brasileiro
Spectator
Here is the first bit of another story about voluntary whipping and crucifixion...enjoy!
All I wanted was to get whipped!
I ended up getting a lot more than that.
Whipping—getting whipped and whipping others, especially gorgeous females—was an old longing of mine. It re-surfaced on my last birthday, when I turned 30. The problem is that my wife seemed to have an aversion to it, not so much as a witness but definitely as a victim and even more so as the one wielding the whip. She would not whip me! And that was that! I did, however, convince her that she might enjoy watching; the clincher was to say she might especially like to watch me getting whipped.
That left the problem of finding a venue. I consulted an old friend known as Wee Willy Winkie; he got that name because he was a short, skinny guy who, we discovered in college after chatting with some loose, flighty girls who used to hang around at our dorm parties, that Willy’s Winkie was anything but Wee. One floozy said his dick actually frightened her; she thought it was a joke, or a weapon, Willy had somehow attached to his crotch. Long story short…Willy’s Winkie was no joke.
Willy gave what would prove fateful advice.
“The place to go,” he said. “Is The Farm.”
The only problem…The Farm was in Mexico, a couple of hours drive from our home in southern California.
We got there before noon. The Farm was everything Willy described—an array of adobe structures complete with alluring arcades and narrow, chapel-like windows off a mountain road. The scenery was spectacular—wooded hills, lush green and hay-colored meadows. Palm trees fluttered in groves around the adobe buildings. If you looked carefully, you could also pick out some of the unique “instruments” related to The Farm’s unusual mission, but I didn’t look carefully.
We were met by the manager, a man in early middle age named, appropriately enough, Mr. Christian. He gave us an abbreviated tour. It was all very friendly, a resort-like atmosphere, clean, trimmed, smiles everywhere. Staff were all dressed the same, just like Mr. Christian, in blue jeans, sandals, and black T-shirts with the words “The Farm” emblazon on front in fancy white letters with a little symbol below, which, to the casual observer, might look like a meaningless squiggle but which, on more careful inspection, could be interpreted as a whip.
“You made your reservation online?” Christian asked.
I nodded as we walked.
“You just want to be whipped?”
“Yes,” I said. I swallowed. I was nervous. I had no other words. My wife Christine was holding my hand. I felt her shudder at the exchange.
“Outdoors?”
“Yes.”
“Here we are!”
Mr. Christian smiled his friendly smile. We halted. We were standing next to a large, flat boulder. It gleamed white in the noonday sun.
“Have you followed the instructions given in your online reservation?”
I nodded.
“Good!”
Christian pulled a slim-line walkie-talkie out of his back pocket. He barked instructions. The device crackled. He smiled.
“Crissy will be over presently,” he said.
I nodded. I was more nervous than ever. I suddenly realized my moment had arrived. I had expected more ceremony, more delay, more time to think things over. The “instructions,” as it happened, were quite simple—the “guest” should arrive in the simplest apparel possible, in my case, jeans, a burnt orange T-shirt, and sandals. The instructions were very specific about not wearing undergarments. Soon, I would understand why.
Presently, the young woman named Crissy appeared. She seemed to be in her early 20s. She was petite, with short black hair in a pageboy cut with cute little curls poking out between her temples and her ears. She wore rimless glasses. She was dressed in the same uniform as Christian, except that a black leather cat o’ nine tales dangled from her belt. She was small-breasted and appeared bra-less; the vague outline of half-erect nipples poked through her T-shirt. She smiled broadly.
Christian explained: “We have a few rules here. One is that men are only whipped by women and women are only whipped by men.” He shot a glance at my wife Christine as if to say, “you see, my dear, it will be my pleasure to whip you; I hope you’re looking forward to it as much as I am.” Christine turned pale. Our host continued: “Of course, all whippings are administered against bare skin. You must be either naked or half naked.” He said this as if it were a cue.
There was a moment of silence. Then, I realized what I had to do. I tore off my T-shirt and handed it to Christine.
“Thank you, Mr. Swann,” said Christian. He maneuvered me expertly into position. It was not what I had expected. I knelt down before the flat white boulder, occupying a recess that had been carved out for the purpose. I looked around. The sun was high in the sky. There was a breeze scented by what smelled like cinnamon and sugar. The sun warmed my shoulders; the breeze tickled my chest. Then, Crissy took over. She stepped forward and, with two surprisingly strong hands, pulled down on my jeans until my belt dug into my hips; then, she gave another tug to the front of the jeans until the tips of my pubic hairs poked out.
“Take a few deep breaths,” Crissy said, in a soft, sexy voice. I did. It was invigorating, sensual. “Put your hands behind your head and rock your torso back and forth,” she instructed. I followed her orders. They made me feel naked, sexy all over; my penis began inflating; it turned more and more sensitive and engorged as I twisted my body, Now, I understood the no undergarments rule; my dick was rubbing up directly against the course fabric of my jeans.
“Are you ready for your whipping, Mr. Swann?” Crissy said.
“Yes,” I murmured.
“Then, I will whip you.” I could hear the swish-swish of the cat as she grabbed it off her belt and tested it on the ground. “Prepare to be whipped, Mr. Swann.”
Mr. Christian, with kind glances and gentle hands, directed me to lie across the surface of the boulder. Once I did so, I saw the leather straps embedded at a strategic point in the rock. I grasped them. My belly and my nipples were flush against the stone, but the surface was surprisingly smooth, worn down, I supposed, by generations of whipping victims. My crotch was hard up against the flank of the boulder, as if I were getting ready to fuck it. What I really wanted was to rip off slim, young Crissy’s flimsy T-shirt, suck her hard little nipples, pull down her jeans and, in the hoped-for absence of panties, fuck her right there on the smooth surface of that rocky monument to human desire.
Instead, I got whipped.
It began suddenly. The first stroke was mild but it came as a shock. I must have jumped. The second and third strokes were a little faster and a little harder. I shifted my torso and flexed my muscles. Later, my wife Christine would tell me I had “a sexy back.” Crissy picked up the pace. The strokes were harder. Occasionally, I endured a slight sting but mostly I felt a rough but invigorating massage. My whole body responded to the strokes. I rocked my torso back and forth against the smooth surface of the stone; my nipples hardened; I ground my crotch into the rough flank of the boulder.
The whipping ended as soon as it began.
Crissy passed her hand along my back. “Reddened, but no blood,” she said.
Mr. Christian bent down to look at me. “That’s it,” he said. “39.”
I released my grip on the leather straps and stood up. My wife was in shock. One hand covered her mouth as if to say, “unspeakable horror.”
I smiled all around. “That was great!” I said. “When can we do it again!”
The Farm
By Cisne
All I wanted was to get whipped!
I ended up getting a lot more than that.
Whipping—getting whipped and whipping others, especially gorgeous females—was an old longing of mine. It re-surfaced on my last birthday, when I turned 30. The problem is that my wife seemed to have an aversion to it, not so much as a witness but definitely as a victim and even more so as the one wielding the whip. She would not whip me! And that was that! I did, however, convince her that she might enjoy watching; the clincher was to say she might especially like to watch me getting whipped.
That left the problem of finding a venue. I consulted an old friend known as Wee Willy Winkie; he got that name because he was a short, skinny guy who, we discovered in college after chatting with some loose, flighty girls who used to hang around at our dorm parties, that Willy’s Winkie was anything but Wee. One floozy said his dick actually frightened her; she thought it was a joke, or a weapon, Willy had somehow attached to his crotch. Long story short…Willy’s Winkie was no joke.
Willy gave what would prove fateful advice.
“The place to go,” he said. “Is The Farm.”
The only problem…The Farm was in Mexico, a couple of hours drive from our home in southern California.
***
We got there before noon. The Farm was everything Willy described—an array of adobe structures complete with alluring arcades and narrow, chapel-like windows off a mountain road. The scenery was spectacular—wooded hills, lush green and hay-colored meadows. Palm trees fluttered in groves around the adobe buildings. If you looked carefully, you could also pick out some of the unique “instruments” related to The Farm’s unusual mission, but I didn’t look carefully.
We were met by the manager, a man in early middle age named, appropriately enough, Mr. Christian. He gave us an abbreviated tour. It was all very friendly, a resort-like atmosphere, clean, trimmed, smiles everywhere. Staff were all dressed the same, just like Mr. Christian, in blue jeans, sandals, and black T-shirts with the words “The Farm” emblazon on front in fancy white letters with a little symbol below, which, to the casual observer, might look like a meaningless squiggle but which, on more careful inspection, could be interpreted as a whip.
“You made your reservation online?” Christian asked.
I nodded as we walked.
“You just want to be whipped?”
“Yes,” I said. I swallowed. I was nervous. I had no other words. My wife Christine was holding my hand. I felt her shudder at the exchange.
“Outdoors?”
“Yes.”
“Here we are!”
Mr. Christian smiled his friendly smile. We halted. We were standing next to a large, flat boulder. It gleamed white in the noonday sun.
“Have you followed the instructions given in your online reservation?”
I nodded.
“Good!”
Christian pulled a slim-line walkie-talkie out of his back pocket. He barked instructions. The device crackled. He smiled.
“Crissy will be over presently,” he said.
I nodded. I was more nervous than ever. I suddenly realized my moment had arrived. I had expected more ceremony, more delay, more time to think things over. The “instructions,” as it happened, were quite simple—the “guest” should arrive in the simplest apparel possible, in my case, jeans, a burnt orange T-shirt, and sandals. The instructions were very specific about not wearing undergarments. Soon, I would understand why.
Presently, the young woman named Crissy appeared. She seemed to be in her early 20s. She was petite, with short black hair in a pageboy cut with cute little curls poking out between her temples and her ears. She wore rimless glasses. She was dressed in the same uniform as Christian, except that a black leather cat o’ nine tales dangled from her belt. She was small-breasted and appeared bra-less; the vague outline of half-erect nipples poked through her T-shirt. She smiled broadly.
Christian explained: “We have a few rules here. One is that men are only whipped by women and women are only whipped by men.” He shot a glance at my wife Christine as if to say, “you see, my dear, it will be my pleasure to whip you; I hope you’re looking forward to it as much as I am.” Christine turned pale. Our host continued: “Of course, all whippings are administered against bare skin. You must be either naked or half naked.” He said this as if it were a cue.
There was a moment of silence. Then, I realized what I had to do. I tore off my T-shirt and handed it to Christine.
“Thank you, Mr. Swann,” said Christian. He maneuvered me expertly into position. It was not what I had expected. I knelt down before the flat white boulder, occupying a recess that had been carved out for the purpose. I looked around. The sun was high in the sky. There was a breeze scented by what smelled like cinnamon and sugar. The sun warmed my shoulders; the breeze tickled my chest. Then, Crissy took over. She stepped forward and, with two surprisingly strong hands, pulled down on my jeans until my belt dug into my hips; then, she gave another tug to the front of the jeans until the tips of my pubic hairs poked out.
“Take a few deep breaths,” Crissy said, in a soft, sexy voice. I did. It was invigorating, sensual. “Put your hands behind your head and rock your torso back and forth,” she instructed. I followed her orders. They made me feel naked, sexy all over; my penis began inflating; it turned more and more sensitive and engorged as I twisted my body, Now, I understood the no undergarments rule; my dick was rubbing up directly against the course fabric of my jeans.
“Are you ready for your whipping, Mr. Swann?” Crissy said.
“Yes,” I murmured.
“Then, I will whip you.” I could hear the swish-swish of the cat as she grabbed it off her belt and tested it on the ground. “Prepare to be whipped, Mr. Swann.”
Mr. Christian, with kind glances and gentle hands, directed me to lie across the surface of the boulder. Once I did so, I saw the leather straps embedded at a strategic point in the rock. I grasped them. My belly and my nipples were flush against the stone, but the surface was surprisingly smooth, worn down, I supposed, by generations of whipping victims. My crotch was hard up against the flank of the boulder, as if I were getting ready to fuck it. What I really wanted was to rip off slim, young Crissy’s flimsy T-shirt, suck her hard little nipples, pull down her jeans and, in the hoped-for absence of panties, fuck her right there on the smooth surface of that rocky monument to human desire.
Instead, I got whipped.
It began suddenly. The first stroke was mild but it came as a shock. I must have jumped. The second and third strokes were a little faster and a little harder. I shifted my torso and flexed my muscles. Later, my wife Christine would tell me I had “a sexy back.” Crissy picked up the pace. The strokes were harder. Occasionally, I endured a slight sting but mostly I felt a rough but invigorating massage. My whole body responded to the strokes. I rocked my torso back and forth against the smooth surface of the stone; my nipples hardened; I ground my crotch into the rough flank of the boulder.
The whipping ended as soon as it began.
Crissy passed her hand along my back. “Reddened, but no blood,” she said.
Mr. Christian bent down to look at me. “That’s it,” he said. “39.”
I released my grip on the leather straps and stood up. My wife was in shock. One hand covered her mouth as if to say, “unspeakable horror.”
I smiled all around. “That was great!” I said. “When can we do it again!”
***