Unfettered, Part V

This is an adult blog, containing graphic and detailed descriptions of sexual situations and BDSM themes. Read at your own risk. 


Master leads me outside, and I blink rapidly against the strong morning sun. I still don't know how he managed to find this house, in this isolated location, but whichever direction I turn, I cannot see another house, or a road (other than the driveway), or any sign of population. In my own searches for vacation rental properties, I haven't been able to locate anything this isolated. 

We wander back behind the house into a nice-sized yard, well-maintained, with a stepping-stone walkway which meanders toward the back of the yard. Master directs me onto the path, and as I near the treeline at the edge of the yard, I see a patch of white daisies dancing in the shadow of the trees. That makes me smile.

I duck into the trees, following a faded but still visible trail. It's a bit cooler here, out of the direct sun, but the trees aren't very thick, so sunlight dapples the ground. After just a few minutes I reach a clearing, of sorts; I come out of the trees into a cleared area, with mowed grass and, of all things, a small red barn. It's exactly the stereotypical little red barn, complete with faded white trim and a hex sign painted on its side. The door is thrown wide, so I wander inside.

It's quite small: 3 stalls for hoses along one side, a small tack room opposite, and a large bin which must have been used for storage of oats or other feed. To my right, a set of stairs along the wall leads up to what I assume is a loft. Spaced evenly in the center of the hall, supporting the loft, are two stout beams. The beam closest to me catches my eye; on the floor surrounding its base is a soft-looking blanket. Well, I don't know for sure it's a blanket, but it sure looks like it from here.

Master comes in behind me, passes me, disappears into the old tack room. He emerges with a small black duffel bag - I have no idea when he managed to secrete it here -  and walks back toward me, stopping next to the closest beam. Then he tells me to join him.

Actually, what he says is, "Come here, whore." My feet are moving before he finishes his sentence.

I stop before him, tilting my head up to meet his eyes, but I stay silent. He considers me for a moment.

"Position I," he says. I shimmy out of my clothes and toe off my sandals, then kneel on the blankets (there are two, I see) with my head bent and my hands resting palms-up on my knees. I hear a zipper as he opens the duffel, and I close my eyes. I try not to listen as he roots around, pulling out whatever he's pulling out, and I focus on keeping my breathing steady. I shift on my knees, because even with the blankets, the barn floor is really hard, and my knees aren't too happy. Master comes to stand before me, grasping my chin in his fingers and pulling me to my feet. I stumble a little, but manage to keep my balance.

Master is still holding my chin. His fingers are squeezing, digging in, and I'm uncomfortable. "Who owns you?" he asks.

"You do, Master," I say.

He seems satisfied with that, at least for now; he tells me to close my eyes, and when I comply, he places a blindfold on me. I feel it when he picks up my collar, running his fingers along the chain. He lets it drop back to my chest, then presses a finger on the charm, so that the edges of the metal disk dig into the skin over my sternum. I can't help wincing; it hurts when he does that. His hand grasps me by the throat, and my heart leaps. I'm sure he can feel my pulse thrumming madly under his fingers.

He shoves me backwards, still gripping my throat, and my feet stumble backwards three or four steps. Then my back hits the beam and I jolt to a stop. My head bounces off the beam, then, and I swear quietly ("Ow! Dammit!"). There's a splinter or something poking my lower back, and I squirm, trying to shift my position and get away from that offending sharp piece. Though honestly, a splinter will soon be the least discomfort I will feel.

"Hands above your head," he orders, and I raise my arms and rest the backs of my hands on the wooden beam. He steps close enough that I feel his body leaning against me as he wraps what feels like soft rope around my wrists, winding it around each hand and then around the beam, until my hands are held securely to the beam. I give an experimental tug; there's not much play there, enough that I could probably twist my body to face the post, but not nearly enough to take a full step away.

"Open your feet," he commands, and I shuffle my feet apart, opening my legs, leaning more of my weight against the unforgiving roughness of the beam. "Open your mouth," he says, and he slides my bit gag between my teeth. Ugh. I drop my head forward so he can fasten the buckle holding the bit in place. I bite it, gently, testing it; there's not much play here, either. So I'm bound, blindfolded, and gagged; I cannot see, speak, or move more than a step in any direction. My heart is thudding wildly in my chest, my breathing quick and shallow around the bit, my ears straining for clues as to what's coming.

I hear the tell-tale rattling and clinking of the clover clamps, and I wish to God he won't use them again so soon .... he steps in front of me, one hand grasping my left nipple, rolling it, teasing it, and I can feel it tightening, growing taut. He attaches the clamp and I groan around the bit; I hate hate hate these things, they just hurt so much. He drops the other clamp, and its weight pulls painfully against my clamped nipple, forcing a stifled scream from me. Fuck, but that hurts. I hiss around the bit, because the free clamp is swinging, and every movement of that chain pulls against the clamp on my nipple, and it just never. stops. hurting.  

He picks up the free clamp and teases my right nipple; I think he has to work a bit more for this one, since my body isn't quite so eager right now. Soon enough he attaches the other clamp, then tugs on the chain to test the tightness of the clamps. Fuck, fuck. I drop my head back against the beam and just moan pitifully. God damn, but I hate this. It's only been a few minutes, but I'm already questioning my sanity - and my ability to endure.

Suddenly, a sharp sting lashes across my upper legs. I jump, and cry out, though it's muffled by the gag. I suspect he's using the flogger, but I'm not really thinking clearly; not only am I feeling the residual sting from his strike, but I've jostled the clamps, and they are biting fiercely into the tender flesh of my nipples. That hurts far worse than the flogger, in my opinion, and it never stops, never lessens, never eases, it just goes on and on. I try to prepare myself for the next strike, but when it falls, I flinch, sucking in a harsh breath before moaning. He brings the flogger down on my thighs, my stomach, my calves, varying the placement with each strike, and I moan or scream or whimper every single time. I am trying to hold myself as still as possible, hoping to minimize the pain in my nipples, but I can't see where he is, so I can't tell where his next strike is going to fall, so I can't really steel myself not to react - so I jolt and twist and buck every time, and the clamps on my nipples bite and dig and hurt so very much, and then finally I just kind of - give up. It hurts so bad, and I hang my head and cry, shaking, which of course jostles the clamps, which hurts more, so I cry harder, so I shake more - it's miserable. 

Right now, in this second, I hate him. And I despair for my own sanity, agreeing to it in the first place.

Eventually I hear a muffled thud, which I think means he's dropped the flogger. I'm sure I look a mess, with the tear tracks on my face, and my nose is running. I sniffle, and wince, because no matter how hard I try to be still, I keep shifting/moving/twitching, and the clamps keep biting me. Master's hand touches my cheek, startling me,  and I flinch, and wince, and moan yet again. He takes the clamp off my left nipple - none too gently, I can assure you - and I scream around the gag at the huge flare of pain that causes. He removes the right clamp, and I scream again, and fresh tears cascade down my face. I just hurt so, so much, and what I really want is to be able to wrap my arms over my poor abused breasts and hug them to me, but of course, I'm bound and I can't move.

He removes the blindfold then, and I blink several times, both at the brightness of the light in the barn and to try and clear the film of tears still clouding my vision. Next he unbuckles the bit, and I work my jaw, trying to relieve the stiffness in its joints. He bends his head and captures my gaze.

"Who owns you, whore?"

"You do, Master." My voice is thick, and unsteady, even in my own ears, and I have to fight against my instinct to drop my eyes.

He gazes at me for several long seconds, then straightens and begins unwinding my bonds. When I am free, I drop my arms and stretch out my shoulders, which ache from being in that position for so long. And then I do cross my arms over my chest and press against my tender, still-hurting breasts. I wipe my eyes, scrub my hands over my cheeks - and then, without being told, I again assume Position I. I know he is not done with me, so I wait for him to tell me what's happening next.