate you to write. We shouldn’t sit at the table as equals. Stay there,” he ordered and went out into the living room.
She knew it was forbidden, but while he was out of sight, she couldn’t help herself-her hand strayed down to her pussy. “I knew it!” he cried when he returned and saw her. “I leave for fifteen seconds and you’re trying to get off. Well, these will take care of that!” He held up the handcuffs from yesterday. “Hands behind your back!”
“But, sir, how will I eat with those on?”
“Are you questioning an order?” he demanded, sounding angry.
“No, sir,” she replied, putting her hands behind her so he could cuff them. He sat and pointed to a spot beside his chair. “Kneel!” he ordered.
She knelt. She found it hard to keep her balance with her hands behind her, but, with considerable effort, she managed. He pulled out his phone and scanned the day’s news as he sipped his coffee and chewed on the bagel.
“Hungry?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.” It was humiliating to her that she had no control even over something as basic as eating.
He peeled a banana and fed it to her, as he’d fed her his cock yesterday. Then, he let her carefully sip some coffee.
After a while, he stood. “OK, let’s see if yesterday’s treatment had the desired effect.”
It wasn’t easy for Carole to stand with her hands behind her back, but after a couple of attempts and with great effort, she did and followed him to the living room. He bent to reach into his duffel bag. Her heart was racing, wondering what instrument of torture he was going to pull out.
He emerged with an old fashioned spiral bound notebook and a dime store pen.
She stared at it. “But, sir, I publish on line. I write on the computer. How would I publish from that?”
“Don’t worry. If it’s any good you can type it in after. I don’t want you distracted by going on web sites,” he told her. “Now, go sit down,” he said, indicating the chair that sat in front of the desk by the window. Fortunately for Carole, its seat was well-padded and she was able to sit without too much distress.
“Sir, how can I write with my hands behind my back?”
“I didn’t expect you to, Carole,” he told her as he unlocked the handcuffs. “But keep your hands up on the desk where I can see them. I’ll be watching.” He sat down on the sofa with his laptop and started reading something that she couldn’t see. Periodically he looked up to see what she was doing.
What she was doing was trying to pull herself together to start writing. It wasn’t easy with someone watching you, knowing that some undetermined, but almost certainly terribly painful punishment awaited you if you failed only added to the pressure. And the distraction of a sore ass that flared up every time she shifted in the chair definitely didn’t help.
After a while he strolled over. “How’s it going, Carole?” he asked.
She showed him a short opening paragraph. It was a story about an American student in some foreign land who got into trouble and ended up in prison. She knew it wasn’t great, but it was what she had right now.
“Meh!” he said. “I hate to judge just on the first paragraph. I want to see two pages this morning minimum.
She tried, she really did, but she kept losing the thread of the story. Her eyes were having trouble focusing from lack of sleep, her ass and feet ached and he kept looking at her.
He stood and approached her. “Give it to me,” he ordered. She handed it to him. He read it, tore the pages out of the notebook, ripped them into pieces and dropped them on the floor. “This is garbage, Carole, and I think you know it.”
“Yes, sir, you’re right.”
“Obviously yesterday’s punishment was insufficient to motivate you, so we’ll have to try something a bit more severe.”
Carole felt sick to her stomach. ‘More severe than yesterday?’ she thought. “I don’t think I can take that, sir.”
“You should have thought about that and written something up to your usual standards. I’m afraid you’ve earned the whip.” He went to the duffel bag and quickly found what he was looking for. He grasped it by its wooden handle brandishing the five two foot long rawhide thongs that were attached to it. “It’s not quite a cat o’ nine tails since there are only five, but I assure you it is extremely effective at motivating lazy sluts, which you seem determined to be.”
Carole was close to panicking now. She slid off the chair onto her knees. “Please, sir!” she begged. “Give me another chance. I know I can do better.”
“Sorry, you’re out of chances. Remember, the only way out is through.” He laid the whip on the sofa, rooted around in the bag and extracted a metal rod with metal rings on each end. It looked like the rod that holds a shower curtain. He found a screwdriver and a small plastic baggie containing screws.
He went over to the doorway between the living room and the kitchen and began screwing the rod in place an inch or two below the top of the doorway. “Don’t worry,” he told her, “I’ll take it down and patch the holes before I leave. Or you can leave it in place and do chin ups.”
The fact that he wasn’t going to permanently damage her house was not that reassuring to Carole.
He found a couple of bungee cords in his bag. “Over here!” he ordered.
She rose unsteadily, but seemed frozen in place. “Sir, please, I’m ready to write now.”
“If I have to drag you over here, there will be extra,” he warned her.
Slowly, reluctantly she came over to stand under the bar. He wrapped the bungee cords around her wrists. “Turn and face the living room,” he ordered.
She turned. He raised her arms and wrapped the cords around the bar, stretching them tight. “Ideally, you would be hanging with your feet off the floor or at least on tiptoe, but the doorways in most houses aren’t tall enough, so this will have to do. The upside is that you can dance under the whip.”
She was near tears now. But there was more to come.
He went again to the horrible duffel bag and pulled out something that made her heart skip a beat. It was a video camera, with a tripod. He set it up in front of her and ran a cable to her TV.
“You aren’t going to film me, sir?” Her voice was quavering.
“Yes, I am. I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this, so I didn’t record yesterday, but you’ve left me no choice.”
“What will you do with it, sir?” she asked. She would just die of shame if anyone she knew ever saw it.
“I don’t know. I could put it on a porno site.”
Carol imagined a co-worker or one of her friends or a parent or sibling coming across it. She started crying, her body shaking with shame and fear.
“I might just keep it for my own pleasure. Or maybe erase it all when we’re done. It depends on you. Now, it’s show time,” he said.