Lisa and david Chapter 2
I've only made Lisa really angry once but the incident is
indelibly stamped on my memory.
It happened not long before we got married. We'd gone out for
dinner and got to discussing a legal matter in which the firm was
involved. Lisa had been working on the case and knew things I
didn't know. On the other hand, I was the lawyer and she was
merely a paralegal. I expressed an opinion about the law, she
disagreed, and I told her she didn't know what she was talking
about. In fact, what I said was that her view was "ignorant."
She got up and walked out of the restaurant. I took $100 out of
my wallet and put it on the table. I followed her out and tried
to apologize.
"Stow it, goddam you," she said. She was teary but also spitting
mad. "I don't want your apology. In addition to the fact that I
own you, not the other way around, I won't be patronized by you,
and I won't be put in my place. I'm every bit as smart as you
are, maybe smarter."
She tried to hail a taxi to take her home. I uttered a dozen
"pleases" before she agreed to let me drive her. The last thing
she said to me that night was that she would deal with me later.
That was a Monday night.
On Wednesday, about noon, Lisa walked into my office and handed
me an envelope containing written instructions. I was to spend
the coming weekend buying and installing certain pieces of
equipment in our basement: a pommel horse, a particular brand
of rowing machine, a padded sawhorse and a sawed off broomstick
which was to be set in notches at a height she prescribed. On
the following Friday, nine days from the time she handed me the
envelope, I would report to the basement in the nude at 8 p.m.
I saw less of Lisa than usual that week. Sex was suspended.
Lisa, as ever, went to her aerobics class, and I slept in her
sweaty gear, inhaling her aroma. One night, I awoke and
attempted to tongue her, a customary form of love-making between
us. She awoke long enough to tell me that her pussy was off
limits to me and that she would add sexual harrassment to the
list of my offenses. She made sure I had soiled panties to wear
under my clothes each day, however. She wore the panties under
her sweat clothes to her aerobics class. And twice she had me
masturbate into the panties right before I put them on.
On the first weekend, I had to find out where to buy a pommel
horse and to rent a truck to get it home. The rowing machine she
specified was not much easier to come by. I had to call around
to find one. I bought a broom; I already had a saw. I got the
sawhorse from a builder friend and the padding from a mattress
store. I needed the help of a teenage neighbor to carry the
bigger items into the house and down to the basement. I fended
off his questions.
Since my skills as a carpenter are rudimentary, it took we longer
than it should have to pad the sawhorse and install the sawed off
broomstick as she had instructed. But I managed to get it all
done. When she measured the height of the broomstick, she said
it was an eighth of an inch higher than she instructed but since
that would serve the purpose even better, she wouldn't punish me
for my inept performance.
The next week went by very slowly. I imagined a lot of things
and, since I wasn't having as much sex as usual, I spent a lot of
time with a raging hard on. Friday night, a few minutes before
8 p.m., I undressed and went down to the basement. I adopted the
usual slave posture: forehead on the ground, haunches in the air.
Lisa came down at 8:10 p.m. She reached into her jeans pocket
and pulled out a butt plug. "Put it in," she ordered. I asked
for a lubricant. "Put it in, goddam it," she said. I'd never
worn a butt plug, didn't like it at all and knew it would become
increasingly unpleasant with time.
Next she bent me over the padded saw horse and bound me to it
hand and foot. She stood behind me with her paddle and began.
I lost count at 30 and must have taken at least twice that
number. I hollered for mercy -- to no avail. I screamed -- to
no avail. When I finally started crying, she applied a couple of
extra strokes and then quit. I felt bruised through and through.
She released me from the sawhorse. "If you need to piss," she
said, "you'd better do so now. You're going to spend the night
on the pommel horse."
I returned from the bathroom. She instructed me on how to swing
up onto the pommel horse. I hadn't been on one since junior
high. Once I was aboard, she took two 18 inch lengths of
clothesline, tied them to my wrists and then to the rear handle
of the horse. The effect was to assure that I would have to sit
straight up. "Good night, Richard" was all she said.
I spent the night enthroned on the pommel horse in perfect agony.
Lisa had made it uncomfortable for me to sit many times before
but never, ever like this. My rear-end ached like I'd been
kicked there by a mule, and the pommel horse became an
increasingly unpleasant mount as the night wore on. I couldn't
sleep or even doze, though the way my wrists were bound would
probably have prevented my falling off. The butt plug made me
feel as if I were impaled on a saddle. I couldn't raise my
haunches more than an inch or two at a time, and everytime I
shifted position, my discomfort seemed to grow. The night may
not have lasted forever but it was a close cousin of forever. My
ass hurt, my asshole hurt, my back hurt, my entire body hurt.
When Lisa reappeared, newly showered but dressed in her sweat
clothes, she helped me down off the pommel horse and examined my
rear. "How do you feel, cowboy," she asked cheerfully. "Like
the last roundup," I replied.
"Good," she said. "Go brush your teeth and urinate and be back
here in 10 minutes."
I did as she instructed. When I returned, I saw that she had
looped a choke chain, such as dog trainers use, around the rowing
machine's front post. She kneeled before me and caught my balls
in a noose of nylon thread which she drew so tight that it cut
into my skin. I took a deep breath and exhaled sharply. Next
she tied a doubled length of rawhide cord to my balls in the same
location as the nylon thread, just below the ring in my scrotum,
not through it as she normally did.
She had me sit down on the hard saddle of the rowing machine. It
was harder on my butt than the pommel horse. She told me to move
into the up position and then took the other end of the rawhide
cord and secured it to the end of the choke chain dangling from
the front post. "Pull," she said, nodding at the oars. I pulled
back and the knot at my balls tightened and stretched me until I
yelped. "Come forward," she said. She didn't think I had been
stretched enough. She reattached the end of the rawhide to the
choke chain so as reduce the distance to my balls. "Pull," she
said again. I felt as if my balls were in danger of being parted
from my body and screamed that I couldn't stand it.
"Good," she said, standing up. "You see that display, Richard.
I expect you to have rowed 300 strokes by the time I return. If
you haven't finished the 300 strokes, you'll finish them and row
another 300. If you tamper with the tie around your balls, I'll
retie it tighter than it is now, and I'll stand here until you've
rowed 1500 strokes. Don't worry about the skin on your balls,
Daddy. It will grow back. And a little blood will prepare you
for your next adventure."
I don't know how long she was gone. I didn't have a clock. All
I had was that display in front of me, counting the strokes.
Rowing 300 strokes would be difficult. Rowing it with my balls
being tugged from my body and rubbed bloody seemed impossible.
If I was going to finish before Lisa returned, I would have to
steel myself against the pain I was inflicting on my tortured
scrotum. I was rowing with my teeth gritted, bathed in my own
sweat, wetting my cheeks with my tears -- and I was nearly there
when Lisa walked in.
She looked at the display. She looked at the knot.
"Close, Lover Boy," she said, "but no cigar. Finish the 300.
Then you'll row another 300."
I begged her for mercy. "Please, Lisa, please. I can't stand
any more. My balls are coming off. It's killing me."
"Richard," she said. "I'm teaching you a lesson, and it isn't
'please' or 'thank you.' I don't give a damn if it takes your
balls a month to heal. You'll do the 300 and you'll do the
second 300. And that's all there is to it."
She added: "I'm going upstairs to read the papers. I'll give
you what I consider an appropriate amount of time. If you don't
finish the second 300 on time, you'll do a third.
I finished the second 300 just before the door opened. My back
ached. My muscles ached. My bottom ached. My balls were raw
and there was a fiery line of pain around the base of my cock
where the nylon thread was knotted and where the rawhide had torn
my flesh. The floor around the rowing machine was bathed with
my sweat. I was very nearly weeping in agony. And I was
exhausted.
"Good boy, Richard," Lisa said. "Next year we'll go the Henley
Regatta. You'll be a sensation." Weakly, I said: "Thank you,
Mistress." She responded: "Lisa will do. I am your mistress.
I don't require the title." She undid the rawhide cord from the
machine and then from my balls. She snipped the nylon thread.
The pain did not leave.
"Let me see your butt plug," she said. I bent over. She turned
it a little in me, and I moaned. "Uncomfortable? Good."
"You may go upstairs and take a glass of orange juice. I
wouldn't have any coffee, if I were you. I'm going to put you
somewhere for a long time, and you're not going to be able to
urinate unless you do it on the floor -- and I wouldn't like
that. Be back in 15 minutes."
When I returned she told me to put myself astride the broomstick.
There was a funny smell in the air, and the moment I followed her
instructions I understood why. She had painted the broomstick
with linament and the moment my body -- the tenderest parts of my
body -- came in contact with the broomstick, I screamed in the
worst agony yet. The night on the pommel horse, the morning on
the rowing machine with its effects on my balls, and the butt
plug I was wearing all came to their apogee with the mounting of
the broomstick.
The height Lisa had specified meant that my toes were not in
contact with the floor when I was balanced on the broomstick.
The "natural" position of the broomstick was down my middle. My
balls and the crack in my ass were right on the wood. I felt as
if the buttplug were being forced into me. And, of course, the
linament against my private parts made it feel like I was being
torched.
Lisa took a canister of flour and spread it liberally on the
floor beneath the broomstick. "You'll be on the broomstick for
at least two hours, Darling. How much longer is up to you. You
probably won't be able to hold on completely, and I'll assign an
extra 30 minutes for every toe print. I'm come down every hour
to recoat the broomstick, and that will give you five minutes
each hour to recuperate. If you're brave and have good balance,
maybe you'll be done in two or three or four hours. If not, why
you can stay there until Monday morning and go back on Monday
night until Tuesday morning and so on forever."
I found out that it's not possible to get used to the fire of
linament on the intimate parts of your body. It just keeps on
burning. And riding a broomstick, trying to hold your balance,
presses you against the linament in the deepest way possible.
And just when the power of the linament is fading, there's Lisa
again to refresh it by repainting the broomstick.
I touched down twice in the first hour -- unmistakably. So I had
been on the broomstick an hour and had not made any progress at
all. I also touched down twice during the second hour.
Altogether, I was atop that abominable machine for six terrible
hours. My butt hurt. My balls were not only raw and bloody,
they were in flames. The crack in my ass ached like fury from
riding the broomstick and it was just as fiery as my balls. The
butt plug had done its work: my asshole felt like it had been
reamed, and I had serious cramps. To add to it all, my arms
ached from keeping me balanced. My back ached. My ass was
deeply bruised. I stank from sweat, and I had not been able to
avoid urinating on the floor.
But Lisa was merciful. "Wipe it up," she said. "We'll deal with
that later."
She took me upstairs, had me remove the butt plug and visit the
toilet. It hurt to sit and it hurt to move my bowels.
Lisa stood me under the shower, and the play of the water on my
body hurt me too. She took off her clothes and joined me. She
soaped me and washed me and got down on her knees to minister to
my tortured balls. That hurt too. She bent me over and washed
my buttocks and the crack between. And that also hurt.
She patted me dry. She took me into the bedroom and put me to
bed. I fell asleep and when I opened my eyes an hour later she
was still sitting beside me stroking my arm.
"Thank you for my punishment, Lisa," I said. "I belong to you.
I love you. Will you marry me?."
That was the night she said yes. I'd guess -- and it's just a
guess -- that because she'd worked her will on me, proving her
ownership in a way that went beyond the rituals of sex slavery,
she was now free to accept me as her spouse. Although I wasn't
up to making love that night, or for several days afterwards, I
was never more deeply in love with her or more deeply enslaved.
I certainly never wanted to make her angry again.
