8.
Barb stood at the foot of the stairs, with her hands on her hips, challenging Stan to take charge.
He rose to the challenge. He felt something else beginning to rise as well. “Come on Moore, you know the drill. Strip!”
Barb shrugged. “If it will make you happy, Goldman.” She pulled her T shirt over her head and dropped it to the floor. Underneath she wore one of those sleeveless camisoles, which she pulled over her head as well.
“Put them on the table, Barb. Not on the floor,” Stan said. She threw them onto the table that stood against the wall. “Fold them neatly,” he ordered. She took exaggerated care, folding them and refolding them three times until they were perfect, just to bug him. He had to admit the wait was worth it. Barb’s breasts were firm and just the size he liked, not as big as that girl Delia’s in the photos, more like her friend Tara’s.
Since she had been barefoot upstairs, now she wore only her cutoff jean shorts. She did a little shimmy, letting her breasts sway back and forth. “You like?” she asked.
“You know I do,” Stan replied. “But, If you’re waiting for Santa Claus to come down the chimney to take the shorts off, it’s July, Moore.” Barb slipped the shorts off, folded them and placed them on the table.
“And those,” he said, pointing at her panties. She stepped out of them and threw them at him. Stan snagged them in mid-air and felt them, then put them over his nose and sniffed. “I think milady is a bit aroused,” he said. “By the story or the punishment you’re getting?” he asked.
“Maybe both,” Barb replied.
“Then let’s not keep you waiting,” Stan said. He picked up a small remote control device. A small motor attached to the ceiling a few feet over their heads, whirred and a chain with two leather cuffs descended. Stan fastened the cuffs securely around Barb’s wrists.
Using the remote control, he raised the cuffs so that Barb’s hands rose slowly until they were straight over her head. Stan played with the controls a bit until Barb was stretched out with only the balls of her feet and her toes in contact with the concrete floor.
Stan pulled a small notebook out of his pocket. “Let’s see,” he said opening it to a page about halfway in. “We have a bunch of very rude remarks while you were mowing the lawn. Let’s say 10 on the back and 10 on that tight little ass for that.”
“With what? Barb asked.
“The cat, I think. In honor of Sheena Rawlings, being as she was British.”
“I hate the cat,” Barb said. “It really stings.”
“That’s really tough, Barb. Maybe next time you won’t be so quick to mouth off.” He continued, “Then we have your doubting my story. That gets you clips on those lovely tits of yours.”
“Sure, Stan, whatever you say.” He could tell she was getting excited.
“I’m not done. I put the clips on, then I whip them off with the riding crop. That might take a while, depending on how good my aim is.”
“Please, Stan, have a heart.”
He ignored her pleas. “Finally, we have the most serious offense; your screwy plan to go to China to investigate the virus. That could have landed you in really serious trouble. We’ll deal with that later.”
His threat seemed to have hit home. Barb actually looked scared. Excited, too, but definitely nervous. Stan went to the cabinet where the instruments of punishment were stored. He picked up the cat. It had a polished wooden handle, about a foot long, to which were securely attached nine hemp cords, each about two feet long. Fortunately for Barb, there were no knots tied in the cords.
He approached Barb and held the implement near her face so she could get a good look at it. He could tell it scared her, but she did her best not to show it, though he could already see a trickle of sweat running down her right side.
He stepped behind her. “Ready?” he asked. He didn’t wait for a reply, but swung the whip through the air and lashed it across her shoulders. It made a satisfying swish and he felt a good solid impact. When the cords fell away, he could see that while there were no marks, the skin on her shoulders was blushing a nice pink.
Barb, of course, wasn’t going to moan or complain after only one lash. She was tougher than that. He struck again. He heard a sharp intake of breath, but no moan.
But, by the time he had delivered the fourth and fifth lashes, Barb was kicking out with one foot or the other in his direction, though he was too far back for her to make contact. Stan was glad he hadn’t tied her ankles to the ring set in the floor. Her struggles were quite arousing.
“How you doing, Barb?” he asked.
She muttered something that sounded like “Fuck you, asshole” but he chose to ignore it.
After the seventh lash across her back, she grunted in distress and the next one elicited a mewling sound. By the time Stan had administered the tenth, Barb’s back was a bright crimson, from the shoulders down to the bottom of the ribcage.
He laid the cat down on the table and walked around to face her. Barb’s hair was matted with sweat. Although no tears were running down her cheeks, her eyes were red. She looked sexy as hell. Stan pulled her face towards him and kissed her hard on the mouth.
Stan was sorely tempted to let Barb down, take her over to the bed they had placed in the basement and fuck the living daylights out of her. But a punishment issued but not delivered would set a very bad precedent.
So, onward! Stan picked up the cat, walked behind Barb and struck hard across her tight little ass. She yelped in pain. As the flogging proceeded, Barb swung her hips after each lash, trying to manage the pain, and then before the next one to try and dodge the blow. It was most erotic, a hula dance of agony.
By the time he was done, Barb’s ass was as bright red as her upper back and she was noticeably sagging, her body limp, hanging from the cuffs.
It was time for a break, for Barb, but, more importantly, for him. He lowered the cuffs just enough that she could stand flat footed. Then he went to the small refrigerator they had there in the basement and got himself a beer.
“Would you like a sip, Barb?” he asked.
“You know I hate beer,” Barb replied.
“Suit yourself,” Stan said, sitting in the easy chair and taking a long swig.
Barb looked at him with disgust. Soon, he had drunk about half of the bottle. “Shall we go on?” he asked.
Barb looked like she was about to shake her head, but just smiled and said, “Just get it over with, Stan.”
He went to the equipment cabinet and returned with two small clamps that tightened with a thumbscrew. He loosened one and took her right breast in his left hand. It felt firm, but soft and yielding at the same time.
With his right hand, he steadied the nipple between the two plates of the clamp and slowly tightened. Barb gritted her teeth as the tender flesh was dented by the hard metal.
Stan stopped when the clamp was tight enough that it wouldn’t come off just from Barb’s gyrations, but not so tight that a direct blow with the riding crop wouldn’t dislodge it. Then, he did the same with the other nipple.
He picked up the crop and took a step back, raising it over his head. Barb’s eyes followed it as it rose and then as it slapped down smartly on her left breast.
“Owww!” she yelled, twisting her body vigorously. The clamp stayed put.
He struck a similar blow on the right breast, eliciting more howls and very sexy gyrations. He struck again. “You bastard!” Barb spat. “You’re not even trying to hit the clamp!”
“Not true, Moore. I’m getting old and my eyes aren’t so great.” He struck again, still a few inches above the clamp.
Barb yelled out her pain and anger. Her breasts were both marked with bright red lines, the edges raised and looking like they must be causing her great distress.
Stan took pity on her and aimed his next blow at the clamp on the right nipple. He struck it only a glancing blow. It took him three tries before he hit the clamp hard enough to send it clattering to the floor. Practiced now, he got the clamp on the left nipple off in two strikes.
Satisfied, Stan lowered the cuffs and released Barb’s wrists. He took a seat in the easy chair and started on the remains of the beer. “Get yourself a water, if you’d like.” Barb padded over to the refrigerator, bending down to take out a bottle, wiggling her bright red ass at Stan.
She stood and walked towards him. “You can sit on my lap if you’d like,” he offered.
“I’d rather stand,” she replied.
“I bet you would,” Stan said.
“Are we done?” Barb asked.
Stan laughed. “Hardly. You’ve paid for your rudeness and doubting my story. But there’s still the matter of your little ‘investigation’”.
“What did you have in mind for that?”
“A crucifixion,” Stan replied.
Barb looked stunned. “A what?”
“A little time on the cross.”
“We don’t have a cross.”
“I beg to differ,” Stan said, rising and walking over to the far end of the basement. There, Barb saw that a crossbeam had been attached with four large screws to one of the solid wooden beams that supported the house, at a foot or so above the height of her head.
“When did this happen?” she asked.
“I attached it myself a few days ago when you were at your book club,” Stan replied.
“Surprisingly enough, it looks like you did a decent job. Will it support my weight?” she asked.
Stan reached up and grabbed the crossbeam and lifted his feet off the floor. “It supports mine, so no problemo.”
“You aren’t proposing to nail me up there, are you?” Barb asked, nervously.
“Of course not,” Stan replied. “Remember in the prison when the matron wanted me to nail your wrist. I ran to the bathroom and puked my guts out. No, I’ll tie you with ropes.”
“And how long do you expect me to stay up there?”
“It’s up to you. You stay there until you say the safe word. Or, should I say, the safe sentence.”
Barb looked dubious. “Safe sentence? What is it?”
“Very simple,” Stan said. “When you say, ‘Stan, I insist on giving you a blow job right now!’ I will take you down and let you have your wish.”
Barb glared at him. “Then, I’ll be up there until your next birthday, which is six months off.”
“Up to you, Barb.”
Before she could argue, Stan went to get a stepladder. “Up you go, Barb,” he ordered.
Reluctantly, she climbed up onto the second step. “Now stretch your arms out against the crossbeam,” Stan ordered. He tied one wrist, then the other, securely with lengths of thick rope.
“Ok, ready?” he asked, and pulled the stepladder away without waiting for a reply. Barb hung there from her arms, looking pained. Stan grabbed her feet, wrapped a long piece of rope around them and secured them to the upright beam, the soles pressed tight against the wood, so her legs were splayed and her cunt was on full display.
Stan watched as she slowly used her feet to push her body up so she could exhale then sunk back down. “Comfy?” he asked.
Barb didn’t reply. He reached his hand up between her legs. She was very wet. He inserted a finger inside her. She moaned, so he inserted another. Her body rose and fell on his fingers, the motions speeding up as much as her strained position allowed, until she moaned loudly and slowed, her eyes closed in what seemed to be a state of bliss.
Stan removed his fingers, got himself another beer and sat in the chair, watching Barb’s body rise and fall on the cross. “Ready to say the words?” he asked.
She shook her head.
After a few minutes more, Stan started to get bored. As sexy as the sight of Barb’s naked body struggling in her bonds was, there wasn’t much variety.
“How about a little entertainment, Barb?”
She shook her head. “Well, I’d like to watch a little TV.” He went to the DVR machine, inserted the disk and hit the button on the remote control. The big screen that they had installed on the wall flashed on with the opening titles: “Seinfeld: Season Nine”
Suddenly, Stan heard what sounded like words coming from the direction of Barb’s mouth.
He walked over to her. “What was that you said?” he asked.
“This is too much, Stan,” she mumbled.
“Poor baby. Then say the words.”
She mumbled something.
“I can’t hear you,” he replied.
She rose up, drew a deep breath and said as loud as she could, “Stan, I insist on giving you a blow job right now!”
Stan hurried to unfasten the ropes.
THE END
