The Grays Document ~ Part Three
by C.A.B.
(Fiction. M/f, Warning: adult themes. non-consensual, sex. violence, torture)
Becky coughs back her incited laughter and tears and strains through wet, blurry eyes to see what her captor is retrieving from the bed. Before she can adjust, he is on her again like doting predator. He stands erect and jeering, just beyond the spread of her legs, taking practice swings with a long leather flogger. Their pointed ends snap in the air.
"It's time to warm you up. That neat and trim pussy of yours is much too introverted. I say we let it bloom a little... maybe a lot. Let us encourage it to come out and play."
A small, "...no..." Tensing. Straining against the inevitable.
"I'm going to whip you until you beg to confess. I'm going to whip your sweet pussy until you scream. I'm going to whip you until you rise to meet the pain." And without ceremony, he brings the great thongs down high from over head, a sweeping path of audible wind sheer that ends with a great slap. Becky, more shocked than pained, yelps. Before she can digest the sensation the whip finds purse again. She cries out this time. Again. Her deft outer lips pink up. She feels the sting and the pressure. Again and again, a methodical metronome of torment. The dread of the wait between strokes rivals the contact. There is no where to squirm.
And then she shames herself, as her lips redden and blossom. The pain stings but the pressure seduces. The rhythmic flow or torment plays behind her tightly shut eyes, and her mind caresses and flirts with the very counter-nature of submission. The entanglement of the preservation of self and the unrelenting agony of physical and sexual abandonment. The strikes become more seductive, and Becky fears she feels an ache inside... deep. A need growing without her consent. The rape of fortitude.
Another well placed stroke and her maidenhead is engorged and evident.
The need is growing on its own.
Prophetically, she unconsciously bucks her hips to meet the timed strikes. But it suddenly ends.
"You little fucking *****," He chuckles, "You cheap fucking ****. you're loving it, aren't you?"
"Shut up! SHUT UP!" Becky protests new tears and turns her head away as best she's able.
"Fine then." He stretches high and the arc of pain rains down faster, the tips targeting her engorgement. Becky screams in anguish and cries out. Over and over, the rhythm pushing her to a perversion her self-esteem dare not confront. But the ache begins inside once more and body holds sway over id. Her clitoris, suffering in sweet agony, pulls hard on her need to release with every pulse of the beating, until at long last, Becky bears down on the last few strokes and moils in an unholy orgasm that strains rope and leather alike. She scrapes for breath and releases a torrent of evidence that her provocateur was victorious. The wood of the table groans under her convulsive push. And she withers.
He stands above her to gloat and stare. A voyeur to her succulent shame.
"Wait," he moves to the bag on the bed, "I need a shot of this. Tsk. Tsk What a mess."
As the camera flashes, Becky dies a little of disgrace.
"Lets move on. shall we? A little cheering up then?" He moves to her side and wipes the black streaks from her eyes, "Let's have you smile some more. Learn to laugh a little."
"no... NO! Don't! Don't tickle me! Not anymore! Please! Don't... Ah ha ha ha ha!" Becky bucks hard then melts with laughter as he plucks and pinches and pokes her belly and breasts. His fingers search mercilessly for productive targets as her stomach hardens and softens with each hitching breath. Her tits wriggle from laughter but have no where to escape his probing digits. Nipples stand erect and defiant but only encourage more attack. Post-orgasmic, Becky's sensitivity is off the scale. His rough hands dance and explore her pubic area and the rise of soft belly flesh above, pushing her to deafening heights of forced laughter. He mocks her.
"You want me to stop? Is it too much? Will you talk now, or do I have to tickle you until Monday?" he is relentless, and turns up the amperage of his enthusiasm, "Ticklish here? How about here? Just say so, and I'll stop. What? I can't hear you?"
Becky, sealed to the apparatus with fresh sweat, heavy straps, and rope, can not move an inch to prevent the assailment, "p-Pleease! Oh God, please! Stop! STOP! I can't take this any..." And she buckles into a fresh gale of crying laughter as he exploits the tender flesh of her underarms, her position making them inviting nests for spidery fingers. She screams, "YOU SAID YOU'D STOP!"
"Yes I did. But... it's not my fault that your body is so ticklish. Why don't you stop laughing? You can't, and I know that. It's candy for me to watch you endure it. Tickle tickle tickle!" Her suffering is prolonged far past his admittance that he lied.
At long last, choking and rasping, Becky gets a reprieve to contemplate the agony to be served next. He is diligent and takes no break for himself, the pause is merely a byproduct of his need to employ new tactics. When she next opens her eyes he is standing between her again. Without much care, he is squeezing clear lubricant haphazardly onto a wired plastic egg.
"Unless you are a puritan, and we know you are not," he glances at her puffy, glistening lips,"You know exactly what this is," he suddenly pauses, "Oh, my... 'eggs-actly'... I should be shot for that one, eh?"
Becky stares in distress, the humor is irrelevant. There is only the fear or what's next.
"We're going to play a little game now, kiddo. I'm going to push this remote vibe into your little puckered hole. And believe me, you're going to want to feel like pushing it back out. Herein lies the game... if you push it out again I'm going to tickle torture you far longer than I just did. And we both know how unbearable that is, don't we?"
Becky comes alive with pleads, "No! NO! Don't tickle me anymore! It's TORTURE!"
"Yes it is. So keep this devilish thing in your ass and you're fine... but here's the rub, if you also cum while it's in, you loose again, and you're toast. More tickle torture." he grins, "So your probably wondering why I don't demand you talk? Frankly right now, I'm having too much fun. Besides. Whatever happens, I know you'll talk. You are too prone to torture. Too ticklish for your own good."
He holds the device up like a prize, "Ready?"
— To be continued
by C.A.B.
(Fiction. M/f, Warning: adult themes. non-consensual, sex. violence, torture)
Becky coughs back her incited laughter and tears and strains through wet, blurry eyes to see what her captor is retrieving from the bed. Before she can adjust, he is on her again like doting predator. He stands erect and jeering, just beyond the spread of her legs, taking practice swings with a long leather flogger. Their pointed ends snap in the air.
"It's time to warm you up. That neat and trim pussy of yours is much too introverted. I say we let it bloom a little... maybe a lot. Let us encourage it to come out and play."
A small, "...no..." Tensing. Straining against the inevitable.
"I'm going to whip you until you beg to confess. I'm going to whip your sweet pussy until you scream. I'm going to whip you until you rise to meet the pain." And without ceremony, he brings the great thongs down high from over head, a sweeping path of audible wind sheer that ends with a great slap. Becky, more shocked than pained, yelps. Before she can digest the sensation the whip finds purse again. She cries out this time. Again. Her deft outer lips pink up. She feels the sting and the pressure. Again and again, a methodical metronome of torment. The dread of the wait between strokes rivals the contact. There is no where to squirm.
And then she shames herself, as her lips redden and blossom. The pain stings but the pressure seduces. The rhythmic flow or torment plays behind her tightly shut eyes, and her mind caresses and flirts with the very counter-nature of submission. The entanglement of the preservation of self and the unrelenting agony of physical and sexual abandonment. The strikes become more seductive, and Becky fears she feels an ache inside... deep. A need growing without her consent. The rape of fortitude.
Another well placed stroke and her maidenhead is engorged and evident.
The need is growing on its own.
Prophetically, she unconsciously bucks her hips to meet the timed strikes. But it suddenly ends.
"You little fucking *****," He chuckles, "You cheap fucking ****. you're loving it, aren't you?"
"Shut up! SHUT UP!" Becky protests new tears and turns her head away as best she's able.
"Fine then." He stretches high and the arc of pain rains down faster, the tips targeting her engorgement. Becky screams in anguish and cries out. Over and over, the rhythm pushing her to a perversion her self-esteem dare not confront. But the ache begins inside once more and body holds sway over id. Her clitoris, suffering in sweet agony, pulls hard on her need to release with every pulse of the beating, until at long last, Becky bears down on the last few strokes and moils in an unholy orgasm that strains rope and leather alike. She scrapes for breath and releases a torrent of evidence that her provocateur was victorious. The wood of the table groans under her convulsive push. And she withers.
He stands above her to gloat and stare. A voyeur to her succulent shame.
"Wait," he moves to the bag on the bed, "I need a shot of this. Tsk. Tsk What a mess."
As the camera flashes, Becky dies a little of disgrace.
"Lets move on. shall we? A little cheering up then?" He moves to her side and wipes the black streaks from her eyes, "Let's have you smile some more. Learn to laugh a little."
"no... NO! Don't! Don't tickle me! Not anymore! Please! Don't... Ah ha ha ha ha!" Becky bucks hard then melts with laughter as he plucks and pinches and pokes her belly and breasts. His fingers search mercilessly for productive targets as her stomach hardens and softens with each hitching breath. Her tits wriggle from laughter but have no where to escape his probing digits. Nipples stand erect and defiant but only encourage more attack. Post-orgasmic, Becky's sensitivity is off the scale. His rough hands dance and explore her pubic area and the rise of soft belly flesh above, pushing her to deafening heights of forced laughter. He mocks her.
"You want me to stop? Is it too much? Will you talk now, or do I have to tickle you until Monday?" he is relentless, and turns up the amperage of his enthusiasm, "Ticklish here? How about here? Just say so, and I'll stop. What? I can't hear you?"
Becky, sealed to the apparatus with fresh sweat, heavy straps, and rope, can not move an inch to prevent the assailment, "p-Pleease! Oh God, please! Stop! STOP! I can't take this any..." And she buckles into a fresh gale of crying laughter as he exploits the tender flesh of her underarms, her position making them inviting nests for spidery fingers. She screams, "YOU SAID YOU'D STOP!"
"Yes I did. But... it's not my fault that your body is so ticklish. Why don't you stop laughing? You can't, and I know that. It's candy for me to watch you endure it. Tickle tickle tickle!" Her suffering is prolonged far past his admittance that he lied.
At long last, choking and rasping, Becky gets a reprieve to contemplate the agony to be served next. He is diligent and takes no break for himself, the pause is merely a byproduct of his need to employ new tactics. When she next opens her eyes he is standing between her again. Without much care, he is squeezing clear lubricant haphazardly onto a wired plastic egg.
"Unless you are a puritan, and we know you are not," he glances at her puffy, glistening lips,"You know exactly what this is," he suddenly pauses, "Oh, my... 'eggs-actly'... I should be shot for that one, eh?"
Becky stares in distress, the humor is irrelevant. There is only the fear or what's next.
"We're going to play a little game now, kiddo. I'm going to push this remote vibe into your little puckered hole. And believe me, you're going to want to feel like pushing it back out. Herein lies the game... if you push it out again I'm going to tickle torture you far longer than I just did. And we both know how unbearable that is, don't we?"
Becky comes alive with pleads, "No! NO! Don't tickle me anymore! It's TORTURE!"
"Yes it is. So keep this devilish thing in your ass and you're fine... but here's the rub, if you also cum while it's in, you loose again, and you're toast. More tickle torture." he grins, "So your probably wondering why I don't demand you talk? Frankly right now, I'm having too much fun. Besides. Whatever happens, I know you'll talk. You are too prone to torture. Too ticklish for your own good."
He holds the device up like a prize, "Ready?"
— To be continued
