An unrequested request

I like to think that the people who read this blog enjoy it, and that sometimes, there are people who wish they could make requests, but can't put it together.

Well, sometimes, I answer requests that aren't even made. I pick a person who I think might like a story, see what their interests are, and write them a story.

That's what I did today. This story is written special for the first ever subscriber to the blog. I hope he likes it.

Bastinado bondage

He gave Sophie a push and watched her swing. She curled her feet as she did, leaving the soles open and available. He watched the sweat dripping down over her bald head and smiled at her.

She groaned a little, and he checked to make sure her skin hadn't turned too red. No blood rushing to her face. She seemed perfectly conscious, and from the smile on her face, certainly seemed to be enjoying things.

“Rope too tight?” he asked.

She tried to shake her head, but the collar wouldn't let her move her neck even a little bit. “It's fine,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “No pain.”

That made him laugh. “Give it a second,” he said.

Her eyes opened and watched him walk away, over to the tray that seemed to be resting on the ceiling. She watched him pick up a riding crop, bend it in his hand, and tap it on his palm. Then he grabbed a strip of bamboo and tested how much it bent. He tapped that on his palm, then grabbed a long clear rod.

He swished it through the air a few times, then walked back over to where Sophie was hanging.

He bent down and smiled at her, turning his head so he could look at her straight on. “You might want to struggle,” he told her. Then winked. “Not that it'll help.”

He pulled out of her line of sight, and then she felt a quick swat to the soles of her feet. She jolted, and bit her lip in pain. He slapped down again, and the sting left a long strip of agony along her skin.

“This is much easier,” he said. “Far easier to slap down than to swing to the sides. And having you hanging there is just great.” He rubbed the skin of her foot, just soft enough to tickle. Then he swung and hit her again. She yelped. “Maybe, though, it would be better to have you gagged.”

Sophie whimpered and looked up at him in fear. She struggled against the rope, bucking and pulling, but not doing anything more than making herself swing a little bit more. It didn't get her feet away from his cane, and it certainly didn't stop him from hitting them.

He smacked rapidly, not hitting all that hard, but slapping dozens of times in rapid succession. She whimpered and pulled at rope that was dynamic enough to bend and flex, but not enough to give her even the slightest bit of freedom.

“I've been thinking about it,” he said, going back to the table and picking up a wartenberg wheel. He ran his tongue over her burning skin, then began to run it along the skin of her foot. She winced. “Maybe I should get out my tattoo gun. I could mark you as mine in a way no one else has to know. Every step you took, you'd remember that you were my property. You'd be permanently marked, and it would be our secret.”

“No, no, please no.” Sophie tried to shake her head, but the posture collar wouldn't let her.

“Or maybe we'll just play around with it.” He ran the wheel up between her toes. “I could just run the needle gun along your skin. Maybe give you a mark that doesn't have any ink. I think those are called a tattoo of blood. Is that why you're hesitant? Afraid of something permanent?”

He slid the wheel down the sole of her foot, from the toe all the way down to her heel and back up again.

“I understand that fear.” He rubbed his hand along the sensitive skin of her foot, then gave it a sharp slap. “What happens if we break up? What happens if I don't do a good job? What if you don't like it? Tattoos are hard like that.”

He rolled the wheel up and down, smiling to himself as she whimpered and twitched.

“That's the beauty of doing it without ink,” he said. “It just cuts in to the first few layers of skin and leaves a scar. Not even a permanent one. I understand that they last at most a few years. And on the sole of your foot, it'll be even less. And I'm not planning on us breaking up. Are you?”

Then he slid gently down to her heel, where the pain lightened up. “Your foot has such sensitive skin,” he said. “Most of it, anyway. Down here, on the heel, there are practically no nerves. Did you know that?”

She didn't say anything. He ran the wheel back and forth across the center of her foot, making her scream.

“I asked you a question,” he said. “Doesn't seem like you were paying all that much attention. Maybe it's not enough pain just playing with your feet. Should I move on to something else? Or maybe it would be best just to get the tattoo gun now, and put my name on your skin.” He slid the wheel back and forth a few times. “Right here.”

“Please,” her voice was starting to crack, and he saw that tears were running up, getting stuck in her eyebrows, and over the dome of her skin. “No tattoos. No more. Please.”

He stepped away, putting the wheel back down on the table. He waited there, looking down at her. But she didn't say her safe word. She hung there, whimpering and crying softly, but she never said her safe word.

“No tattoos,” he said. “Not yet, anyway. Maybe some other time. How's your foot feel?”

“Like--” she took a deep breath, swallowed hard. “Is it bleeding?”

He laughed. “No, there's no blood,” he said. “But if you feel like you are, maybe it would be best if we did something to seal up your skin. But how would we do that?” He paced back and forth as if he was trying to figure it out, letting her watch him move, letting her wonder what he planned next.

He squatted down in front of her and gave her a smile. Ran his hand over her head, over the smooth skin of her skull. “You know what can help seal up skin?”

Her eyes widened as Sophie started putting together what he was suggesting.

He smiled. “That's right,” he said. “Wax.”

She jumped when the first drop of hot wax hit the sole of her foot. Yelped at the second drop. It burned as it hit, cooling quickly and hardening against her flesh. It itched, just a little bit. She tried moving her feet to get in a position where she could scratch, but it didn't help. Then he started pouring the wax up and down her abused flesh.

“Don't move your feet,” he said. “Let the wax dry. Let it do it's work.”

She held still, and soon felt a gentle pressure on each of her feet.

Then he was in her field of view again. “How you doing?” he asked. “Been upside down too long? It shouldn't be dangerous for another ten hours or so. But I don't want to risk it. Do you have a headache?”

“No.”

“Blurry vision?”

“No.”

“Trouble breathing?”

“I'm fine.”

“Good. If that changes, you say something. Otherwise, we wait until the light goes out.”

Sophie scrunched up her forehead. “What do you mean?”

He smiled down at her and walked out of her field of vision. She heard the clicking of a switch, and the room went dark.

Almost.

There was still a source of light. Flickering. Candle light. Above her.

“Hold still,” he said. “If you move to much, you'll get wax on the rope.”

Sophie was about to say something, then watched a drop of wax fall past her face and landed on the floor. She stared at the tiny drop of wax.

“It should burn out within an hour,” he said. “Longer if you don't move. I'll be right over here. Just say the word if you want out.”

She heard him walk over and sit down outside her field of vision.

“Otherwise,” he said, “Just hold still.”

Another drop of wax landed in front of her.

He chuckled.