I held the pose an extra few seconds to make sure I got every millimeter of oxygen out of each deep breath, and then relaxed and felt the air rush out of my chest.
“Again.” It wasn’t a suggestion. It was an order.
When I relaxed a second time, the ceiling wasn’t spinning so much anymore.
“Good girl.”
And then the floggers were striking again, and I had to breathe shallow. The leather strands were relentless. I like sting more than thud, but this flogger delivered both, and I knew he’d be right about tears falling from my eyes before he finished. I counted fifteen strikes and engaged my muscles enough to hold myself at an angle so I could breathe. When I relaxed, I counted fifteen strikes and did it again.
This became my world. Fifteen strikes and breathe. Sometimes the blows came so hard I could almost feel the bruises forming. Other times the impact wasn’t as severe but the pain wasn’t any easier to handle. I couldn’t get on top of it from this position. All I could do was breathe every time I counted to fifteen.
The flogging stopped and it sounded like he pulled a chair or stool to the bed.
When the first clothespin went on, I groaned. I assumed it was a clothespin. It hurt something awful, but it pinched a relatively small piece of skin, and clamps are usually wider.
“Our deal was no identifying naked pictures. I’ll snap a pic without your face when I’m finished. Your tits are going to look great decorated as flowers.”
Fuck me — that was going to take a shitload of clothespins. My clit throbbed in time to my rapidly beating heart and there wasn’t a damned thing I could do to give it even a tiny bit of relief.
He put six clamps around each nipple and then used a marker to draw the petals. This told me I’d been right about the number of clothespins he intended to use, but instead of stressing out, I relaxed farther into the pose. It pulled my shoulders and it hurt, but I wasn’t going to have the strength to partially hold myself up for so long. I’d have to relax into it eventually, so no point in fighting it.
Without the heavy flogging, I counted to twenty before I pulled up and took a breath. I assumed I needed less air. However, four breaths later, I switched back to fifteen.
The thing about clothespins is that you feel every single one being put on, but some only hurt a little while and the pain fades, while others land right on a nerve and the sharp, hot pain expands out in a larger circle and you can’t imagine the agony and torment if you’ve never felt it. The sharp, radiating sphere of suffering doesn’t go away, either. Every clothespin adds to your misery.
Eventually, the skin of my chest was pulled tight enough by the dozens of clothespins, I was forced to hurt myself worse when I lifted up to get a breath. Occasionally, he’d put his hands to the side of my rib cage and lift me long enough to get a couple of nice breaths, and I was always sure to thank him for the heavenly little respite because it took so much pressure off my shoulders, asshole, hair, and all the muscles well beyond merely strained.
I nearly cried with relief when I heard him taking pictures, because I thought he was through. However, without warning, my nipples shot through with pain and I screamed despite the fact I didn’t have the air to. I lifted myself, drew more air in, and screamed again. Tears streamed from my eyes. Fuck, he must’ve used industrial clamps. No, that wasn’t right because whatever he’d used weren’t that heavy.
And then I knew. Paper clamps. Those evil black and silver things you find in offices. Shit, but they hurt.
He took more pictures, and then his arm was across my shoulders, just above and not touching the clothespins, supporting my torso. The hook came out of my asshole, and he lifted me until I was upright and kneeling, my ass on my feet. The hook hung from my hair and pulled it down now, at a different angle from before, which made every hair root scream in protest. He readjusted me a little so he could release my ankle cuffs from the bed’s tether, and then connected my right wrist to the outside of my right ankle cuff, and my left wrist to the outside of my left ankle cuff.
My ankle cuffs were still connected to each other, and he connected the anal hook to them somehow. He also secured my ponytail to them. I could look straight ahead, but I couldn’t bend forward and I couldn’t rise up on my knees. I was stuck with my ass on my feet.
But I could breathe. Sweet, sweet oxygen. When he’d put the finishing touches on this bondage pose, I still hadn’t completely caught my breath.
His strong arms lifted me, and I screamed because every clothespin on my chest moved and shifted around already sensitive nerve endings, not to mention the odd pull on the anal hook. I screamed again when he settled me back down. When I looked around, I found myself facing the foot of the bed, centered. I aimed my eyes down and my knees were around six or eight inches away from the footboard.
Dementor fished under the bed again and pulled long ropes up from both sides, and he deftly connected them to the same attachment points on my ankles cuffs he’d used to restrain my hands. No, not ropes. Some kind of tie, like the kind moving people use to make sure the furniture doesn’t move around. He hooked them up and pulled on a piece near my left ankle to tighten it. It was one piece going all the way around, because when he tightened it on the left side, I felt it pulling both the left and right cuffs.
I wiggled my fingers. I didn’t remember him taking the sock off, but they were free.
“You can’t fall sideways. I won’t let you fall forwards. I suggest you work hard to keep from falling backwards because I’ll grab the clamps on your nipples to keep you from falling if I see you headed in that direction. You can’t straighten your knees enough to get a high bounce, but even if you manage, the tie-down will hold you to the bed.”
He flicked both nipple clamps and I squealed in pain. I could see it coming now. Or rather, I could see his hand coming towards me. I couldn’t see my nipples, but I knew he was headed in that general direction. Knowing it’s coming brings anticipation, and even if you only know for a few seconds ahead of time, it’s a huge difference from not having a clue until it happens.
It’s possible it hurts worse when you have the anticipation before the pain arrives.
Chapter Eleven
Ember
Dementor walked out of my vision. I counted the steps — seven there and seven back. When he returned, he was far enough in front of me I could aim my eyes down and see the flogger in his right hand, and I knew this wasn’t the one he’d used before. This flogger had long, thick strands with enough weight to whip the clothespins off without fucking around. Wimpy floggers might have to hit a clothespin ten times to dislodge it, while this one would likely rip them off with less strikes, but it also meant my boobs were going to take that impact.
“I’ve positioned you purposefully so I can watch you twist and dance around to try to avoid the flogger. I may order you to be still for a count of ten or twenty, but otherwise, feel free to move, scream, cry, and beg all you want.”
He didn’t wait for me to acknowledge his orders. His arm was swinging before he finished the sentence, and my scream filled the room when the flogger hit the clothespins. I don’t know how many he put on. A hundred? Two hundred? It was impossible to count clothespins and keep up the rhythm of when to breathe and when to relax, so I’d given up at about twenty.