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Wife set up for sex and torture, what to do with her next?
Petrafied part 3
Petra’s steps are still a little wobbly, but her emotions are considerably calmed. I attribute both to her fierce orgasm. I go down the steps in front of her with her hand on my shoulder. At the bottom we turn into the living room and walk normally into the TV, reading and computer room and on. Her pace slows going through the dining room and halfway she stops.
“What’s the matter?” I ask.
Looking out into the kitchen and through to sunroom she looks up into my face with pleading eyes and replies, “It’s so bright. Aren’t you going to lower and close the Venetian blinds, or at least draw the sheers?”
I shake my head. “Can’t. I need the full sunlight.”
“The neighbors?” she says with concern in her voice.
I chuckle. “We’ve never been interesting enough to spy on and gossip about. I doubt today will be any different. Softly I say, “C’mon.” I give her arm a gentle, little tug and we start walking again. But even slower than before.
The closer we get to the sunroom the slower Petra moves. The French doors between the kitchen and sunroom are fully open and latched back. We're just a few steps away. She gasps and stops. I see her eyes glancing back and forth taking in the horizontal cruciform awaiting her naked body; the rolling table holding the covered knives and instruments that will be used to mutilate her chest; the clear uncovered windows that will allow anyone who looks in to see it being done to her; and beyond, outside, the lush garden, beautifully blossoming, in stark contrast to what is going to happen only several feet away inside.
I continue on into the sunroom, which is one step down from the kitchen, turn and hold out my hand to help her step inside. Petra reaches out, hesitates, then shaking her head drops, sitting on the kitchen floor continuing to shake her head, no. Then she looks up with pleading eyes.
"I can't do it. Not like this. It’s … it’s … so open and exposed. " she says, gesturing with an outstretched arm around the sunroom. "Let's move everything back to the basement dungeon. Set up more lights. Do it there. Please."
I shake my head, no. “We were in here yesterday morning setting everything in place. You were stark naked walking around without a care. I was only in pajama bottoms. The blinds and the curtains were wide open then, just like now. We stood for a long while looking at the preparations when we were finished. I stood behind you. My arms wrapped around you, hands cupping your full, heavy breasts. When I squeezed them I said, ‘Tomorrow morning I’ll be cutting these off right here in this room,’ you made no objection. You were even excited. You pressed your ass back against my hard-on and wiggled. And we went upstairs and made love into the afternoon until we were exhausted. What’s your objection now?”
Petra thought for a long while before she answered. Her lips parted a few times but she held her tongue until she had what she wanted to say organized. She took a deep breath and started.
“You’re right. It’s not the sunroom. It’s the way you’re going to do it,” she said and stopped. I tilted my head and raised my eyebrows, questioning.
She went on. “Yesterday when we were in here you had me convinced I would be having something like a mastectomy like we watched on the internet. An unusual one. Instead of laying down flat, strapped to a table, I’ll be upright. Tilted forward so my breasts fall forward. Hanging on a cross, no matter what you want to call it.
“A cruciform,” I said.
“Yeah, whatever,” she replied and went on. “I had lingering doubts with all the evidence I told you about upstairs. So last night after you were asleep I searched the whole house looking for those ceramic knives and couldn’t find them anywhere. Anywhere!
I furrowed my brows in surprise. “Did you look in here, Petra?”
“Yes I did. I looked everywhere I could but I didn’t see them. The only place they can be is under the sterile cloth covering the instrument tray on the rolling table. You told me not to touch that again and I didn’t. It’s the only place they could be and why you didn’t want me to touch it.”
I smirk. “Are you sure, Petra? There has to be somewhere you overlooked. Want to look around some more before we get started?”
“Don’t mock me. I’m positive they’re there. And I’m positive I know what you are going to do with them. You didn’t deny it upstairs. You didn’t deny it!” Tears started again. “I had a horrible vision upstairs in the hallway and I worked it up in my head into an awesome sexual fantasy that really wanted you to be that vicious. You read me as you always have and brought me to that glorious climax.” Petra paused to wipe away the tears with the sleeve of her robe.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have,” I say, “then the passion would still be there for you and we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” With genuine remorse I say, “I’m truly sorry. I am.”
“No, no. Don’t feel guilty. It was glorious. And as we came down here I gloried in the afterglow and I was ready, until we were in the dining room and that bright glaring light That horrible vision came at me again out of that light, but the closer we got to the sunroom it kept turning different. I saw it! I saw you cutting my tits off and holding them in your hands. Grinning. Holding them up for me to see. I saw my body just hanging there. My head down. My blood running down from my chest to my legs. The light kept getting brighter and when I got to here it was too bright to look at. Then I went through the portal. The one people say they saw when they died and were brought back. I looked back from the other side, and I was dead. You let me die. My legs folded and here I sit. If I go into that room I won’t come out alive.”
Petra’s steps are still a little wobbly, but her emotions are considerably calmed. I attribute both to her fierce orgasm. I go down the steps in front of her with her hand on my shoulder. At the bottom we turn into the living room and walk normally into the TV, reading and computer room and on. Her pace slows going through the dining room and halfway she stops.
“What’s the matter?” I ask.
Looking out into the kitchen and through to sunroom she looks up into my face with pleading eyes and replies, “It’s so bright. Aren’t you going to lower and close the Venetian blinds, or at least draw the sheers?”
I shake my head. “Can’t. I need the full sunlight.”
“The neighbors?” she says with concern in her voice.
I chuckle. “We’ve never been interesting enough to spy on and gossip about. I doubt today will be any different. Softly I say, “C’mon.” I give her arm a gentle, little tug and we start walking again. But even slower than before.
The closer we get to the sunroom the slower Petra moves. The French doors between the kitchen and sunroom are fully open and latched back. We're just a few steps away. She gasps and stops. I see her eyes glancing back and forth taking in the horizontal cruciform awaiting her naked body; the rolling table holding the covered knives and instruments that will be used to mutilate her chest; the clear uncovered windows that will allow anyone who looks in to see it being done to her; and beyond, outside, the lush garden, beautifully blossoming, in stark contrast to what is going to happen only several feet away inside.
I continue on into the sunroom, which is one step down from the kitchen, turn and hold out my hand to help her step inside. Petra reaches out, hesitates, then shaking her head drops, sitting on the kitchen floor continuing to shake her head, no. Then she looks up with pleading eyes.
"I can't do it. Not like this. It’s … it’s … so open and exposed. " she says, gesturing with an outstretched arm around the sunroom. "Let's move everything back to the basement dungeon. Set up more lights. Do it there. Please."
I shake my head, no. “We were in here yesterday morning setting everything in place. You were stark naked walking around without a care. I was only in pajama bottoms. The blinds and the curtains were wide open then, just like now. We stood for a long while looking at the preparations when we were finished. I stood behind you. My arms wrapped around you, hands cupping your full, heavy breasts. When I squeezed them I said, ‘Tomorrow morning I’ll be cutting these off right here in this room,’ you made no objection. You were even excited. You pressed your ass back against my hard-on and wiggled. And we went upstairs and made love into the afternoon until we were exhausted. What’s your objection now?”
Petra thought for a long while before she answered. Her lips parted a few times but she held her tongue until she had what she wanted to say organized. She took a deep breath and started.
“You’re right. It’s not the sunroom. It’s the way you’re going to do it,” she said and stopped. I tilted my head and raised my eyebrows, questioning.
She went on. “Yesterday when we were in here you had me convinced I would be having something like a mastectomy like we watched on the internet. An unusual one. Instead of laying down flat, strapped to a table, I’ll be upright. Tilted forward so my breasts fall forward. Hanging on a cross, no matter what you want to call it.
“A cruciform,” I said.
“Yeah, whatever,” she replied and went on. “I had lingering doubts with all the evidence I told you about upstairs. So last night after you were asleep I searched the whole house looking for those ceramic knives and couldn’t find them anywhere. Anywhere!
I furrowed my brows in surprise. “Did you look in here, Petra?”
“Yes I did. I looked everywhere I could but I didn’t see them. The only place they can be is under the sterile cloth covering the instrument tray on the rolling table. You told me not to touch that again and I didn’t. It’s the only place they could be and why you didn’t want me to touch it.”
I smirk. “Are you sure, Petra? There has to be somewhere you overlooked. Want to look around some more before we get started?”
“Don’t mock me. I’m positive they’re there. And I’m positive I know what you are going to do with them. You didn’t deny it upstairs. You didn’t deny it!” Tears started again. “I had a horrible vision upstairs in the hallway and I worked it up in my head into an awesome sexual fantasy that really wanted you to be that vicious. You read me as you always have and brought me to that glorious climax.” Petra paused to wipe away the tears with the sleeve of her robe.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have,” I say, “then the passion would still be there for you and we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” With genuine remorse I say, “I’m truly sorry. I am.”
“No, no. Don’t feel guilty. It was glorious. And as we came down here I gloried in the afterglow and I was ready, until we were in the dining room and that bright glaring light That horrible vision came at me again out of that light, but the closer we got to the sunroom it kept turning different. I saw it! I saw you cutting my tits off and holding them in your hands. Grinning. Holding them up for me to see. I saw my body just hanging there. My head down. My blood running down from my chest to my legs. The light kept getting brighter and when I got to here it was too bright to look at. Then I went through the portal. The one people say they saw when they died and were brought back. I looked back from the other side, and I was dead. You let me die. My legs folded and here I sit. If I go into that room I won’t come out alive.”
kendelo
Tribune
I would start out her night with a blindfold.....cuff her hands behind her back.....have her hold my crop or cane in her mouth...if it falls out she will be punished with it. I would caress her clit with a Magic Wand. If she comes without permission she will get punished and have the hook put in her ass...after she begs for some lube....She will go on her knees and nurse on Master's cock head....
edegas
Guard
Yes, you will be hanged up by your tits.
First, you would be able to stand on your toes for half an hour, which would relieve your breasts. However, you get cramps in your toes. Your whole body is in motion trying to relieve the breasts. I like that, but now i pull you further up. Now you are hanging by the breasts with with your whole body weight . Quickly they turn red, then purple. About your question "until tear off": of course not. Why should i let the body part I still want to work on in detail get lost? After all, I still have plenty of torture planned.
PETRA'S DEBREASTING: continued. The description of Adelheid's ordeal was inspired by Arcimboldo's six-part "Destruction of Beauty."
I look down at my precious wife and for a moment feel compassion for her feelings and regret for what I’m going to do to her. And myself. I’ve loved those breasts from the first time I saw them and cupped them in my hands more than twenty-five years ago. I rejoiced in the pleasure they’ve given both of us all that time.
I shake it off. I know her too well after all these years. Just like the other extreme tortures I may have casually mentioned, or she heard or read about, or saw pictures and videos of and pressed me to do them to her. Or so I thought. When I wasn’t as harsh as she wanted, she insisted I be more brutal. She didn’t know she was creating her own sadistic monster. Now there are scars on her body that I didn’t want to put there at first, but still frequently do, and now with great pleasure. She proudly displays them to the other S/M friends we meet for group sessions. I think she does this to shock them with seeing she can take more pain than any of the other women and causing them to fear me.
But never with her tits. She was always so proud of them. They’ve been whipped to bruising, squashed with a breast press to within a hair of bursting open, riddled with clothespins and tit clamps but never punctured or scarred with cuts or burns.
I’m not really sure how what we’re going to do this morning got started. Whether I made a casual comment, or she did, or somebody else did and it went from there. But she’s gotten a taste in her mind to have her breasts amputated that won’t just go away. That taste will have to be sated sooner or later. So, if we don’t do it today when everything is set up and ready, we’ll just have to start all over in a week or two until it’s done.
I cup Petra’s chin and lift her head. I look into her eyes and mutter, “Jesus.”
“What’s the matter?” she asks with alarm.
I went behind her, reach under her arms and lift her to her feet. I reach behind her knees and scoop her up in my arms.
“God, no. Don’t carry me in there. Not into that light. I don’t want to die,” she sobs.
And that wasn’t my intention. I carry her over to the kitchen table and sit her on a chair. I fumble around until I find cigarettes, a lighter and an ashtray and set them down in front of her. I take the covering off her hands, light a cigarette for her and give it to her. She takes a deep draw, holds it, then turns her head away and blows the smoke out of the corner of her mouth into the center of the room. She says, “Thank you. I really need this.” I smile knowingly.
I turn on the K-cup coffee machine. While waiting I pour Petra a hefty whiskey and water. She takes a sip and says, "Eww. That's your Scotch. Tastes like medicine."
As I bring my coffee to the table and sit down, I reply, "Well then, it would seem appropriate on a day we're doing medical procedures, wouldn't it? I can't give you one of your sweet favorites like a banana or strawberry daiquiri and have you getting sick when I start cutting on you." I gave her a big grin.
"Nnnnnh, dammit! This is not funny,” Petra growls. “What about the pills? Everything's so blurry now. Won't drinking this be dangerous if you're going to give me another one?" She butts her cigarette and lights another.
I tell Petra, "It's not that kind of drug. It's a mood enhancer. Just enhanced the wrong mood. I didn't think you were so afraid. And everything's so bright and blurry because your pupils are dilated. I didn't expect that either. So, you didn’t leave this world for another. And you won’t. Not today anyway."
She takes a couple drags on her cigarette and asks, “So you’re saying you know what you’re doing, and I don’t have to worry?”
“I know exactly what I’m doing. Exactly what I’m going to do. And pretty much how everything is going to turn out,” I assure her.
“Pretty much?” she asks skeptically. “That’s not very persuasive for changing my mood about going out there.” She takes a gulp of her drink and tosses her head toward the sunroom. Then she lights another cigarette and giving me a challenging stare, blows the smoke in my direction.
I stare back estimating how she’ll handle the truth. She’s already calming down. If I tell her how I’ll know exactly will it freak her out more or will it excite her?
Petra takes a long drag on her cigarette and blows the smoke at me again. Then she tilts her head and raises her eyebrows, her gesture silently asking, “Well?”
“Do you really want to know?” I ask in a serious tone.
The smugness leaves her face. She takes another drag, holds it and blows the smoke out of the corner of her mouth away from me. Then she nods, yes.
I nod, yes, in response. Then I tell her, “I won’t know exactly how it turns out until I can run my fingers around the insides of what’s left of your breasts and feel how much of the protective fatty tissue I’ll have to curettage to sew the ends together and close you up.”
Petra’s mouth falls open, all the color drains from her face and she doesn’t blink or take a breath for a long moment as she stares at me. Eventually, she takes a deep breath, and then two more and the color returns.
Seeing this and before she can say anything, I take a sip from my cup and say, “The coffee is exceptionally good this morning.” I take a second sip.
She gasps. Her face turns blood red. “What?!” Her eyes look like they are going to pop out of her head. “What?!!” She takes a deep breath and lets out it in frustration or anger or both with, “Ahhhhh !! You tell me you're going to cut my tits open and then put your hands inside of my body … inside of me … and then you tell me about your coffee! No wonder your Great Uncle George always calls you ‘Die scheisse en der hosen!’ It really fits.”
“You’re saying it wrong, my love. He says it in one word, like it’s my name, ‘D’sheisseend’hosen.’ That started the first time he saw me the day I came home from the hospital and already had a full dirty diaper. He still calls me, ‘bose kind,’ a lot, but ‘Der verdorbener apfel,’ not so much anymore since I’m Ledermeister now and run the family business and profits are up. None of it ever fit me anyway. I’m a sweetheart, … until it comes to taking pleasure in hurting you.” I lift my cup toward Petra in salute, smile big, and take another sip of coffee and smack my lips.
Petra shakes her head and a little smile breaks on her mouth. She finishes her drink and holds the glass out to me. “Give me another one, Scheisseend’hosen. Then we’ll see what happens.”
I watch her light another cigarette as I refill her glass and my coffee. The fear and the anger have left her face. Her brow is furrowed with deep thought, but the little smile is still there. I break her reverie putting her drink in front of her and sitting down with my coffee.
She says, “You know, … nothing has ever been inside my breasts. They have no puncture scars like the other women we session with. Or any other type of scars from the sessions. Ernst Nachnebel likes to run those long medical needles through Gerd’s boobs. Hans Becker burns patterns on Evie’s with cigarettes and put patterns of syringe needles in them. And little Adelheid Klein, the child-woman with those pert, perfect breasts that belonged on a bigger woman when we first met them. They sag now more than mine. Egon has made her crazy. The things she lets him do to her.”
“Or maybe she made him crazy asking for it.” Now it was my turn to duck my head and raise my eyebrows. The gesture isn’t lost on Petra and her face flushes bright red. She looks down and the smile broadens. She is the one who introduced S/M into our vanilla marriage twenty-one years ago. I go on.
“The day we were married, I still remember the smell of the melting wax from all those burning candles. And the incense smoke when Father Gerhard anointed us. The church was so much brighter because of your shining radiance. You were so beautiful. Still are. But I wonder what the school nuns and Father Gerhard would say if they could see us right now and what we’re getting ready to do. And the guests! Your family. Mine. All those friends … everyone so straight back then… most of them are just memories. What would they think?” I say ruefully and force a chuckle.
Petra actually laughs. “We should wait. Have a twenty-fifth anniversary party and invite them all to watch.”
I laugh with her and shake my head, no. “Nice try. That would really be something. But my still beautiful darling with those still gorgeous breasts that you’re so proud of? … they’re going to be cut away from the rest of your still lovely body … today.”
Petra takes a sip of her drink and lights another cigarette. “This is really going to hurt isn’t it?”
“More than you’ll want at first, I think. But as the next little wafer I put under tongue starts working and the dopamine and endorphins rise to counteract the pain … well you know how you get then. You can’t get enough. I bet you’ll cum before I get your first tit cut all the way off.” I smirk.
Petra gives a low, soft moan. I glance down at some motion of her robe. She’s squeezing her legs together. This is becoming a “mind-fuck” for her. A little longer and she’ll be begging me to take her into the sunroom.
"Have I made you as mean crazy as Addy has made Egon?" Petra asks with the same ruefulness as I expressed earlier.
I think for a long moment, until Petra thrusts her head forward with a furrowed brow seeking an answer. "What's going to happen today started, … what … four years after we were married? A silly spanking over my knee that you suggested for ruining dinner. A whipping with my belt for going shopping for the third time all day and turning off your phone. You took all your clothes off for that one and we fucked to exhaustion afterwards. Remember that?”
Petra giggles. “And I started withholding sex and daring you to force me. It took a week, but you finally raped me. And when I called you bad names you slapped me, and I came and couldn’t stop cumming.”
I give another chuckle. “I couldn’t figure out what was going on until I found your S/M chat room on the internet. ‘What Would You Do To Punish An Errant Wife?’ you asked. I found you had me doing what was suggested in the chat room. Then, when some of the more serious punishments turned me on you didn’t want to do them. But when I started doing some of the milder punishments anyway you asked me to stop, even though doing them and talking about them seemed to turn you on. Then I told you I found the chat room. Do you remember that?”
Petra’s face flushes. “Oh God, yes. I was scared to death you’d think I was a crazy woman and would want a divorce. Then we looked at the chat room together and the ‘Snuff Your Wife’ website it was attached to. You said you wanted to do some pretty bad things to me that we found there. I was very much afraid, but also very much excited, as were you.”
“Yes. And I continued with the stuff that was written on that site; more pain mixed with humiliating sex, like cumming in your mouth, on your face, in your hair. That really turned me on and then you told me you didn’t want me to do that.”
Her face turns harsh and red. She takes a drag on her cigarette and blows it at me again. “You know damn well and good that’s not what I didn’t want to do! I was starting to like more pain and being forced to suck you and swallow your cum. Then you read about the anal sex. I did it once and it really hurt bad. It was a new kind of hurt that didn’t go away when you finished. I didn’t like it and tried to avoid it by flattening out. But you did it anyway.”
“And you would get angry and pout around.” I shake my head remembering. “I thought you were doing it to get punished some more. That was, until the night I tied you on your elbows and knees to the bench so you couldn’t lay down on your belly and pull me out of your ass. I rammed into you so hard you screamed at the top of your lungs. I thought the neighbors would hear you. When I finished and untied you, you ran off crying and wouldn’t talk to me for three days. Do you remember what I told you on the third day?”
Petra chuckles and nods, yes. “You said there is nothing so loud and punishing as the silence of an angry woman. Then you said you were so frustrated it would all have to stop and go back to the way it was when we first got married… unless… unless I became your absolute pain and sex slave … with no debating … no right of refusal … and no safe words … for anything you wanted to do to me. I remember my heart racing out of control. I said not yet but let me think about it. And my heart raced out of control every time I did think about it.”
I smile and shake my head. “And six weeks later, for our fifth wedding anniversary, you planned a surprise trip to Bavaria. Today is happening as a consequence of that trip. Are you sorry you did it?”
Petra purses her lips and shakes her head, no. “It was the right place, and the right choice, twenty years ago. Still is today. I wanted you to believe that I meant it when I said I wanted to be your true slave in my heart…forever. I could think of no better place to make such a vow than the Basilika Vierzehnheiligen in Bad Staffelstein. Those fourteen holy martyrs suffered terrible sacrifice, pain and humiliation, especially St. Barbara, and did it with great joy, for the love of their faith. I was going to swear to you before God and the holy martyrs to suffer for the love of my husband and the pleasure he would get from using my body for pain, or sex, or... (giggle again) … hopefully both.”
I smile again thinking: Petra seems to be free of her fear. She stopped chain smoking and stopped gulping her drink. If I can steer the conversation to her remembering her vow that day, we’ll be in the sunroom in a few minutes.
Before I can say anything, Petra speaks up. “Are you really going to put your hands inside my breasts once I’m cut open?”
I nod, yes, and she shivers. “But just my fingers, as I said, to see how much I need to scrape away to sew you up proper.”
Petra holds her glass up. "Can I have another?" I am reluctant. "Please?" I take the glass.
"A half," I say. "And then no more."
As I set the drink in front of her she lights another cigarette. She takes a sip of her drink and smokes quietly for a few moments in deep thought. Then, "Are you going to sew me up as neatly as you did Adelheid? That was a horrible thing to watch. Egon destroying his little, young wife’s body.” She takes a puff on her cigarette, turns her head toward the sunroom and stares for a time out and beyond. Still with her head turned she says, “As it went on I got aroused. So much so I started wishing it was happening to me. And to see how excited you got I was terrified you’d know and would want to do the same thing to me when we got home.” She turns her head back. We make eye contact. Her face flushes. She looks down at her lap. In a soft voice just above a whisper she says, “Or, I would ask you to.” A few seconds later, she looks back up at me, takes a sip, then says, “If you weren’t there she would have bled to death.”
I say, “They both knew she was going to need sewing up. They came into the leather shop, told me what they had planned for their tenth anniversary party and asked me to make her as right as I could when it was over.”
Petra’s eyes widen and her mouth drops open. “You never told me that. Why you?”
“Petra?” I say. “My family made leather armor for the nobility’s men-at-arms a thousand years ago. They made leather hunting britches and field coats for princes in the 1800’s. They made ledermantels for field marshals and generals, and lederjackes for Luftwaffe heroes. So neatly stitching things together is in my genes. We make the finest leather coats for women now that fur coats are socially verboten. And our motorcycle jackets are always in demand by silly celebrities. Much of that expensive leatherwork is hand sewn. Even our confidential, by introduction only, line of BDSM leathers, including that custom full body harness you’re so fond of is hand sewn. They knew that. So yes, they came to me. And I’ll sew you just as neatly, no, even neater.”
“So you knew about the show they were going to put on for their party guests. Why didn’t you tell me?” Petra asks
I sigh. “All I really knew was that Egon was going to use a larger, heavier skewer than ever before and they were worried the extra weight would rip Addy’s breasts. And she told me about strips of flesh she wanted him to cut out of her buttocks. I suggested vertical cuts instead of horizontal wouldn’t tend to stretch open while healing. They didn’t tell me about the rest. And they asked me not to say anything. They wanted it to be a surprise for everyone. Even you.”
“It was quite a show,” Petra muses. “Those heavy chains and manacles attached to that big skewer. They were a bit much. And the canes. He used canes for her whole beating, front and back.” Petra shakes her head and finishes her drink. “I saw her breast rip when she flinched while he was caning her back.” She shakes her head again.
I pick up her glass and my empty coffee cup and put them in the sink and run some water in them. When I turn around Petra is standing, but still holding her cigarette.
“In the Basilika I made a vow,” she says. “I held your hands in mine, looked into your eyes and said, ‘I swear before God, and the Fourteen Holy Helpers, whose relics abide here, to give to my husband in pain or pleasure, my body, to do with as he desires, anything, anytime, anyplace as long as I shall live.’ I think it’s time to go into the sunroom.” She takes a last drag on the cigarette and butts it out.
I stand in front of her, reach into my pocket, take out a very old golden pill container, open it and remove a small tan wafer that put under her tongue. She gathers some saliva and works it around the wafer. A moment later she nods, indicating it has dissolved.
I frame her face in my hands and look deeply into her eyes before I bend and touch my mouth gently to hers in a declaration of love in and of itself. I let her face go and straighten up.
Petra tilts her head. With a little smile and raised eyebrows she says, “I believe that was the most tender kiss I’ve ever had in my life.”
We turn together. She puts her arm around my waist. I put my arm around her shoulder, and we go enter that bright light of the sunroom.
I look down at my precious wife and for a moment feel compassion for her feelings and regret for what I’m going to do to her. And myself. I’ve loved those breasts from the first time I saw them and cupped them in my hands more than twenty-five years ago. I rejoiced in the pleasure they’ve given both of us all that time.
I shake it off. I know her too well after all these years. Just like the other extreme tortures I may have casually mentioned, or she heard or read about, or saw pictures and videos of and pressed me to do them to her. Or so I thought. When I wasn’t as harsh as she wanted, she insisted I be more brutal. She didn’t know she was creating her own sadistic monster. Now there are scars on her body that I didn’t want to put there at first, but still frequently do, and now with great pleasure. She proudly displays them to the other S/M friends we meet for group sessions. I think she does this to shock them with seeing she can take more pain than any of the other women and causing them to fear me.
But never with her tits. She was always so proud of them. They’ve been whipped to bruising, squashed with a breast press to within a hair of bursting open, riddled with clothespins and tit clamps but never punctured or scarred with cuts or burns.
I’m not really sure how what we’re going to do this morning got started. Whether I made a casual comment, or she did, or somebody else did and it went from there. But she’s gotten a taste in her mind to have her breasts amputated that won’t just go away. That taste will have to be sated sooner or later. So, if we don’t do it today when everything is set up and ready, we’ll just have to start all over in a week or two until it’s done.
I cup Petra’s chin and lift her head. I look into her eyes and mutter, “Jesus.”
“What’s the matter?” she asks with alarm.
I went behind her, reach under her arms and lift her to her feet. I reach behind her knees and scoop her up in my arms.
“God, no. Don’t carry me in there. Not into that light. I don’t want to die,” she sobs.
And that wasn’t my intention. I carry her over to the kitchen table and sit her on a chair. I fumble around until I find cigarettes, a lighter and an ashtray and set them down in front of her. I take the covering off her hands, light a cigarette for her and give it to her. She takes a deep draw, holds it, then turns her head away and blows the smoke out of the corner of her mouth into the center of the room. She says, “Thank you. I really need this.” I smile knowingly.
I turn on the K-cup coffee machine. While waiting I pour Petra a hefty whiskey and water. She takes a sip and says, "Eww. That's your Scotch. Tastes like medicine."
As I bring my coffee to the table and sit down, I reply, "Well then, it would seem appropriate on a day we're doing medical procedures, wouldn't it? I can't give you one of your sweet favorites like a banana or strawberry daiquiri and have you getting sick when I start cutting on you." I gave her a big grin.
"Nnnnnh, dammit! This is not funny,” Petra growls. “What about the pills? Everything's so blurry now. Won't drinking this be dangerous if you're going to give me another one?" She butts her cigarette and lights another.
I tell Petra, "It's not that kind of drug. It's a mood enhancer. Just enhanced the wrong mood. I didn't think you were so afraid. And everything's so bright and blurry because your pupils are dilated. I didn't expect that either. So, you didn’t leave this world for another. And you won’t. Not today anyway."
She takes a couple drags on her cigarette and asks, “So you’re saying you know what you’re doing, and I don’t have to worry?”
“I know exactly what I’m doing. Exactly what I’m going to do. And pretty much how everything is going to turn out,” I assure her.
“Pretty much?” she asks skeptically. “That’s not very persuasive for changing my mood about going out there.” She takes a gulp of her drink and tosses her head toward the sunroom. Then she lights another cigarette and giving me a challenging stare, blows the smoke in my direction.
I stare back estimating how she’ll handle the truth. She’s already calming down. If I tell her how I’ll know exactly will it freak her out more or will it excite her?
Petra takes a long drag on her cigarette and blows the smoke at me again. Then she tilts her head and raises her eyebrows, her gesture silently asking, “Well?”
“Do you really want to know?” I ask in a serious tone.
The smugness leaves her face. She takes another drag, holds it and blows the smoke out of the corner of her mouth away from me. Then she nods, yes.
I nod, yes, in response. Then I tell her, “I won’t know exactly how it turns out until I can run my fingers around the insides of what’s left of your breasts and feel how much of the protective fatty tissue I’ll have to curettage to sew the ends together and close you up.”
Petra’s mouth falls open, all the color drains from her face and she doesn’t blink or take a breath for a long moment as she stares at me. Eventually, she takes a deep breath, and then two more and the color returns.
Seeing this and before she can say anything, I take a sip from my cup and say, “The coffee is exceptionally good this morning.” I take a second sip.
She gasps. Her face turns blood red. “What?!” Her eyes look like they are going to pop out of her head. “What?!!” She takes a deep breath and lets out it in frustration or anger or both with, “Ahhhhh !! You tell me you're going to cut my tits open and then put your hands inside of my body … inside of me … and then you tell me about your coffee! No wonder your Great Uncle George always calls you ‘Die scheisse en der hosen!’ It really fits.”
“You’re saying it wrong, my love. He says it in one word, like it’s my name, ‘D’sheisseend’hosen.’ That started the first time he saw me the day I came home from the hospital and already had a full dirty diaper. He still calls me, ‘bose kind,’ a lot, but ‘Der verdorbener apfel,’ not so much anymore since I’m Ledermeister now and run the family business and profits are up. None of it ever fit me anyway. I’m a sweetheart, … until it comes to taking pleasure in hurting you.” I lift my cup toward Petra in salute, smile big, and take another sip of coffee and smack my lips.
Petra shakes her head and a little smile breaks on her mouth. She finishes her drink and holds the glass out to me. “Give me another one, Scheisseend’hosen. Then we’ll see what happens.”
I watch her light another cigarette as I refill her glass and my coffee. The fear and the anger have left her face. Her brow is furrowed with deep thought, but the little smile is still there. I break her reverie putting her drink in front of her and sitting down with my coffee.
She says, “You know, … nothing has ever been inside my breasts. They have no puncture scars like the other women we session with. Or any other type of scars from the sessions. Ernst Nachnebel likes to run those long medical needles through Gerd’s boobs. Hans Becker burns patterns on Evie’s with cigarettes and put patterns of syringe needles in them. And little Adelheid Klein, the child-woman with those pert, perfect breasts that belonged on a bigger woman when we first met them. They sag now more than mine. Egon has made her crazy. The things she lets him do to her.”
“Or maybe she made him crazy asking for it.” Now it was my turn to duck my head and raise my eyebrows. The gesture isn’t lost on Petra and her face flushes bright red. She looks down and the smile broadens. She is the one who introduced S/M into our vanilla marriage twenty-one years ago. I go on.
“The day we were married, I still remember the smell of the melting wax from all those burning candles. And the incense smoke when Father Gerhard anointed us. The church was so much brighter because of your shining radiance. You were so beautiful. Still are. But I wonder what the school nuns and Father Gerhard would say if they could see us right now and what we’re getting ready to do. And the guests! Your family. Mine. All those friends … everyone so straight back then… most of them are just memories. What would they think?” I say ruefully and force a chuckle.
Petra actually laughs. “We should wait. Have a twenty-fifth anniversary party and invite them all to watch.”
I laugh with her and shake my head, no. “Nice try. That would really be something. But my still beautiful darling with those still gorgeous breasts that you’re so proud of? … they’re going to be cut away from the rest of your still lovely body … today.”
Petra takes a sip of her drink and lights another cigarette. “This is really going to hurt isn’t it?”
“More than you’ll want at first, I think. But as the next little wafer I put under tongue starts working and the dopamine and endorphins rise to counteract the pain … well you know how you get then. You can’t get enough. I bet you’ll cum before I get your first tit cut all the way off.” I smirk.
Petra gives a low, soft moan. I glance down at some motion of her robe. She’s squeezing her legs together. This is becoming a “mind-fuck” for her. A little longer and she’ll be begging me to take her into the sunroom.
"Have I made you as mean crazy as Addy has made Egon?" Petra asks with the same ruefulness as I expressed earlier.
I think for a long moment, until Petra thrusts her head forward with a furrowed brow seeking an answer. "What's going to happen today started, … what … four years after we were married? A silly spanking over my knee that you suggested for ruining dinner. A whipping with my belt for going shopping for the third time all day and turning off your phone. You took all your clothes off for that one and we fucked to exhaustion afterwards. Remember that?”
Petra giggles. “And I started withholding sex and daring you to force me. It took a week, but you finally raped me. And when I called you bad names you slapped me, and I came and couldn’t stop cumming.”
I give another chuckle. “I couldn’t figure out what was going on until I found your S/M chat room on the internet. ‘What Would You Do To Punish An Errant Wife?’ you asked. I found you had me doing what was suggested in the chat room. Then, when some of the more serious punishments turned me on you didn’t want to do them. But when I started doing some of the milder punishments anyway you asked me to stop, even though doing them and talking about them seemed to turn you on. Then I told you I found the chat room. Do you remember that?”
Petra’s face flushes. “Oh God, yes. I was scared to death you’d think I was a crazy woman and would want a divorce. Then we looked at the chat room together and the ‘Snuff Your Wife’ website it was attached to. You said you wanted to do some pretty bad things to me that we found there. I was very much afraid, but also very much excited, as were you.”
“Yes. And I continued with the stuff that was written on that site; more pain mixed with humiliating sex, like cumming in your mouth, on your face, in your hair. That really turned me on and then you told me you didn’t want me to do that.”
Her face turns harsh and red. She takes a drag on her cigarette and blows it at me again. “You know damn well and good that’s not what I didn’t want to do! I was starting to like more pain and being forced to suck you and swallow your cum. Then you read about the anal sex. I did it once and it really hurt bad. It was a new kind of hurt that didn’t go away when you finished. I didn’t like it and tried to avoid it by flattening out. But you did it anyway.”
“And you would get angry and pout around.” I shake my head remembering. “I thought you were doing it to get punished some more. That was, until the night I tied you on your elbows and knees to the bench so you couldn’t lay down on your belly and pull me out of your ass. I rammed into you so hard you screamed at the top of your lungs. I thought the neighbors would hear you. When I finished and untied you, you ran off crying and wouldn’t talk to me for three days. Do you remember what I told you on the third day?”
Petra chuckles and nods, yes. “You said there is nothing so loud and punishing as the silence of an angry woman. Then you said you were so frustrated it would all have to stop and go back to the way it was when we first got married… unless… unless I became your absolute pain and sex slave … with no debating … no right of refusal … and no safe words … for anything you wanted to do to me. I remember my heart racing out of control. I said not yet but let me think about it. And my heart raced out of control every time I did think about it.”
I smile and shake my head. “And six weeks later, for our fifth wedding anniversary, you planned a surprise trip to Bavaria. Today is happening as a consequence of that trip. Are you sorry you did it?”
Petra purses her lips and shakes her head, no. “It was the right place, and the right choice, twenty years ago. Still is today. I wanted you to believe that I meant it when I said I wanted to be your true slave in my heart…forever. I could think of no better place to make such a vow than the Basilika Vierzehnheiligen in Bad Staffelstein. Those fourteen holy martyrs suffered terrible sacrifice, pain and humiliation, especially St. Barbara, and did it with great joy, for the love of their faith. I was going to swear to you before God and the holy martyrs to suffer for the love of my husband and the pleasure he would get from using my body for pain, or sex, or... (giggle again) … hopefully both.”
I smile again thinking: Petra seems to be free of her fear. She stopped chain smoking and stopped gulping her drink. If I can steer the conversation to her remembering her vow that day, we’ll be in the sunroom in a few minutes.
Before I can say anything, Petra speaks up. “Are you really going to put your hands inside my breasts once I’m cut open?”
I nod, yes, and she shivers. “But just my fingers, as I said, to see how much I need to scrape away to sew you up proper.”
Petra holds her glass up. "Can I have another?" I am reluctant. "Please?" I take the glass.
"A half," I say. "And then no more."
As I set the drink in front of her she lights another cigarette. She takes a sip of her drink and smokes quietly for a few moments in deep thought. Then, "Are you going to sew me up as neatly as you did Adelheid? That was a horrible thing to watch. Egon destroying his little, young wife’s body.” She takes a puff on her cigarette, turns her head toward the sunroom and stares for a time out and beyond. Still with her head turned she says, “As it went on I got aroused. So much so I started wishing it was happening to me. And to see how excited you got I was terrified you’d know and would want to do the same thing to me when we got home.” She turns her head back. We make eye contact. Her face flushes. She looks down at her lap. In a soft voice just above a whisper she says, “Or, I would ask you to.” A few seconds later, she looks back up at me, takes a sip, then says, “If you weren’t there she would have bled to death.”
I say, “They both knew she was going to need sewing up. They came into the leather shop, told me what they had planned for their tenth anniversary party and asked me to make her as right as I could when it was over.”
Petra’s eyes widen and her mouth drops open. “You never told me that. Why you?”
“Petra?” I say. “My family made leather armor for the nobility’s men-at-arms a thousand years ago. They made leather hunting britches and field coats for princes in the 1800’s. They made ledermantels for field marshals and generals, and lederjackes for Luftwaffe heroes. So neatly stitching things together is in my genes. We make the finest leather coats for women now that fur coats are socially verboten. And our motorcycle jackets are always in demand by silly celebrities. Much of that expensive leatherwork is hand sewn. Even our confidential, by introduction only, line of BDSM leathers, including that custom full body harness you’re so fond of is hand sewn. They knew that. So yes, they came to me. And I’ll sew you just as neatly, no, even neater.”
“So you knew about the show they were going to put on for their party guests. Why didn’t you tell me?” Petra asks
I sigh. “All I really knew was that Egon was going to use a larger, heavier skewer than ever before and they were worried the extra weight would rip Addy’s breasts. And she told me about strips of flesh she wanted him to cut out of her buttocks. I suggested vertical cuts instead of horizontal wouldn’t tend to stretch open while healing. They didn’t tell me about the rest. And they asked me not to say anything. They wanted it to be a surprise for everyone. Even you.”
“It was quite a show,” Petra muses. “Those heavy chains and manacles attached to that big skewer. They were a bit much. And the canes. He used canes for her whole beating, front and back.” Petra shakes her head and finishes her drink. “I saw her breast rip when she flinched while he was caning her back.” She shakes her head again.
I pick up her glass and my empty coffee cup and put them in the sink and run some water in them. When I turn around Petra is standing, but still holding her cigarette.
“In the Basilika I made a vow,” she says. “I held your hands in mine, looked into your eyes and said, ‘I swear before God, and the Fourteen Holy Helpers, whose relics abide here, to give to my husband in pain or pleasure, my body, to do with as he desires, anything, anytime, anyplace as long as I shall live.’ I think it’s time to go into the sunroom.” She takes a last drag on the cigarette and butts it out.
I stand in front of her, reach into my pocket, take out a very old golden pill container, open it and remove a small tan wafer that put under her tongue. She gathers some saliva and works it around the wafer. A moment later she nods, indicating it has dissolved.
I frame her face in my hands and look deeply into her eyes before I bend and touch my mouth gently to hers in a declaration of love in and of itself. I let her face go and straighten up.
Petra tilts her head. With a little smile and raised eyebrows she says, “I believe that was the most tender kiss I’ve ever had in my life.”
We turn together. She puts her arm around my waist. I put my arm around her shoulder, and we go enter that bright light of the sunroom.
PETRA'S DEBREASTING: continued. The description of Adelheid's ordeal was inspired by Arcimboldo's six-part "Destruction of Beauty."
I look down at my precious wife and for a moment feel compassion for her feelings and regret for what I’m going to do to her. And myself. I’ve loved those breasts from the first time I saw them and cupped them in my hands more than twenty-five years ago. I rejoiced in the pleasure they’ve given both of us all that time.
I shake it off. I know her too well after all these years. Just like the other extreme tortures I may have casually mentioned, or she heard or read about, or saw pictures and videos of and pressed me to do them to her. Or so I thought. When I wasn’t as harsh as she wanted, she insisted I be more brutal. She didn’t know she was creating her own sadistic monster. Now there are scars on her body that I didn’t want to put there at first, but still frequently do, and now with great pleasure. She proudly displays them to the other S/M friends we meet for group sessions. I think she does this to shock them with seeing she can take more pain than any of the other women and causing them to fear me.
But never with her tits. She was always so proud of them. They’ve been whipped to bruising, squashed with a breast press to within a hair of bursting open, riddled with clothespins and tit clamps but never punctured or scarred with cuts or burns.
I’m not really sure how what we’re going to do this morning got started. Whether I made a casual comment, or she did, or somebody else did and it went from there. But she’s gotten a taste in her mind to have her breasts amputated that won’t just go away. That taste will have to be sated sooner or later. So, if we don’t do it today when everything is set up and ready, we’ll just have to start all over in a week or two until it’s done.
I cup Petra’s chin and lift her head. I look into her eyes and mutter, “Jesus.”
“What’s the matter?” she asks with alarm.
I went behind her, reach under her arms and lift her to her feet. I reach behind her knees and scoop her up in my arms.
“God, no. Don’t carry me in there. Not into that light. I don’t want to die,” she sobs.
And that wasn’t my intention. I carry her over to the kitchen table and sit her on a chair. I fumble around until I find cigarettes, a lighter and an ashtray and set them down in front of her. I take the covering off her hands, light a cigarette for her and give it to her. She takes a deep draw, holds it, then turns her head away and blows the smoke out of the corner of her mouth into the center of the room. She says, “Thank you. I really need this.” I smile knowingly.
I turn on the K-cup coffee machine. While waiting I pour Petra a hefty whiskey and water. She takes a sip and says, "Eww. That's your Scotch. Tastes like medicine."
As I bring my coffee to the table and sit down, I reply, "Well then, it would seem appropriate on a day we're doing medical procedures, wouldn't it? I can't give you one of your sweet favorites like a banana or strawberry daiquiri and have you getting sick when I start cutting on you." I gave her a big grin.
"Nnnnnh, dammit! This is not funny,” Petra growls. “What about the pills? Everything's so blurry now. Won't drinking this be dangerous if you're going to give me another one?" She butts her cigarette and lights another.
I tell Petra, "It's not that kind of drug. It's a mood enhancer. Just enhanced the wrong mood. I didn't think you were so afraid. And everything's so bright and blurry because your pupils are dilated. I didn't expect that either. So, you didn’t leave this world for another. And you won’t. Not today anyway."
She takes a couple drags on her cigarette and asks, “So you’re saying you know what you’re doing, and I don’t have to worry?”
“I know exactly what I’m doing. Exactly what I’m going to do. And pretty much how everything is going to turn out,” I assure her.
“Pretty much?” she asks skeptically. “That’s not very persuasive for changing my mood about going out there.” She takes a gulp of her drink and tosses her head toward the sunroom. Then she lights another cigarette and giving me a challenging stare, blows the smoke in my direction.
I stare back estimating how she’ll handle the truth. She’s already calming down. If I tell her how I’ll know exactly will it freak her out more or will it excite her?
Petra takes a long drag on her cigarette and blows the smoke at me again. Then she tilts her head and raises her eyebrows, her gesture silently asking, “Well?”
“Do you really want to know?” I ask in a serious tone.
The smugness leaves her face. She takes another drag, holds it and blows the smoke out of the corner of her mouth away from me. Then she nods, yes.
I nod, yes, in response. Then I tell her, “I won’t know exactly how it turns out until I can run my fingers around the insides of what’s left of your breasts and feel how much of the protective fatty tissue I’ll have to curettage to sew the ends together and close you up.”
Petra’s mouth falls open, all the color drains from her face and she doesn’t blink or take a breath for a long moment as she stares at me. Eventually, she takes a deep breath, and then two more and the color returns.
Seeing this and before she can say anything, I take a sip from my cup and say, “The coffee is exceptionally good this morning.” I take a second sip.
She gasps. Her face turns blood red. “What?!” Her eyes look like they are going to pop out of her head. “What?!!” She takes a deep breath and lets out it in frustration or anger or both with, “Ahhhhh !! You tell me you're going to cut my tits open and then put your hands inside of my body … inside of me … and then you tell me about your coffee! No wonder your Great Uncle George always calls you ‘Die scheisse en der hosen!’ It really fits.”
“You’re saying it wrong, my love. He says it in one word, like it’s my name, ‘D’sheisseend’hosen.’ That started the first time he saw me the day I came home from the hospital and already had a full dirty diaper. He still calls me, ‘bose kind,’ a lot, but ‘Der verdorbener apfel,’ not so much anymore since I’m Ledermeister now and run the family business and profits are up. None of it ever fit me anyway. I’m a sweetheart, … until it comes to taking pleasure in hurting you.” I lift my cup toward Petra in salute, smile big, and take another sip of coffee and smack my lips.
Petra shakes her head and a little smile breaks on her mouth. She finishes her drink and holds the glass out to me. “Give me another one, Scheisseend’hosen. Then we’ll see what happens.”
I watch her light another cigarette as I refill her glass and my coffee. The fear and the anger have left her face. Her brow is furrowed with deep thought, but the little smile is still there. I break her reverie putting her drink in front of her and sitting down with my coffee.
She says, “You know, … nothing has ever been inside my breasts. They have no puncture scars like the other women we session with. Or any other type of scars from the sessions. Ernst Nachnebel likes to run those long medical needles through Gerd’s boobs. Hans Becker burns patterns on Evie’s with cigarettes and put patterns of syringe needles in them. And little Adelheid Klein, the child-woman with those pert, perfect breasts that belonged on a bigger woman when we first met them. They sag now more than mine. Egon has made her crazy. The things she lets him do to her.”
“Or maybe she made him crazy asking for it.” Now it was my turn to duck my head and raise my eyebrows. The gesture isn’t lost on Petra and her face flushes bright red. She looks down and the smile broadens. She is the one who introduced S/M into our vanilla marriage twenty-one years ago. I go on.
“The day we were married, I still remember the smell of the melting wax from all those burning candles. And the incense smoke when Father Gerhard anointed us. The church was so much brighter because of your shining radiance. You were so beautiful. Still are. But I wonder what the school nuns and Father Gerhard would say if they could see us right now and what we’re getting ready to do. And the guests! Your family. Mine. All those friends … everyone so straight back then… most of them are just memories. What would they think?” I say ruefully and force a chuckle.
Petra actually laughs. “We should wait. Have a twenty-fifth anniversary party and invite them all to watch.”
I laugh with her and shake my head, no. “Nice try. That would really be something. But my still beautiful darling with those still gorgeous breasts that you’re so proud of? … they’re going to be cut away from the rest of your still lovely body … today.”
Petra takes a sip of her drink and lights another cigarette. “This is really going to hurt, isn’t it?”
“More than you’ll want at first, I think. But as the next little wafer I put under tongue starts working and the dopamine and endorphins rise to counteract the pain … well you know how you get then. You can’t get enough. I bet you’ll cum before I get your first tit cut all the way off.” I smirk.
Petra gives a low, soft moan. I glance down at some motion of her robe. She’s squeezing her legs together. This is becoming a “mind-fuck” for her. A little longer and she’ll be begging me to take her into the sunroom.
"Have I made you as mean crazy as Addy has made Egon?" Petra asks with the same ruefulness as I expressed earlier.
I think for a long moment, until Petra thrusts her head forward with a furrowed brow seeking an answer. "What's going to happen today started, … what … four years after we were married? A silly spanking over my knee that you suggested for ruining dinner. A whipping with my belt for going shopping for the third time all day and turning off your phone. You took all your clothes off for that one and we fucked to exhaustion afterwards. Remember that?”
Petra giggles. “And I started withholding sex and daring you to force me. It took a week, but you finally raped me. And when I called you bad names you slapped me, and I came and couldn’t stop cumming.”
I give another chuckle. “I couldn’t figure out what was going on until I found your S/M chat room on the internet. ‘What Would You Do To Punish An Errant Wife?’ you asked. I found you had me doing what was suggested in the chat room. Then, when some of the more serious punishments turned me on you didn’t want to do them. But when I started doing some of the milder punishments anyway you asked me to stop, even though doing them and talking about them seemed to turn you on. Then I told you I found the chat room. Do you remember that?”
Petra’s face flushes. “Oh God, yes. I was scared to death you’d think I was a crazy woman and would want a divorce. Then we looked at the chat room together and the ‘Snuff Your Wife’ website it was attached to. You said you wanted to do some pretty bad things to me that we found there. I was very much afraid, but also very much excited, as were you.”
“Yes. And I continued with the stuff that was written on that site; more pain mixed with humiliating sex, like cumming in your mouth, on your face, in your hair. That really turned me on and then you told me you didn’t want me to do that.”
Her face turns harsh and red. She takes a drag on her cigarette and blows it at me again. “You know damn well and good that’s not what I didn’t want to do! I was starting to like more pain and being forced to suck you and swallow your cum. Then you read about the anal sex. I did it once and it really hurt bad. It was a new kind of hurt that didn’t go away when you finished. I didn’t like it and tried to avoid it by flattening out. But you did it anyway.”
“And you would get angry and pout around.” I shake my head remembering. “I thought you were doing it to get punished some more. That was, until the night I tied you on your elbows and knees to the bench so you couldn’t lay down on your belly and pull me out of your ass. I rammed into you so hard you screamed at the top of your lungs. I thought the neighbors would hear you. When I finished and untied you, you ran off crying and wouldn’t talk to me for three days. Do you remember what I told you on the third day?”
Petra chuckles and nods, yes. “You said there is nothing so loud and punishing as the silence of an angry woman. Then you said you were so frustrated it would all have to stop and go back to the way it was when we first got married… unless… unless I became your absolute pain and sex slave … with no debating … no right of refusal … and no safe words … for anything you wanted to do to me. I remember my heart racing out of control. I said not yet but let me think about it. And my heart raced out of control every time I did think about it.”
I smile and shake my head. “And six weeks later, for our fifth wedding anniversary, you planned a surprise trip to Bavaria. Today is happening as a consequence of that trip. Are you sorry you did it?”
Petra purses her lips and shakes her head, no. “It was the right place, and the right choice, twenty years ago. Still is today. I wanted you to believe that I meant it when I said I wanted to be your true slave in my heart…forever. I could think of no better place to make such a vow than the Basilika Vierzehnheiligen in Bad Staffelstein. Those fourteen holy martyrs suffered terrible sacrifice, pain and humiliation, especially St. Barbara, and did it with great joy, for the love of their faith. I was going to swear to you before God and the holy martyrs to suffer for the love of my husband and the pleasure he would get from using my body for pain, or sex, or... (giggle again) … hopefully both.”
I smile again thinking: Petra seems to be free of her fear. She stopped chain smoking and stopped gulping her drink. If I can steer the conversation to her remembering her vow that day, we’ll be in the sunroom in a few minutes.
Before I can say anything, Petra speaks up. “Are you really going to put your hands inside my breasts once I’m cut open?”
I nod, yes, and she shivers. “But just my fingers, as I said, to see how much I need to scrape away to sew you up proper.”
Petra holds her glass up. "Can I have another?" I am reluctant. "Please?" I take the glass.
"A half," I say. "And then no more."
As I set the drink in front of her she lights another cigarette. She takes a sip of her drink and smokes quietly for a few moments in deep thought. Then, "Are you going to sew me up as neatly as you did Adelheid? That was a horrible thing to watch. Egon destroying his little, young wife’s body.” She takes a puff on her cigarette, turns her head toward the sunroom and stares for a time out and beyond. Still with her head turned she says, “As it went on I got aroused. So much so I started wishing it was happening to me. And to see how excited you got I was terrified you’d know and would want to do the same thing to me when we got home.” She turns her head back. We make eye contact. Her face flushes. She looks down at her lap. In a soft voice just above a whisper she says, “Or, I would ask you to.” A few seconds later, she looks back up at me, takes a sip, then says, “If you weren’t there she would have bled to death.”
I say, “They both knew she was going to need sewing up. They came into the leather shop, told me what they had planned for their tenth anniversary party and asked me to make her as right as I could when it was over.”
Petra’s eyes widen and her mouth drops open. “You never told me that. Why you?”
“Petra?” I say. “My family made leather armor for the nobility’s men-at-arms a thousand years ago. They made leather hunting britches and field coats for princes in the 1800’s. They made ledermantels for field marshals and generals, and lederjackes for Luftwaffe heroes. So neatly stitching things together is in my genes. We make the finest leather coats for women now that fur coats are socially verboten. And our motorcycle jackets are always in demand by silly celebrities. Much of that expensive leatherwork is hand sewn. Even our confidential, by introduction only, line of BDSM leathers, including that custom full body harness you’re so fond of is hand sewn. They knew that. So yes, they came to me. And I’ll sew you just as neatly, no, even neater.”
“So, you knew about the show they were going to put on for their party guests. Why didn’t you tell me?” Petra asks.
I sigh. “All I really knew was that Egon was going to use a larger, heavier skewer than ever before and they were worried the extra weight would rip Addy’s breasts. And she told me about strips of flesh she wanted him to cut out of her buttocks. I suggested vertical cuts instead of horizontal wouldn’t tend to stretch open while healing. They didn’t tell me about the rest. And they asked me not to say anything. They wanted it to be a surprise for everyone. Even you.”
“It was quite a show,” Petra muses. “Those heavy chains and manacles attached to that big skewer. They were a bit much. And the canes. He used canes for her whole beating, front and back.” Petra shakes her head and finishes her drink. “I saw her breast rip when she flinched while he was caning her back.” She shakes her head again.
I pick up her glass and my empty coffee cup and put them in the sink and run some water in them. When I turn around Petra is standing, but still holding her cigarette.
“In the Basilika I made a vow,” she says. “I held your hands in mine, looked into your eyes and said, ‘I swear before God, and the Fourteen Holy Helpers, whose relics abide here, to give to my husband in pain or pleasure, my body, to do with as he desires, anything, anytime, anyplace as long as I shall live.’ I think it’s time to go into the sunroom.” She takes a last drag on the cigarette and butts it out.
I stand in front of her, reach into my pocket, take out a very old golden pill container, open it and remove a small tan wafer that put under her tongue. She gathers some saliva and works it around the wafer. A moment later she nods, indicating it has dissolved.
I frame her face in my hands and look deeply into her eyes before I bend and touch my mouth gently to hers in a declaration of love in and of itself. I let her face go and straighten up.
Petra tilts her head. With a little smile and raised eyebrows she says, “I believe that was the most tender kiss I’ve ever had in my life.”
We turn together. She puts her arm around my waist. I put my arm around her shoulder, and we go enter that bright light of the sunroom.
I look down at my precious wife and for a moment feel compassion for her feelings and regret for what I’m going to do to her. And myself. I’ve loved those breasts from the first time I saw them and cupped them in my hands more than twenty-five years ago. I rejoiced in the pleasure they’ve given both of us all that time.
I shake it off. I know her too well after all these years. Just like the other extreme tortures I may have casually mentioned, or she heard or read about, or saw pictures and videos of and pressed me to do them to her. Or so I thought. When I wasn’t as harsh as she wanted, she insisted I be more brutal. She didn’t know she was creating her own sadistic monster. Now there are scars on her body that I didn’t want to put there at first, but still frequently do, and now with great pleasure. She proudly displays them to the other S/M friends we meet for group sessions. I think she does this to shock them with seeing she can take more pain than any of the other women and causing them to fear me.
But never with her tits. She was always so proud of them. They’ve been whipped to bruising, squashed with a breast press to within a hair of bursting open, riddled with clothespins and tit clamps but never punctured or scarred with cuts or burns.
I’m not really sure how what we’re going to do this morning got started. Whether I made a casual comment, or she did, or somebody else did and it went from there. But she’s gotten a taste in her mind to have her breasts amputated that won’t just go away. That taste will have to be sated sooner or later. So, if we don’t do it today when everything is set up and ready, we’ll just have to start all over in a week or two until it’s done.
I cup Petra’s chin and lift her head. I look into her eyes and mutter, “Jesus.”
“What’s the matter?” she asks with alarm.
I went behind her, reach under her arms and lift her to her feet. I reach behind her knees and scoop her up in my arms.
“God, no. Don’t carry me in there. Not into that light. I don’t want to die,” she sobs.
And that wasn’t my intention. I carry her over to the kitchen table and sit her on a chair. I fumble around until I find cigarettes, a lighter and an ashtray and set them down in front of her. I take the covering off her hands, light a cigarette for her and give it to her. She takes a deep draw, holds it, then turns her head away and blows the smoke out of the corner of her mouth into the center of the room. She says, “Thank you. I really need this.” I smile knowingly.
I turn on the K-cup coffee machine. While waiting I pour Petra a hefty whiskey and water. She takes a sip and says, "Eww. That's your Scotch. Tastes like medicine."
As I bring my coffee to the table and sit down, I reply, "Well then, it would seem appropriate on a day we're doing medical procedures, wouldn't it? I can't give you one of your sweet favorites like a banana or strawberry daiquiri and have you getting sick when I start cutting on you." I gave her a big grin.
"Nnnnnh, dammit! This is not funny,” Petra growls. “What about the pills? Everything's so blurry now. Won't drinking this be dangerous if you're going to give me another one?" She butts her cigarette and lights another.
I tell Petra, "It's not that kind of drug. It's a mood enhancer. Just enhanced the wrong mood. I didn't think you were so afraid. And everything's so bright and blurry because your pupils are dilated. I didn't expect that either. So, you didn’t leave this world for another. And you won’t. Not today anyway."
She takes a couple drags on her cigarette and asks, “So you’re saying you know what you’re doing, and I don’t have to worry?”
“I know exactly what I’m doing. Exactly what I’m going to do. And pretty much how everything is going to turn out,” I assure her.
“Pretty much?” she asks skeptically. “That’s not very persuasive for changing my mood about going out there.” She takes a gulp of her drink and tosses her head toward the sunroom. Then she lights another cigarette and giving me a challenging stare, blows the smoke in my direction.
I stare back estimating how she’ll handle the truth. She’s already calming down. If I tell her how I’ll know exactly will it freak her out more or will it excite her?
Petra takes a long drag on her cigarette and blows the smoke at me again. Then she tilts her head and raises her eyebrows, her gesture silently asking, “Well?”
“Do you really want to know?” I ask in a serious tone.
The smugness leaves her face. She takes another drag, holds it and blows the smoke out of the corner of her mouth away from me. Then she nods, yes.
I nod, yes, in response. Then I tell her, “I won’t know exactly how it turns out until I can run my fingers around the insides of what’s left of your breasts and feel how much of the protective fatty tissue I’ll have to curettage to sew the ends together and close you up.”
Petra’s mouth falls open, all the color drains from her face and she doesn’t blink or take a breath for a long moment as she stares at me. Eventually, she takes a deep breath, and then two more and the color returns.
Seeing this and before she can say anything, I take a sip from my cup and say, “The coffee is exceptionally good this morning.” I take a second sip.
She gasps. Her face turns blood red. “What?!” Her eyes look like they are going to pop out of her head. “What?!!” She takes a deep breath and lets out it in frustration or anger or both with, “Ahhhhh !! You tell me you're going to cut my tits open and then put your hands inside of my body … inside of me … and then you tell me about your coffee! No wonder your Great Uncle George always calls you ‘Die scheisse en der hosen!’ It really fits.”
“You’re saying it wrong, my love. He says it in one word, like it’s my name, ‘D’sheisseend’hosen.’ That started the first time he saw me the day I came home from the hospital and already had a full dirty diaper. He still calls me, ‘bose kind,’ a lot, but ‘Der verdorbener apfel,’ not so much anymore since I’m Ledermeister now and run the family business and profits are up. None of it ever fit me anyway. I’m a sweetheart, … until it comes to taking pleasure in hurting you.” I lift my cup toward Petra in salute, smile big, and take another sip of coffee and smack my lips.
Petra shakes her head and a little smile breaks on her mouth. She finishes her drink and holds the glass out to me. “Give me another one, Scheisseend’hosen. Then we’ll see what happens.”
I watch her light another cigarette as I refill her glass and my coffee. The fear and the anger have left her face. Her brow is furrowed with deep thought, but the little smile is still there. I break her reverie putting her drink in front of her and sitting down with my coffee.
She says, “You know, … nothing has ever been inside my breasts. They have no puncture scars like the other women we session with. Or any other type of scars from the sessions. Ernst Nachnebel likes to run those long medical needles through Gerd’s boobs. Hans Becker burns patterns on Evie’s with cigarettes and put patterns of syringe needles in them. And little Adelheid Klein, the child-woman with those pert, perfect breasts that belonged on a bigger woman when we first met them. They sag now more than mine. Egon has made her crazy. The things she lets him do to her.”
“Or maybe she made him crazy asking for it.” Now it was my turn to duck my head and raise my eyebrows. The gesture isn’t lost on Petra and her face flushes bright red. She looks down and the smile broadens. She is the one who introduced S/M into our vanilla marriage twenty-one years ago. I go on.
“The day we were married, I still remember the smell of the melting wax from all those burning candles. And the incense smoke when Father Gerhard anointed us. The church was so much brighter because of your shining radiance. You were so beautiful. Still are. But I wonder what the school nuns and Father Gerhard would say if they could see us right now and what we’re getting ready to do. And the guests! Your family. Mine. All those friends … everyone so straight back then… most of them are just memories. What would they think?” I say ruefully and force a chuckle.
Petra actually laughs. “We should wait. Have a twenty-fifth anniversary party and invite them all to watch.”
I laugh with her and shake my head, no. “Nice try. That would really be something. But my still beautiful darling with those still gorgeous breasts that you’re so proud of? … they’re going to be cut away from the rest of your still lovely body … today.”
Petra takes a sip of her drink and lights another cigarette. “This is really going to hurt, isn’t it?”
“More than you’ll want at first, I think. But as the next little wafer I put under tongue starts working and the dopamine and endorphins rise to counteract the pain … well you know how you get then. You can’t get enough. I bet you’ll cum before I get your first tit cut all the way off.” I smirk.
Petra gives a low, soft moan. I glance down at some motion of her robe. She’s squeezing her legs together. This is becoming a “mind-fuck” for her. A little longer and she’ll be begging me to take her into the sunroom.
"Have I made you as mean crazy as Addy has made Egon?" Petra asks with the same ruefulness as I expressed earlier.
I think for a long moment, until Petra thrusts her head forward with a furrowed brow seeking an answer. "What's going to happen today started, … what … four years after we were married? A silly spanking over my knee that you suggested for ruining dinner. A whipping with my belt for going shopping for the third time all day and turning off your phone. You took all your clothes off for that one and we fucked to exhaustion afterwards. Remember that?”
Petra giggles. “And I started withholding sex and daring you to force me. It took a week, but you finally raped me. And when I called you bad names you slapped me, and I came and couldn’t stop cumming.”
I give another chuckle. “I couldn’t figure out what was going on until I found your S/M chat room on the internet. ‘What Would You Do To Punish An Errant Wife?’ you asked. I found you had me doing what was suggested in the chat room. Then, when some of the more serious punishments turned me on you didn’t want to do them. But when I started doing some of the milder punishments anyway you asked me to stop, even though doing them and talking about them seemed to turn you on. Then I told you I found the chat room. Do you remember that?”
Petra’s face flushes. “Oh God, yes. I was scared to death you’d think I was a crazy woman and would want a divorce. Then we looked at the chat room together and the ‘Snuff Your Wife’ website it was attached to. You said you wanted to do some pretty bad things to me that we found there. I was very much afraid, but also very much excited, as were you.”
“Yes. And I continued with the stuff that was written on that site; more pain mixed with humiliating sex, like cumming in your mouth, on your face, in your hair. That really turned me on and then you told me you didn’t want me to do that.”
Her face turns harsh and red. She takes a drag on her cigarette and blows it at me again. “You know damn well and good that’s not what I didn’t want to do! I was starting to like more pain and being forced to suck you and swallow your cum. Then you read about the anal sex. I did it once and it really hurt bad. It was a new kind of hurt that didn’t go away when you finished. I didn’t like it and tried to avoid it by flattening out. But you did it anyway.”
“And you would get angry and pout around.” I shake my head remembering. “I thought you were doing it to get punished some more. That was, until the night I tied you on your elbows and knees to the bench so you couldn’t lay down on your belly and pull me out of your ass. I rammed into you so hard you screamed at the top of your lungs. I thought the neighbors would hear you. When I finished and untied you, you ran off crying and wouldn’t talk to me for three days. Do you remember what I told you on the third day?”
Petra chuckles and nods, yes. “You said there is nothing so loud and punishing as the silence of an angry woman. Then you said you were so frustrated it would all have to stop and go back to the way it was when we first got married… unless… unless I became your absolute pain and sex slave … with no debating … no right of refusal … and no safe words … for anything you wanted to do to me. I remember my heart racing out of control. I said not yet but let me think about it. And my heart raced out of control every time I did think about it.”
I smile and shake my head. “And six weeks later, for our fifth wedding anniversary, you planned a surprise trip to Bavaria. Today is happening as a consequence of that trip. Are you sorry you did it?”
Petra purses her lips and shakes her head, no. “It was the right place, and the right choice, twenty years ago. Still is today. I wanted you to believe that I meant it when I said I wanted to be your true slave in my heart…forever. I could think of no better place to make such a vow than the Basilika Vierzehnheiligen in Bad Staffelstein. Those fourteen holy martyrs suffered terrible sacrifice, pain and humiliation, especially St. Barbara, and did it with great joy, for the love of their faith. I was going to swear to you before God and the holy martyrs to suffer for the love of my husband and the pleasure he would get from using my body for pain, or sex, or... (giggle again) … hopefully both.”
I smile again thinking: Petra seems to be free of her fear. She stopped chain smoking and stopped gulping her drink. If I can steer the conversation to her remembering her vow that day, we’ll be in the sunroom in a few minutes.
Before I can say anything, Petra speaks up. “Are you really going to put your hands inside my breasts once I’m cut open?”
I nod, yes, and she shivers. “But just my fingers, as I said, to see how much I need to scrape away to sew you up proper.”
Petra holds her glass up. "Can I have another?" I am reluctant. "Please?" I take the glass.
"A half," I say. "And then no more."
As I set the drink in front of her she lights another cigarette. She takes a sip of her drink and smokes quietly for a few moments in deep thought. Then, "Are you going to sew me up as neatly as you did Adelheid? That was a horrible thing to watch. Egon destroying his little, young wife’s body.” She takes a puff on her cigarette, turns her head toward the sunroom and stares for a time out and beyond. Still with her head turned she says, “As it went on I got aroused. So much so I started wishing it was happening to me. And to see how excited you got I was terrified you’d know and would want to do the same thing to me when we got home.” She turns her head back. We make eye contact. Her face flushes. She looks down at her lap. In a soft voice just above a whisper she says, “Or, I would ask you to.” A few seconds later, she looks back up at me, takes a sip, then says, “If you weren’t there she would have bled to death.”
I say, “They both knew she was going to need sewing up. They came into the leather shop, told me what they had planned for their tenth anniversary party and asked me to make her as right as I could when it was over.”
Petra’s eyes widen and her mouth drops open. “You never told me that. Why you?”
“Petra?” I say. “My family made leather armor for the nobility’s men-at-arms a thousand years ago. They made leather hunting britches and field coats for princes in the 1800’s. They made ledermantels for field marshals and generals, and lederjackes for Luftwaffe heroes. So neatly stitching things together is in my genes. We make the finest leather coats for women now that fur coats are socially verboten. And our motorcycle jackets are always in demand by silly celebrities. Much of that expensive leatherwork is hand sewn. Even our confidential, by introduction only, line of BDSM leathers, including that custom full body harness you’re so fond of is hand sewn. They knew that. So yes, they came to me. And I’ll sew you just as neatly, no, even neater.”
“So, you knew about the show they were going to put on for their party guests. Why didn’t you tell me?” Petra asks.
I sigh. “All I really knew was that Egon was going to use a larger, heavier skewer than ever before and they were worried the extra weight would rip Addy’s breasts. And she told me about strips of flesh she wanted him to cut out of her buttocks. I suggested vertical cuts instead of horizontal wouldn’t tend to stretch open while healing. They didn’t tell me about the rest. And they asked me not to say anything. They wanted it to be a surprise for everyone. Even you.”
“It was quite a show,” Petra muses. “Those heavy chains and manacles attached to that big skewer. They were a bit much. And the canes. He used canes for her whole beating, front and back.” Petra shakes her head and finishes her drink. “I saw her breast rip when she flinched while he was caning her back.” She shakes her head again.
I pick up her glass and my empty coffee cup and put them in the sink and run some water in them. When I turn around Petra is standing, but still holding her cigarette.
“In the Basilika I made a vow,” she says. “I held your hands in mine, looked into your eyes and said, ‘I swear before God, and the Fourteen Holy Helpers, whose relics abide here, to give to my husband in pain or pleasure, my body, to do with as he desires, anything, anytime, anyplace as long as I shall live.’ I think it’s time to go into the sunroom.” She takes a last drag on the cigarette and butts it out.
I stand in front of her, reach into my pocket, take out a very old golden pill container, open it and remove a small tan wafer that put under her tongue. She gathers some saliva and works it around the wafer. A moment later she nods, indicating it has dissolved.
I frame her face in my hands and look deeply into her eyes before I bend and touch my mouth gently to hers in a declaration of love in and of itself. I let her face go and straighten up.
Petra tilts her head. With a little smile and raised eyebrows she says, “I believe that was the most tender kiss I’ve ever had in my life.”
We turn together. She puts her arm around my waist. I put my arm around her shoulder, and we go enter that bright light of the sunroom.
Urmel
Spectator
Ihre wunderschönen Brüste gehören gepeitscht, meine Meinung..
Urmel
Spectator
Wie lange wird sie das am Kreuze wohl aushalten?
stretchedgirl
Magistrate
. . I would love that as well as my nipples pulled with spiked nipple clamps
. . for at least a day I hope even as they continue to lash me with the scourges
Urmel
Spectator
Also ich würde sie noch für ein paar Tage in der Folterkammer bearbeiten, mit allem was so eine Schlampe braucht..
stretchedgirl
Magistrate
You said "So I would work on her in the torture chamber for a few more days, with everything a slut like that needs."
Reply: Only a few days? I was hoping for much longer!
If I allowed you to do anything you wish to me in the dungeons of a remote fortress, what tortures would you like to use on me?
The dungeon torture chambers will be equiped with every machine and instrument you desire - both mechanical and electrical
Once locked in your dungeons you would have complete mastery over my body, every part of my body! - for as long as you wish!
If your desires are too shocking then open up a private conversation with me. I would love to know if we are at all compatible . . .
This is open to anyone else (male and female)
Cool-Luke
Condemned
Such.an invitation over thev12.days of Xmas, Holly sprigs to start
