Letter from Fort Worth

LETTER FROM FORT WORTH

Cleo kneels before me, silently. She knows she’s erred, and that I’m going to punish her, but she just hopes that I don’t use my Stimulant, which is ten straightened wire coat hangers tied together at the end with a chain.

“Husk, please…I know I deserve punishment, but please don’t be too hard on me, Master.” Listen to her whine, my lord.

Having her breasts lashed with the Stimulant can bring poor Cleo to almost hysterical tears, poor thing. She has nice boobs—they showed up well when she was an A&M cheerleader at the Rose Bowl fourteen years ago, and they’ve not withered since then, though Cleo is now a conservative banker, and only shows her jugs when we’re alone.

They’re durable breasts, really—they’ve had mousetraps, clothespins, binder clips and other paraphernalia attached to them. Once I attached Cleo front first to an electric fence on her Daddy’s farm—a plantation, really—and turned it on and off, and her sweet round things were scarred for a bit, but they recovered quickly!

Sometimes when we’re in church (Cleo is very into propriety) I’ll bring a few centipedes that my little nephew catches in jars to sell for bait. I drop them in her brassiere a few at a time. Then I command Cleo to remain poised and upright. That is most humerous.

But now, I’ve cut a willow switch from the back yard, and I wave it very close to her nose, and Cleo stiffens. I think she knows that I’d never seriously hurt her, or at least not above the neck. I pull it back and then lash her across her beautiful right breast TWACK! There is a long red mark, and a single tear rolls down Cleo’s cheek.

But not a move. She’s well trained, my girl. I survey her with joy, her amber curls and sea green eyes…full lips that look like the gifts of a plastic surgeon. She could have any man she wanted, my Cleopatra, but she chose me, the maintenance man of our building, just because she saw me torturing my last girlfriend at the Woodshed, an underground BDSM club here in Fort Worth.

“I recognized you, you clean up around our apartment building” I was nonplussed to see this gorgeous thing rushing up to buy me a drink after I’d been putting fat little Toyah through her paces. “Mr. Husker, right? If you ever have time, please drop by my apartment, I’d love to talk with you.”

Now I watch my gorgeous slave girl kneel, with almost perfect posture. I can’t believe it, really. She’s something else! I swing the long willow again, and it cracks against her other breast, singeing the nipple. But there’s no reaction. That’s just excellent.

It’s such a contrast from Toyah, who howls and rolls around if I give her just the slightest thrashing. To her credit, she always asks for more, but I have to take her down to the garage so neighbors don’t hear her roars of pain.

Cleo is much like the first girl I ever got a chance to torture—her name was Phoebe. Phoebe had falling russet hair and a heart shaped face, and nice big boobs, and what an ass…it bounced at you! Until I got a hold of it, that is.

We were at prep school together (I wasn’t always a maintenance man) and one day after History class she told me that she liked my spirited comments on how Nelson Mandela, was indeed a terrorist, and had been locked up because he was going to bomb the government.

“Yeah” I said clumsily. I wasn’t too oracular when talking to extremely pretty girls, just when arguing in class. “I’m not saying he’s not a great man, and he’s not done good things for South Africa, but Mr. Vavasour makes it sound like he was just locked up for being anti-apartheid.”

Phoebe had invited me to her room. She was one of the privileged girls who had her own room, and we locked the door, lots of making out at first.

But then Phoebe had put the proposition to me. “My dad used to spank me with this hairbrush” she’d said, showing me this fearsome looking thing. “I-I really miss being spanked by him. It was how he showed his love to me.”

“You’re kidding. Isn’t that child abuse, though?” My nascent conservatism only went so far, you know. I was a little leery…but as she put the hairbrush in my hand she basically ignored what I’d said earlier.

“He’d take up my skirt, and pull down my panties like this—“Phoebe threw herself across my lap, and pulled down her panties, and wow, what a butt! “I really need to be corrected, Husk. If you can’t do it, maybe I’ll ask Horace Antek on Floor Three.”

Well, that was enough of that! I swatted her lightly at first. “My daddy hit harder than that. Maybe Horace—“I swatted her harder, soon I was getting into it, and the brush was coming down with encouraging vigor on her round cheeks.

Finally I heard Phoebe crying, and I wondered if I should stop, but the remarks about Horace (who’d ruined my goal shot when we played Andover) had riled me up, so I kept whipping, until I finally felt exhaustion.

By this time Phoebe’s butt was red and had little blisters on it, and I pushed her roughly off me, and was going to leave, but by George, the girl tackled me around the waist and threw me back on her bed.

I watched dizzily as Phoebe quickly disrobed and bent down, unzipping my fly, and then my pants were gone, and she was working on my cock quite enthusiastically. Years later, I’ll never forget her. I often wonder if she found a Master that could keep up!

When I was in college I had a Sociology prof, a Ms. Washburn who liked to be hogtied, her hands looped together, and then the rope going down to her feet, which were also looped.

I’d put Ms. Washburn behind her desk in the Advisory Office and lock the door, and come back after smoking some joints, and then thrash her small breasts with a yardstick because I felt she’d been “lying around”.

Sometimes Wash, as I called her, would take me to her apartment, and I’d bind her naked to the bed, and put a blindfold on, and then fuck with her a little bit. One of my favorite activities was getting her curling iron all hot and burning it on her inner thighs.

I had a pet hermit crab, and sometimes I’d let hit crawl around, pinching her nipples as she shuddered. Wash was easily orgasmic, and I enjoyed teasing her with a feather…a feather on one inner thigh and the hot curling iron on the other! That girl was sure confused.

Ms. Washburn was the first woman I used the Stimulant on…the wires came down hard on her prone body, as she kneeled naked, chained to the whipping post set in concrete that I put in her back yard.

If a whipping post is concrete held, it should stay still, but when the Stimulator lashed Ms. Washburn’s bare ass, and thrashed her breasts as she crouched miserably on her knees, her hands locked to the post, sometimes the post moves! I was quite proud that I could get Wash to pull the concrete held post around the yard as I chased her, whipping away with the Stimulator!

Now, Cleo is also rather confused. She knows my capability for bringing her acute pain, and wonders; I’m sure, why I’m holding off. Again I lightly swat her breasts with the willow, and then I grab her ponytail and bang her little head on the wall to make sure she’s paying attention.

“Stand up.” I order, and Cleo complies, looking a little bit worried. I’ve found in my time with slaves that half the work can be done without me exerting myself…the psychological torture is lots more fun!

I took the willow and as she is rising, I lash her stomach, and she looks at me with stunned, tear stricken eyes. “I didn’t say Simon says” I said, and I laugh uproariously.

Cleo just looks at the floor, kind of pitifully. Master Husk has been too mean to her, this silent message projects. Fuck, what am I supposed to do? How can I cheer her up?

“Dance!” I begin whaling away at Cleo’s thighs, and she bounces around miserably, waving her arms and crying anew. But I know what’s good for her, and I keep lashing at her with the willow, enjoying the way she prances.

I go to her behind, her glorious full buttocks, and lash at them, chasing her around the apartment until she collapses on the bed, and then I really get going with the willow switch.

When I was in the Marine Corps I had a supervisory sergeant, a tough woman, who found my BDSM magazines during a locker inspection. Sergeant Davis called me in the next day, and asked me about my interests.

After gleaning a bit of information, I ordered my superior to undress and kneel before me, and I examined her tanned breasts—officers have pool privileges—and became annoyed because she’d been going through my shit. “What kind of people are you…invading your private’s privacy?” I had said with justifiable indignation.

“I have a South African police baton on the wall there.” Davis had said, her face trembling…and I found it. It’s like a big hunk of rubber, and I decorated Davis’s breasts and ass until she was crying and sobbing something terrible.

Perhaps I was working off old resentments for the inspections, and shining shoes, and all that crap. Davis got all the hard feelings that Company D had ever held, though I couldn’t tell the other boys that.

Finally I hung Davis by her pierced nipples through a string that I tied to two file cabinets in her office, and ordered her to stay still while I went out and had a drink with the enlisted men.

When I came back, she was really in a world of pain—if her heels collapsed, there was painful pressure on her nipples, if she stood up on tippie toe, her breasts relaxed, but her feet hurt. Mercifully, I cut her down.

Davis rubbed her nipples, crying slightly, but I had no sympathy. I lifted the South African Police baton and landed it on her shoulders, and gave it to her about eight more times until she asked if I’d like to leave garbage detail and become her private secretary. I only type four words a minute, but I accepted with pleasure!

There are a lot of submissive women in the United States Marines, I’ve learned. My crappy office skills drew some complaint, and a higher up, a Ms. Finch, who was a colonel or something, came to investigate. But she’d seen me at a local BDSM club herself, and so I had the experience of bending a fifty-three year old officer over my knee and whipping her with a silver backed hairbrush she carried in her purse!

And then Ms. Finch took me with her! The rest of my four year hitch was spent in the Philippines, where there are lots of submissive ladies just waiting to get some grief!

Cleo was waiting on her knees in the cold garage of the apartment complex when I drove in last night. I’d ordered her to do this, and I actually wanted her to wait on her knees NAKED except for black stockings and a garter, but propriety and all that.

She’d been good; too, she’d ignored the staring apartment dwellers as they’d passed after parking their cars, though it must’ve been quite humiliating. When I got in, I jumped out of my Jeep and walked by, grabbing her by the ear and continuing to walk, and leaving it to her to stumble, and arise, following me.

We got inside, and then she began pestering me. She wants to get married. MARRIED. What the hell would I want that for? Buying the cow has never been much of an incentive for me. “Husk, please—my dream is to be Cleopatra Husker, and I’ll be the most devoted slave you can imagine. I’ll even let you have other masters dominate me, if that’s what you want.”

She says this because every now and then I pick up some bar floozy, and I let her whip Cleo’s bare ass and order her around. If you think men are nasty to women, you should see how women are. They’re much nastier, especially if they’re jealous because Cleo is so much prettier. It’s quite funny!

The last girl I had in the apartment, Buzzanca Twill, really, really hated Cleo. Buzzy is flat chested and has tracks of acne all over her face. I came home one night, and Buzzy had Cleo tied to a chair, and was whipping Cleo’s breasts violently with a fly swatter.

I was a little worried, too, because Buzzy was just a bit snockered. Buzzanca loves to drink, and two-thirds of a bottle of Peppermint Schnapps was gone, boy. It was almost comical to see this homely woman whipping and torturing the beautiful, poised Cleopatra, only because Cleo had been ordered (by me) to submit to whatever Buzzy put her through.

“Hey there, (Hic) Husk, how(Hic)  you doing. I’m just (Hic) showing this (Hic) snobby bitch that she(Hic)  can’t wave them tits(Hic)  in mah face and(Hic)  make me feel bad I’m as (Hic) good as she is.” Buzzy hiccupped. “An’ just ‘cause(Hic)  I gotta work at th’ Quik-Mart (Hic) it don’t(Hic)  mean I’m not(Hic)  smart, right?”

It’s so funny—Cleo is an investment banker for one of the top Texan firms, but she feels so inferior, that in a way she must’ve thrived on Buzzy’s attack on her breasts with the flyswatter. Naked, bound to the chair and crying, Cleo took the thrashing well.

Buzzy swatted and thwacked Cleo’s breasts for a time, and then kind of passed out, and I untied Cleo. “You see, you mustn’t annoy Buzzanca, darling” I had said to Cleo then…you must be a better girl.”

And now Cleo wants to marry me, and she’d let Buzzy or any other trailer-trash move in, apparently…just for the joy of my company.

And yet it is a mystery. You’d think she’d  have me arrested, I’m just a plague on her, and really I am. The other day I realized Cleo hadn’t finished the breakfast dishes and I showed up at her office, just boiling mad.

She has the most adorable secretary, an evil flirt, and I enjoyed a few minutes at her desk before going in to see Cleo in her huge office with the extensive windows. “Why Husk, you are a big surprise, dropping in on  a girl like this” Cleo said, smiling.

But then she saw the malice in my eyes. I pulled out my short dog-whip and laid it on the desk. “You left the kitchen in an deplorable mess, Miss Cleo” I said, looking disappointed.

“We-we can talk about it when we get home though.” Cleo said, but as she said “home” I had leapt behind the desk and pulled her off her swivel chair. Cleo was in a pinstripe jacket and skirt set, and her considerable breasts were barely concealed by a button down white shirt.

Pulling down her panties, and yanking up her skirt, I lectured her on hygienic post meal cleanup. “I-I know, but Husk, I work here! I think it would be better for me to get my um correction at home, don’t you?” Obviously not, since I was here with the dog-whip.

“Now it’s up to you whether your staff of sycophants discovers what a crybaby you are.” I said grimly, as I swung the dog-whip the first time and it landed on her exposed gluteus maximus.

You have to give it to Cleo. She grabbed her “Financial Times” newspaper and bit into it as the cruel lash from the dog-whip landed again and again. It was a beautiful sight, too—her soft cheeks getting the benefit of the dog-whip’s cruel lash.

At one point I let go of Cleo’s arm and she tried to get away from me, but as her panties were clogging her knees, I was able to neatly trip her and she landed on her stomach, and I continued the assault with the dog-whip.

Precious—her secretary was calling through the door “Ms. Fetlock, are you all right?” Astoundingly the “Financial Times” was still in Cleo’s clamped jaw. I had locked the office door, so there was no worry about propriety.

Finally, Cleo crawled under her desk, and I dropped the dog-whip, almost expiring in silent laughter. Oh, it should have been videotaped and sold at Clips dot com or something. Wonderful, wonderful physical comedy.

And then, if you can believe it, Cleo came BACK out from under her desk, and unzipped my pants, pulling my long cock out…and she gave me a lovely blowjob, leaving pink lipstick smeared around my crotch as I left the office right thereafter. What an appreciative young woman—she understood her priorities in a way that so many don’t.

There’s a kid in our apartment complex…his name is Ogden. Oggy is chunky, zit-infested, and your typical horny teenager. He also reads BDSM magazines. (You learn these things when you go through the trash of tenants as a building maintenance man.)

So recently, I introduced Oggy to Cleo, and ordered her to strip in front of him. This was something else—a poised adult woman, slightly revolted by an adolescent boy. Peculiarly, older men love young women, (read Lolita?) but it never works in the reverse, who knows why?

Cleo gave me such a look of helpless fear, but I frowned, and she slowly undressed in front of the absolutely thrilled Oggy. The first Saturday afternoon, I left her to pleasure Oggy in the traditional ways, and then the next time I got them together, I gave Oggy the Stimulator, which he made many kind remarks about.

“It’s a great invention, Mr. Husker” Oggy said. “You made this yourself? Damn, I should let you work on my ray gun for my Science Fiction Convention next month.”  Of course this made Cleo absolutely gag, but then I told Oggy he could whip Cleo if he liked.

He looked doubtfully at this woman who was a decade older than he. I gave Cleo a not so light kick on the shin and she nodded, gulped, and said “Master Ogden, I would be so pleased if you would see to my discipline.”

It was just too much. I could tell that even if Oggy had been Cleo’s age and a millionaire, she wouldn’t have gone out with him—he’s a pudgy geek, and will always be so. And here she was, a tall, shapely blonde with big boobs and a full buttocks, and then she kneels over a hassock, and I handed him the Stimulator.

After he’d turned her buttocks a glorious shade of reddish purple, Oggy worked on Cleo’s breasts…and then of course he reverted to slobbering on them. I doubt he is a true Master in the making, much too worshipful of the Female.

But it was true torture of Cleo, and that’s what I’m there for! The next week, Oggy invited some of his revolting little teenage friends over, and they ALL took turns torturing Cleo, and I am surprised the neighborhood mothers didn’t run Cleo and I in on a morals charge.

But someone must break these lads in! I may marry Cleo yet. She really is taking her training well, though I might be the Master from Hades, eh?

I enjoyed writing you!

Abelard Husker

Dear Husk: Marry the girl today, as they sing in “Guys and Dolls” She’s a keeper!

Best,

Shoeblossom

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