The Appointment - by Polecat

Ch1:  Appointment day

It is a sunny cold day in March. The snowstorm that covered the streets with snow is gone, leaving a clear, frosty day, with temperatures in the 20s. I walk down the street, dressed only in my black sable coat, black velvet choker, and stylish 5 inch pumps, also black, of course.

As I walk, the cold air seeps under my coat, up my legs and into my bare pussy. I am going to Mr. Marshall’s mansion. I am afraid of what will happen there. I know I will be beaten, but not how, or how much. Where, I do know; all over. It’s always on a Thursday, though not on all of them, that I go to Mr. Marshall’s, always alone, and always nude under my one allowed piece of clothing.

I never know when I will go. Sometimes Paul, my master, will tell me in the morning, after I’ve showered and shaved him, as he dresses, maybe as he does his tie:

“Today you have an appointment with Mr. Marshall”

And I answer softly “Yes Paul” He lets me use his first name, most of the time.

Other times, he tells me the night before, maybe after he’s used me, as I lie in his arms, coming down from subspace. “Tomorrow you have an appointment with Mr. Marshall” and my answer is always the same; soft, submissive; “Yes Paul”

Some days he may phone me at work to tell me, so my anticipation and fear, is prolonged. Rarely, he may even tell me four or five days in advance, so my fear can build up more.

Paul rarely beats me. He exerts his dominance in other ways. He knows that beating is not the only way to cause pain, sometimes unbearable pain. Pain limited only by his imagination, and he has a wide and varied imagination. But he rarely beats me.

When I go to Mr. Marshall’s I know I will be beaten. That is the one common denominator in all my visits. And I will be beaten hard, way beyond any pleasure, way beyond any limit. That is my fear.

Mr. Marshall’s palatial mansion is only three blocks from my master’s spacious home. It is far to walk, in the cold winter air, clad as I am. A passerby sees only an attractive young woman, 5 foot nine inches, stylishly dressed in patent leather pumps and an expensive sable coat. My shoulder length, dark brown hair is carefully coiffed in an up do. My makeup is perfectly done, my eyes are very light blue, surrounded by my naturally long eyelashes, enhanced with water proof mascara, so it won’t run with my tears. My lipstick is the deepest shade of red, custom made by Paul’s parfumier in Paris. I have applied two layers and gloss over it. My lips, naturally thick, resemble ripe cherries after this.

He does not notice my size B breasts, hidden by the bulky sable coat. In the spring, he would stare at them, covered only by a thin sundress, but it is winter, and he cannot see that I am nude, under the coat. He does notice my shoes, and perhaps wonders where I am going, with these classy shoes, on the snow covered sidewalk.

I arrive, climb up three steps and knock on the door. The knocker is bronze, shaped like a lion’s head, with a large ball on its mouth.

Parker, Mr. Marshall’s butler opens the door. Unbidden, I enter, remove my coat and hang it on the hanger. I remove my pumps and put on black sandals, with even higher heels. The sandals tie on my ankle. Parker doesn’t even glance at my nude body. Women do not interest him. He climbs up the stairs and I follow him. The house is kept rather cold, on purpose I am sure, and my pink nipples stand up proudly on my breasts.

As is always the case, I follow Parker to Mr. Marshall’s study. He opens the French doors for me, and I enter the study. The aroma of fine cigars is always the first thing I notice; it endures in this room, even though I seldom see him smoke. It is a large, airy room, with bay windows that open to the park across the street. The walls are lined with book cases, filled to the brim with books in all kinds of bindings, from leather, to cloth, hardcover and paperbacks. I do not know in how many languages. I recognized English, French, Spanish and German. A Persian carpet covers most of the hardwood floor.

Mr. Marshall sits at his desk, writing. He does not look up. I move to his right side and sit on the desk. The dark wood is covered by a sheet of glass. The glass is cold on my ass cheeks. I gather my right thigh under me, and bend my left knee. My shaved pussy is wide open, exposed for him to see, or touch. I hear the French doors close as Parker leaves. Mr. Marshall keeps on writing, occasionally consulting one of the books or journals he’s got on his desk. He writes on a laptop. The tick-tock of the pendulum in the grandfather clock on the corner provides the only sound, aside from his fountain pen, scratching notes in a yellow pad. The ink is blue.

Time passes; every so often he lifts his head, looking at me, but he doesn’t otherwise acknowledge me in any other way.  Sometimes, he touches one of my nipples with his finger; rarely does he touch my pussy, exploring it with his index. When this happens, I am always embarrassed that he finds it so wet. At times, he pinches my clitoris slightly, between his thumb and index. I can never contain a gasp of pleasure-pain at this; but it happens so rarely…

He always wears a smoking jacket when he writes. It is deep crimson, and ties at the waist with a black silk band. He also wears a white shirt and an Ascot tie. Sometimes he asks me to get him a drink. When he does so, I walk to the cupboard and pour him Glenlivet with a single ice cube. Sometimes he looks at me while I do so.

As the evening passes, I feel more and more afraid, as the unavoidable time gets closer and closer. Eventually he rings a bell. I am always startled by the sound of it. The French doors open and I follow Parker up the stairs to the next floor. He always stops at the powder room at the landing; he opens the door and watches me as I empty my bladder. Even after all these times, I cannot avoid blushing with embarrassment. I must pee, in front of him, with my legs wide open. After I am done, I follow him, trembling and unsteady, on my high heeled sandals, to the next room. The room is very plain. It is painted light green, with white crown molding. There is a large window, looking out on the backyard. It is triple-paned and the whole room is soundproof. No one will hear my screams.

I remove my sandals and walk to the center of the room. There are leather ankle bracelets that I put on. A thick wooden beam hangs from the center of the roof, where a chandelier would normally hang. It is suspended by two thick white manila ropes attached to the ends of it. On the bottom of it, two iron manacles, lined in leather, hang open. I place my wrists in the manacles which then close automatically. Parker then presses a button, and the beam rises, until I am standing on tip toes. He then attaches my ankle bracelets with lengths of rope to rings on the floor, and pulls my legs wide open. I now hang, spread-eagled, with all of my body exposed for punishment.

Parker leaves the room to get the instrument he will use on me today. He takes his time. I wait. What will it be? The lash or the crop?

 If it is the crop, I will only get thirty or forty slashes, and then I will go to Mr. Marshall’s room, where I will serve his pleasure during the night. If it is the lash, I know I will hang here for hours, until I receive a hundred lashes, well paced, so I can feel all of them. Parker is an expert in this. He takes his time. He lets me feel each lash, entirely, and then gives me the next. He will pause often, to rest his arm, and to let me recover. He gives me sugared water, to keep my energy up. It wouldn’t do to have me pass out, of course.

If it is the lash, after he is done with me, he will take my body down, carry me to a nearby room, and put me to bed, in a small bed with crimson satin sheets, where blood stains will not show. I will sleep there, undisturbed, until the morning. He will bring me breakfast, always coffee and two croissants, and then, I will walk back home.

I never know where Mr. Marshall is when I am being beaten. He is never in the room, and, as far as I can tell, there are no cameras, not even hidden ones, in the room. The walls are bare; there is no place to hide a camera. I prefer the cane. At least, when I am caned, Mr. Marshall will see the wheals of the crop on my body, and will then enjoy using me. I feel that my suffering serves a purpose.

When Parker whips me however, there is no one to enjoy it. He definitely does not. I know that he does not get erect during a session. Mr. Marshall is not there either, and neither is Paul. I have asked Paul if he sees the sessions, or if they are taped and he said no. He does know what happens in them, although, when he sends me, he does not know if Mr. Marshall will use me or not. It is so frustrating. If at least Paul could see me being whipped, it would at least count for something. I strangle a sob. I lift my eyes and Parker stands in front of me.

Ch 2: A punishment

In his hands; the crop.

“Forty today” He says; his only words to me today. He moves to my left.

I nod, close my eyes, and take a deep breath. I hear the hiss of the rattan crop through the air, and the crack against my skin, before I feel the burn of the first cut on my ass. I throw my head back but manage to contain my scream.

He waits for the burn to subside, a few seconds and then “Crack” a second cut on my ass. I stifle a whimper. A pause, then a third strike, I whimper again. It will get much, much worse. A fourth, a fifth, a tenth. I whimper with each strike. He stops.

I catch my breath. I see him on my right side now. I shudder. It will be my front now. He draws his arm back and strikes, before I can close my eyes. I scream. My right breast is on fire. The crop hit the top of my mound. I cannot help it and look down, to see the angry red stripe, crossing the front of my breast. He pauses, to let it sink. I know the drill; nine more on my right breast; the last three on the sensitive areola and the last one smack on the nipple. Again the crop falls, and again I scream; two stripes cross my breast, then three, then four; each one closer to my nipple; each one more painful, my screams more shrill, more pitiful. The fifth takes my breast at the bottom, where it joins my chest, then the sixth and the seventh. Sweat mixes with my tears. I have lost count, but Parker reminds me.

“The last three” He tells me, letting the anticipation build.

I am trembling in fear. He strikes, I scream. The top of my pink areola bears now a red stripe. A pause, I start screaming before the crop hits, and then a new stripe grows under my nipple. He stops for perhaps a minute. He lets me compose myself.

“You bastard” I think “Get it over with”

But I hold my tongue. Only whimpers come out of my mouth, until he strikes my nipple, with all his power. The rattan crop hits the tip of the nipple, I scream, maddened by the pain. A drop of blood beads from my nipple. My right breast is on fire. I shake my head.

Drops of sweat fly off my forehead. My wet hair has come undone and falls down my back. He moves a little forward. My left breast will now bear the brunt of his crop. I gaze at him. He stands, tall in his black vest and white shirt. He has loosened the neck of his shirt, but otherwise is as calm and collected as he was when he opened the door for me hours ago. His black pants, perfectly pressed, show the bulge at his crotch, but no erection there. Now if I was a guy, instead of a girl, it might be different. He takes aim and repeats the show, on my left breast. Is it my imagination, or is he hitting me harder?

I do not know. I am in a world of pain. Crack! Scream, Crack, scream. Until, again he warns me.

“The last three.”

He lets the seconds pass. He waits for me to recover and to open my eyes, and then, he strikes. I scream louder and louder, and he strikes again. Then the final stroke, on the tip of my left nipple. Blood drips slowly on my, formerly pink, areola.

The worst is yet to come. The last ten cuts will be on my pussy, which I perfectly shaved today, so there will not be even a hair between my skin and the crop. He needs a better shot at my pussy for his crop, so he takes me down. The beam lies on the floor. I sit down on the floor, on my freshly striped ass, as I prepare myself for the last torture. I fasten my ankles to the manacles on the beam then attach the ropes on the floor to my wrists. Once I am done I tell him:

“I am ready now”

He presses the button again and I am suspended, like before, but upside down. I am offering my pussy to the rattan crop. It is wide open. Like a flower, a rose about to be crushed, my lower lips await the rod. I am gasping for breath, I panic. I know I can’t take this. No one can. He takes his time.

“Get ready” he says.

How can I get ready? How can anyone? My pussy will be swollen for days after this. I sob. He waits. I must complete one more ritual before he will start.

“Please hit my pussy now” I must ask for it before he strikes my pussy.

“As you wish” He always answers.

The first horrible cut falls on my left labium. I scream and writhe violently. It takes me minutes to calm down. My labium throbs. He waits. Nine more to go and I must ask for each one of them.

I can’t. I can’t bear it. But I must.

“Please, hit my pussy again now” I ask again.

Thwack! And I scream again. And cry and sob. I wish I could tell him to hit me again and again, so it will be over, but I know I can’t. I must wait until the pain subsides, mostly, before I can ask for the next cut. And I do.

The first four strikes shred my left labium. The next four rip the right one. The last two will go on my clit. He waits for me to recover. It takes me a long time. My sobs and tears hardly let me breathe, let alone speak. Finally I calm down enough to say the ritual words.

“Please hit my clitoris now, hard” I ask.

And he does.

Five minutes later I am able to ask for the last stroke.

“Please hit my clitoris again, harder”

And he does.

Ch 3: Night

He takes me down. I can barely move. My pussy is on fire. Swollen from the crop, my nether lips bulge. If Mr. Marshall wishes to use my pussy, it will be hell. I hope he just uses my ass. I hate anal sex, but anything would be better than his huge dick in my tender cunt.

Robert takes me to the master bathroom where I must contemplate myself on the full length wall mirror. Gone is the trendy girl that arrived here this afternoon. In its place is a shredded fearful slave. I have to look at my ass first, with its ten stripes, now dark purple. Then I see my breasts, striped, with drops of clotted blood on their tips. I cannot see much of my pussy, but I don’t need to. I can barely walk, the pain is so bad.

I enter the walk-in shower and shower with warm water. My nipples start bleeding again. I have to pee, and do it in the shower, like men do. Otherwise I would have to do it again in front of Parker. He is looking at me while I shower but he doesn’t notice, or pretends not to.

After I finish, I use a plush towel to dry myself, gingerly, and brush my hair. I apply some Astroglide to my asshole and pussy. Parker watches me closely. I blush again, embarrassed to be seen as I prepare my own ass and pussy to be ravaged. I redo my lipstick; there is always one of my lipsticks and gloss in this bathroom, and once it is done, Parker opens the doors to the master bedroom. I enter it, and he leaves, closing the doors behind him.

I approach the four poster bed. The bedposts are thick and strong. There are rings on them, to which a girl might be tied, but I have never been tied here before. I am sure others have. I wait, standing nude by the bedpost. The lights are always on, when I am waiting. The walls of this bedroom are floor to ceiling mirrors. There is no way I cannot see my reflection from all sides. I feel so submissive, standing here, the welts of the crop clearly visible on my body.

He enters the room. I can see him approach me. He wears just a terry cloth bathrobe. He regards my body; he feels the heat from my ass. He spanks me, hard. The sound startles me. He laughs. He turns me around so he can examine my breasts. He notes the blood clotting again on my nipples. He pinches them, and they stand up to attention. He smiles.

“I must always have your nipples cropped until they bleed from now on” He says.

“Yes sir” I answer.

His hands now crush my breasts. He crushes them hard, painfully, but this is nothing compared to what I have endured, and he knows it. I can’t contain a whimper, and cannot avoid feeling a familiar heat in my sore pussy. Despite myself, I am getting aroused.

He points to the floor and I fall to my knees. I take him in my mouth. His dick is about eight inches long, but very fat, at least two inches at the tip. I swallow all his length, and then come out, and lick the tip. He stands proud, hands on his waist as I work on him. He always comes in my mouth first, before fucking me. Up and down I go on him, until he is ready. He always grunts just before he comes. When I hear his grunt, I swallow his entire dick, until the tip goes down my throat; He holds my head pressed to his pubes; I cannot withdraw now. I start swallowing as fast as I can. I cannot breathe with him so deep in me, I must make him come as fast as possible, so I massage him with my throat muscles. And this does the trick. He spews his spunk down my throat. It seems like he comes forever, but finally he releases my head, and I can pull back and breathe again.

He drops his robe on the floor and lies down on the bed. I pick up the robe, fold it and put it on a chair, and then I come to the bed where he lies, already semi-erect. I get on the bed, and set to work on his dick again. I use my hands, my breasts and, of course my mouth to bring him back to his full length. I still do not know where he will want to fuck me.

He has me lie on my back and examines my swollen pussy. Finally he has me stand beside the bed and bend over. I rest my chest on the bed as he stands behind me. I pull on my ass cheeks opening myself to him. I feel the tip of his penis at the entrance of my anus. He pushes against my puckered hole, and I try to relax and pushback against him. His head pops in, and soon the rest of the shaft follows. I am being torn apart and whimper; I am happy though that he did not use my pussy. He pumps in and out of my ass, and soon unloads a second helping of semen in my rear. He comes out and lies in bed again. Without breaking position, I wait for instructions.

He smiles at me. He points again at his dick and I climb on the bed and take him in my mouth again. I am glad I gave myself those enemas before coming today. He turns me, as if we were doing a sixty-nine, and he kisses my swollen pussy. I feel him getting hard again. He spanks my ass, to get my attention.

“As soon as it is ready, I will fuck your pussy. I have never seen it so swollen. I am dying to get my dick in it”

With a mouth full of cock, I groan.

Ch 4: The punishment.

When Parker whips me however, there is no one to enjoy it. He definitely does not. I know that he does not get erect during a session. Mr. Marshall is not there either, and neither is Paul. I have asked Paul if he sees the sessions, or if they are taped and he said no. He does know what happens in them, although, when he sends me, he does not know if Mr. Marshall will use me or not. It is so frustrating. If at least Paul could see me being whipped, it would at least count for something. I strangle a sob. I lift my eyes and Parker stands in front of me.

In his hands, the whip.

Oh my God! It is been a long time since he’s used the whip. Hanging from the beam, spread eagled, I tremble, and I start crying. I cannot contain my tears. The anticipation, the fear, the tension of these past few days, since Paul told me “You have an appointment with Mr. Marshall on Thursday” have caught up with me, on seeing the whip.

I am to be whipped mercilessly, until all of my body is covered with red stripes. And for what? No one who cares is here to see my pain; no one will see me struggle. Not even Paul, who is away for a meeting. By the time he comes back, all the marks will be gone. I cry and cry. Parker lets me cry without interruption until only intermittent sobs shake my frame. He has his first and only nice, spontaneous gesture to me. He brings some Kleenex and puts them to my nose. With his help, still spread-eagled, I manage to blow my nose. I try to smile at him.

“Thanks” I whisper.

He moves behind me. I can no longer see him. He waits for my signal. He will not start until I ask him to. The cruelty of this is incredible. For every phase of my torture, for every area of my body that is to be whipped, I must ask for it; to make me a willing accomplice, no, an instigator, of the torture that will fall upon me. I can barely speak, but I must; otherwise I may hang here until the morning. I gather whatever willpower I can muster.

“Please whip my back” I hear myself say.

The bullwhip cracks. It hits just below my neck, across my shoulders. The tip flicks the side of my right armpit. It hurts like hell. I scream. He waits as the pain rises in a crescendo, peaks, and starts to subside. Crack! A second slash, just below the previous one, and a scream, heart rending. Again a pause, and a third stroke, and a fourth, and a fifth. I scream for the lash, and cry between lashes. He works his way down my back; as he reaches my waist, I swear to myself, for the hundredth time, that I will never again come back here. But I know that I will.

He stops after whipping my waist. I continue to cry, for a long time. He gives me sugared water. I hadn’t even realized he had left. I drink the water greedily. Screaming and crying is thirsty work. He moves again behind me. How many lashes have I received? I lost count, but I can remember. Twenty to my back. Eighty more to go. I feel like I will die here. I cannot survive eighty more.

“Please whip my thighs”

Ten to the backs of my thighs, five to each thigh. The whip curls around the thigh and the tip snaps against the tender skin of the inside of the thigh. The pain is unbearable.

He moves to front and to my right.

“Please whip my thighs”

Ten more strokes to the front of my thighs. Again, the worst is the tip of the bullwhip snapping at the inside of my thighs. I manage to take these ones only with whimpers. I know the worst is yet to come.

“Please whip my ass”

Twenty lashes to my ass. I scream for all of them. The tip of the lash twirls around my hips and hits the soft, tender skin of my belly, or it snaps at my pussy. I scream and cry. I try to keep count, to keep a certain measure of control but after the fifth whip, I lose it. I scream and thrash my head about. My voice is hoarse. My muscles cramp as I try to thrash against the unyielding ropes. Finally when I think my sanity is about to crack, he stops. Broken, my head falls on my chest, twin rivers of tears flow from my eyes. He gives me some more sugar water. I realize it’s been sixty already. We are more than halfway there. But these were the easy ones; back, thighs, ass. I shudder again as I think of what yet remains. Belly, breasts, pussy.

He stands to my right.

“Please whip my belly”

Ten strokes to my belly. Slowly, one after the other, he gives them to me. Letting me savor each one, I scream again, and again. I just want this to end. Then he stops.

I cannot say it. I cannot bring the words out. He stands there, whip in hand, waiting.

I look at him, pleading with my eyes. “Do not make me say it” my eyes ask. He looks back at me, not unkindly, but he says or does nothing. My head drops again on my chest. I say the words, barely more than a whisper.

“Please whip my breasts, hard”

“As you wish” he answers.

The first lash is pure agony. The bullwhip hits my right breast first, and then curls around my left. I will get twenty lashes to the breasts, ten from each side, and I have to ask for each set. The second lash is a snake of fire that curls around my breasts. I scream louder and louder. Parker lets me finish screaming before lashing again. He never relents. I must feel the full effect of each lash before he releases the next one. After a while he stops.

It takes me a few minutes to realize that he is no longer lashing my breasts. I catch my breath, and he brings me water yet again, and again, I drink it up. He moves to the left side. Through a wall of agony I realize that the end is near. I just need to ask for it. I gather my strength.

“Please whip my breasts, harder”

“As you wish”

And he does. The lashes hit me harder, and find the nipples more often than not. My skin shines with my sweat. The sweat mixes with blood where the whip has nicked the skin. The salt in the sweat brings another dimension of agony to my ordeal. I continue screaming until it is over.

He gives me water again.

Now comes the worst part. The last ten lashes, to my pussy. As I hang from my wrists, he brings a sawhorse like contraption to the room and sets it in front of me. I am to be fastened, on my back to the padded surface of the sawhorse. With my legs held back, bent at the knees and wide open, my pussy hangs over the edge of the sawhorse. My arms will be fastened along the legs of the device.

I have been there before. He will stand slightly to my left or to my right, behind my head. The lash will hit my breasts first, and then curl around and the tip will cut into my pussy.

It is very well thought out. There is nothing to protect my pussy from this violation.

Parker lowers me and unties me from the beam and frees my ankles. I lie on the floor, like a sack of potatoes. I cannot move. My shoulders are so painful I can’t move my arms. All of my body hurts. He picks me up and lays me with some care on the contraption. He ties my arms first, and then my legs. My head hangs over the edge of the device; I notice I am in a perfect position to be deep throated, if Parker had any interest in women. He is however very professional and takes his place, above me and to the right. The first five lashes will then hit my right breast before curling into my pussy.

Sobbing, I take a deep breath. There is nothing for it. I must say the words. It must be done.

“Please whip my pussy, as hard as you can”

“As you wish”

All the agony I’ve suffered cannot compare with what comes now. I feel the lash along my right breast, followed by an explosion of white pain in my pussy. The pain is such that for a few seconds I cannot react to it. I cannot even really feel it, as sensory overload takes over as it peaks. Then I scream, like I’ve never screamed before. As soon as the pain starts to ebb, a second lash, more painful than the first, and then a third and a fourth. The fifth one, I almost don’t feel anymore. Between my screams I notice Parker on the other side. Waiting.

I must be strong now. I must say the words.

“Please whip my pussy again. Harder. Make it bleed”

“As you wish”

He changes whips. This one is also a bullwhip, but it has small pieces of sharp metal woven into its tip. The last five strokes will be with this one. They are just as painful as the previous ones, but they tear into my insides. After the third one, I feel blood splashing on me. After the fifth one, it is over.

I lie on the sawhorse, my pussy shredded, bleeding. Parker gives me a break and then he unties me, picks me up and takes me to the room. Before laying me in bed he gives me a warm shower. I am curled in the bottom of the tub while he does this; I cannot stand. One last torture remains before I can sleep. He takes a bottle of disinfectant and sponges me all over with it to prevent infection where the lash has cut into my skin. My skin is on fire and, when he reaches my pussy I think I will die. But I don’t. He gently picks me up and deposits me in bed, pulls the crimson satin covers over me and turns off the light. I cry myself to sleep.

In the morning, he brings me coffee and two croissants.

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