Too Much Rope

by Jackie Rabbit

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© Copyright 2020 - Jackie Rabbit - Used by permission

Storycodes: M+/f; M/f; bond; sex; anal; oral; gag; blindfold; rope; susp; outdoors; trick; whip; hum; cons; reluct; XX

...This is the happy ending version of this story, but I could also write a not so happy part three version, please let me know on the forum if there is interest in this darker ending...

Continues from

...I waited, helplessly spread eagled before my captors, for that inevitable first stroke, while wondering where my husband was. Or even if he had still engineered this somehow, although that looked all but impossible now. Did he originally select and invite these men, only for them to change the script and overpower him for some reason. Perhaps then gagging HIM and handcuffing him someplace so he would be forced to watch? Was this what I had thought I had heard earlier? If that were the case, what must my husband be going through, knowing he had specifically gift wrapped me for these men?

I had a pretty good idea what was going to happen next, that took no imagination at all, but what about after these men were eventually done with me? Would they kidnap and keep me for their continuing personal entertainment? Or even transport me to someplace where blonde, blue, and tan fetched top dollar on the auction block, just as I had recently read in an erotic novel? What of my husband's fate then? He was, after all, a witness.

I imagined for his very survival - and even possibly my own - I HAD to enjoy this! I had to try, gagged as I was, to thank each and every man present for EVERYTHING they did either with, or to me! This truly was fantasy reenactment, not quite the way I might have ever envisioned it happening though, but still maybe a once in a lifetime ‘opportunity’, if one were to look at this in a certain twisted sort of way.

The men might inflict some pain in the pursuit of their lusty goals, but they wouldn't actually damage me - logic told me - I was far too valuable for that. Unless of course these men were stupid, or even deranged. If either were the case, I could possibly end up with a far darker fate. I had read about such things in a crime novel recently - inspired by real world crimes, as ghastly as that may be - but deranged men were always loners in those kinds of books, and these men were a group, or so their spokesman had implied...

"Oh, we're going to whip you, and then fuck you, and then maybe whip and fuck you some more; until we get tired of it. Then maybe..." the man threatened ominously in his raspy tone as his voice trailed off into silence.

...I found myself hanging on the man's every word, an ironic realization if one considers that I hung suspended before him while doing so. I had temporarily lost both my sight, and my ability for clear speech; my hearing, and senses of both touch and smell working overtime to fill the void, as did my imagination. One might even say I was experiencing some form of paranoia, but reasonable paranoia in my estimation based on what I knew at the time...

"...only if you disappoint us though," the man continued, his voice raspy, as if an afterthought. The words he had left out in the middle were likely important, but I hadn't been privy to those.

...Here was my potential ‘out’ from all this though, and likely my husband's too. Entertain these men like they never have been before, and they may well just leave when they're eventually done with me. If I were destined to be their interactive human sex toy anyway, make myself such a valuable and fun toy that no matter what, they wouldn't intentionally damage me. Play roughly with me, yes, but not damage and ruin me.

It might have been a false hope, but it was at least a short term goal with which to aspire. One that at the same time allowed me to embrace and enjoy this plundering of my bound and helpless body...

"Please fuck me first," I begged into my gag, as I shook my ass to the limit of what I could. My words came out a garbled mess, but who could possibly misunderstand what I was asking for; what pleasures this bound and helpless body could still provide a man, or even a group of lusty men with bad intentions? They could do anything they liked to me anyway, strung up and presented as I was, but would these rough sounding men prefer a struggling and screaming interactive victim, or a passively withdrawn one who acted as little more than a warm body bound in a convenient position?

...I had never seen a picture of myself displayed like this, even though our smart phones all had camera and video capabilities built in. With that said, I still knew the picture I presented was highly erotic. In my mind's eye I could almost see it, and even if one weren't specifically a rope fan as I am, I knew my tan and fit form - displayed and accessible as it was - would likely drive the men into a feeding frenzy of lust. And, while I had irrational fantasies about being strung up and publicly whipped before a crowd of cheering spectators - thanks to a paperback novel I had read once - helpless struggling sex - even with strangers - beat... well, being beat...

Things then went further from my expectations from there, and instead of the whipping I was promised, or even the fucking I had so crudely asked for in it's place, I instead felt a man's face with a full bushy beard nestled right into the cleft of my spread ass from behind. He even kissed me there, as I tried to clench up and wiggle away by reflex.

I had never had a lover with a beard - nor one THAT into my ass - but there was no mistaking the feel of what was pressed up against me back there, nor what this man had done. This invading man then blew on the inside of my splayed thighs from behind, reminding me of the juicy mess I had been producing only minutes before, in anticipation of my husband's plundering.

No doubt my body had stopped producing nature's own perfect lubricant when this kinky adventure of ours had unraveled mere minutes before, but there was still plenty to be felt, that had even started to run down the inside of both of my thighs; while this opportunistic man explored and reminded me of my excitement. He was in no hurry, as if he had all the time in the world to do what he wished to me, but what did this tell me, and what of his watching friends surely eager for their own lusty turn with me?

Beard Man - I named him so in my mind - had yet to make a sound. And, in keeping with this, he just as silently repositioned himself further between my helplessly spread and pinned legs; then took a tentative taste of me, my womanhood exposed and parted by my stretched legs positioning. He ran his tongue from my clit to my rosebud; I clenched up and tried to again wiggle away when he reached the latter - the act nasty and taboo to me - even though he did no more than just touch me back there.

Then Beard Man took another much more intrusive and lingering taste of me, sans rosebud, followed by a complimentary "MMMMMMMMMMMMMM," both heard, felt, and universally understood. That was, strangely enough, the only sound I heard Beard Man make throughout this entire episode, other than some unintelligible animalistic grunts later on, which in my mind didn't really count.

...My husband had early on given me the playful nickname of Honeypot, only ever used when we were alone for obvious reasons, the implication that he rather liked his honey as a stand alone snack when he didn't want the full meal, which was more than fine with me...

Beard Man must have liked my husband's honey too, because after that he dove into me like a man starving, and despite him taking such things from behind like my husband never had, he still managed to hit all the right spots. He touched and teased me in my most special spot repeatedly, and then withdrew and went deep when my body twitched in it's suspension. He zig-zagged and repeated the pattern, over and over again in torment, despite my anguished and incoherent gagged pleas to the contrary. This was possibly even worse than a whipping, but I knew the grand finale would likely be magnificent... when it finally came.

As a natural reaction to all this stimulation, my honeypot once again started producing, and this only encouraged Beard Man to greater levels of sexual torment. He didn't seal the deal and finish me off though, even though he easily could have - this man rather expertly working my body in direct contradiction to what I expected - but I was however left a juicy twitching mess for his next more predictable intrusion.

Beard Man - I assumed - then scrambled around and positioned himself standing before and partially under me in front. His rough blue jeans rubbed the tender insides of my naked upper thighs and announced not only what was to come, but that bothering to strip properly to plunder my bound body was an unnecessary step in the process for him. He then sank himself fully up and into me in one swift swoop as I was partially lifted in my bonds; grunting with the unseen intrusion as he was almost inhumanly hard, but still comfortably sized, his hands on the outsides of my thighs lightly for balance. I also felt the texture robbing presence of a condom, as well as the painful snaps on his blue jeans where our bodies were mashed together. Ordinarily I didn’t like either, as I prefer a more natural skin on skin feeling.

This WAS ‘safe sex’ though, but what did this tell me? Had these men just ‘happened’ to be hiking through the same woods as I, with condoms in their possession, just in case such an opportunity like myself just happened to be "hanging around?"

Were the condoms, therefore, for my benefit, or theirs?

Surely men like these didn't care about such things as safe sex and condoms, not with the intimate tongue lashing I had just received. But, what if they were instead meant to limit the biological evidence that these men had been here and done what they had? Such would imply that not only was this a premeditated event, but it could also imply that this might be a final event for myself.

At the same time it just felt so good though, everything working as it was designed, as Beard Man started thrusting up and into me and repeatedly lifting me in my bonds, the rope holding my head high temporarily going slack with each upstroke. He also bumped my clit with every deep stroke as I responded with little gagged yelps of ecstasy, this position - and obviously the kink - simply overwhelming for me. I couldn't last long like this despite my efforts, and I wondered what my helpless and watching husband might be thinking as this stranger forced me toward a magnificent, earth shattering orgasm... perhaps one even better than he could provide.

When it hit me it was epic, my hanging body clenching and convulsing on Beard Man's invading organ like he owned me. At that particular moment he did though, in a certain twisted sort of way. It had taken months of making love - then even playful experimental restraint after that - for my husband to be able to force my body to perform even closely to this. But this invading and opportunistic monster had instead stolen what my husband had so carefully prepared for himself, and then had managed to do this to me in mere minutes. He owned me, or at least a little part of me, and I thanked him for such once I was able to catch my breath and focus my thoughts once again, but gagged as I was who knows if he even understood me.

I was instantly stress relieved, this orgasm relaxing me physically, and making me at the same time rather aware of my hanging, and the toll that such was taking on my body, it now quite sweaty from my exertions. Beard Man then withdrew, the move leaving me feeling empty and hollow, but that was because he had still been as hard as a rock, I further assumed he hadn't orgasmed himself yet. It was hard to tell for sure with the condom on though, although one can usually feel the ‘restricted water through a clogged pipe’ feeling when a man pops off in a condom. I was gushing more than enough for the both of us though, but there lingered in my mind the obvious question. What's next?

As if in answer to my silent question - and again contrary to what I expected - I felt a rough hand lift the heel on one of my still pointed and reaching feet. The five gallon bucket was replaced there, so that I had something to once again stand on. He then repeated the process with my other foot, and I thanked Beard Man - I assumed - for the kindness. I could likely do this more familiar and comfortable position for hours, although I didn't know for sure as every other time my husband had run out of gas and released me, long before I had reached my limit.

Beard Man then picked right back up where he had left off, sinking himself all the way in deep, but this time it felt like he was standing in front of me more than under me. His hands this time went around my hips and grabbed a handful of my butt cheek in each, he used his improvised handles for leverage to more roughly mash our bodies together. This position forced him to rub on my clit rather directly - instead of just bumping it - and I encouraged him on, and made all manner of gagged noises, that none in attendance - including my husband - could possibly misinterpret. It felt just wonderful, and it quite literally turned into one of the longest rides of my life... but after an extended period of his aggressive sawing into me he had yet to climax, nor had I reached my second peak.

I was right on that wonderful edge, we perhaps subconsciously each waiting for the other... But this extended, delicious torture then devolved into something else, right on the edge of not being fun any longer, my own husband not ever lasting this long a single time.

To finish the deal and really pop me off - either out of charity, or for personal reasons I wasn't privy to - Beard Man then took the ring finger on his left hand and touched my rosebud lightly, as if threatening to enter, his hands holding my butt cheeks parted and making this easy.

THAT DID IT! It was as if Beard Man had thrown the orgasm "ON" switch inside my body that few knew about, I squealed and bucked uncontrollably like I was being electrocuted. I clenched down on him repeatedly on reflex, causing him to pop off himself inside of me, inside of his condom. It felt like I might have even been crushing him, my convulsions were so severe, but these were extreme reflex actions well out of my control, and my body was lean and muscular.

My convulsing body milked Beard Man's slightly softening organ, but the condom prevented the act from achieving it's true biological goal. Still, this was a second epic orgasm, not just the equal of the first that man had given me, but somehow something even more. The character of it was less rushed and frantic, less hurried. This one had been allowed to build itself - during our extended time spent copulating - into something more than the sum total of all it's parts. Dare I even say, the number one best orgasm of my life, and I've had many wonderful ones with which to compare. But, this one also had made my lover cum, and a part of me liked that I could also do that for him after all he had done for me.

...Were I not strung up and gagged I would have hit my knees and paid proper homage to his magnificent male appendage, thanking it personally for the best ever ride of my life that it had taken me on at the very least, even with my captured husband forced to watch. Perhaps then, for purely selfish reasons, it might even want to stand up and play some more - after I recovered - such sometimes even worked with my husband, but when it didn't it was still a wonderful way to say thank you...

...These were the top two orgasms of my entire life - so far - Beard Man stealing that title from my husband. Most likely he was watching, and also suspected what had just occurred. I couldn't hide it, I couldn't hide anything, displayed as I was, I just a toy for these men to use as they pleased. Perhaps, I thought, that's why this was so over the top erotic for me.

Being bound like this wasn't new - it was still awesome though - but what was new were these new men here to take advantage of me in any way they wished. There were no rules here, and that made this new and wild, and even potentially dangerous should these men not get what they want from me...

I eventually became aware of Beard Man pulling his still half hard self out of me. It felt like his condom didn't want to leave with him. I was still winding down, twitching and clutching slightly, like the aftershocks from a massive earthquake. The man was inhuman, my own husband not lasting anywhere near as long as he did, and after my husband came he became soft and flaccid almost instantly.

I felt rather than saw Beard Man retrieve his condom from my clutching womanhood with a snap. I was wondering who would be next, or even if two of the men would try to take me at the same time. I had no idea how any men were in attendance, but I assumed it was several, though the evidence I had at the time didn't necessarily support that assumption. I had fantasized many times about several men though, and this likely skewed my conclusions. Being held down, stripped naked, and taken by a group of men was my all time hottest non-bondage fantasy, although the restraint part of that one was right in line with my other more obvious kinks.

I hung there waiting, and waiting... and waiting... It felt like forever, but I think my sense of time was likely off, my sense of smell was working overtime though...

I smelled the next man approaching, and shortly after that his soft shirt lightly brushed up against me in front... and then behind. He stepped just over my outstretched legs and under my arms to get there; he circled me like a cautious predator before the inevitable first strike. This man was a cigarette smoker, and I thought I recognized his unique smell, but when he spoke in his odd raspy voice it confirmed it was the man I had accidentally head butted earlier - I named this one in my mind as well - Flannel Man.

"Let’s see how long you can last 'what about me girl!'" The man threatened in his odd raspy voice. "It might make quite the show for our audience," he continued, this coming dangerously close to an all time hottest erotic fantasy ever of mine.

Would Flannel Man punish me for injuring him earlier, even though such was an accident on my part? I wondered.

Yes, was the short answer, but punishment can take many forms, and not all of them are painful.

Flannel Man stood before me, reaching up to just below each elbow with each of his hands, clutching me with his fingers repeatedly, traveling downwards from my elbows symmetrically. This wasn't a pinch though, and the act was quick tempo, it more emulating some small creature running down the tender undersides of my arms toward my armpits rather than anything else.

What it was though was ticklish, devilishly so! I tried to wiggle away from Flannel Man's invading fingers, but to where? I was in the perfect position for this, bound and helpless, and one hundred percent exposed to his invading fingers. I had yet to laugh past my gag, but how long I could hold off would be measured in seconds and not hours, I quite ticklish when caught off guard.

I twisted my body and flexed my muscles to the extent that I could in my hopeless blind attempt to escape, but my tormentor easily adjusted his aim and repeated the cycle, going lower each time. It was with ominous dread that felt where this was going, my exposed armpits super ticklish, as were other parts of my body in certain strategic areas. Had I initially fought the reflex to wiggle away, Flannel Man might have been denied the instant feedback he needed from my body as to what parts were excessively ticklish, or even ticklish at all. But, blindfolded as I was, this assault became a surprise attack, and I unprepared for such mentally, even though he had employed a similar tactic to set my gag initially.

...What must I look like to whoever was watching? I wondered, my boobs and body flailing around in mock comedic torment for their entertainment, but at the same time it understood that I was in no actual pain. With that in mind this torment could last for hours - should my captors even have a conscience - but I would be reduced to a hanging and hysterical mass, gasping for my next breath, long before that...

The next tickling cycle downwards reached my sensitive armpits, I both laughed, and begged at the same time for Flannel Man to stop. My gagged pleas fell on deft ears, this man had a score to settle, and he was undoubtedly proud to be able to successfully torture me in this unique and amusing manner as well.

With little other choice I endured, but laughing, and squirming, and begging for it to stop while doing so. My pleas became less and less coherent as the tickle torture progressed lower toward my flanks, my laughter becoming full blown hysterical as I struggled to catch my breath. All manner of unassociated words spew from my gagged lips, willing to say or do anything just to make it stop.





These four words came out of my mouth in various breathless order over and over again the most, all as the man pressed his attack mercilessly.

I felt my body become even more slick with sweat, a sheen of moisture likely covering it and making it glisten in the sunlight. This chilled my body despite the sun and comfortable temperature, causing goosebumps, which made me even more ticklish.

How long this tickling torture endured I don't know, it felt like hours, but it was likely only minutes instead. But, just as suddenly as it started, it stopped, I left gasping for air, and still laughing uncontrollably, even thought Flannel Man had moved his hands away from me. It was like an echo, the lingering and reflected sound still present, but to a lesser degree with each reverberation. Was this because my body's senses had been so overwhelmed, they took time to ‘catch up?’

I felt my heart pounding in my chest, and in my temples, this workout like nothing else I had ever experienced, and I was grateful for the intermission.

No matter the reason, Flannel Man abandoned the show I was being forced to provide, but only for a more predictable and self gratifying one.

"I thought you'd never ask," my tormentor opined in his unique voice. He apparently chose the order of my gasping words that most suited his purposes.

That was fine with me, anything would be better than having a heart attack, or even peeing myself while strung up in front of these men. I had, after all, started this day out with a naked and cuffed hike in anticipation of over the top bound sex, but sex with my husband and not a group of opportunistic strangers.

Flannel Man had an affinity for my boobs, such had led me to accidentally head butt him in the first place, and here he didn't disappoint either. He took one of my taut boobs into his hands and kneaded it like dough. I like such things, and even rougher treatment than that when super horned up. I also felt my nipples painfully erect and hard, perhaps from the tickle torture, perhaps from the chill of the sweat I had worked up, perhaps even from the overall kink of the entire situation; which it was I didn't know.

In any event, Flannel Man then took one of my erect and sensitive nipples into his mouth and began nursing on it, working the flesh of my boob in concert with his oral ministrations, all with the express goal of milking me like some captured human cow. I wasn't lactating, necessarily, but the feeling was incredible nonetheless, and I groaned into my gag in approval. I also felt the man achieved his goal, receiving something from me in return for all his efforts.

It was at this point that I became aware that my blindfold had slipped, I had closed my eyes behind it earlier so as to stop my eyeballs from direct contact with the cloth of my husband's bandanna. I snuck a cautious peek through my uncovered left eye, the bright sun overhead and dazzling me for a few seconds until my pupil adjusted. I discovered that I was in fact facing our campsite, and not positioned away from it, but I didn't see anyone watching; including my captured husband, that I had been certain I would see handcuffed with his back to a tree someplace...

I then peeked down, fearful of what I might find, but staring back up at me was instead my husband, wearing nothing but a stinky flannel shirt, no doubt borrowed from one of his smoker work buddies. He also had the start of what looked like a black eye, but such didn't seem to be bothering him as he smiled around the nipple he was intently milking.

"So, do I have to beg for forgiveness?" he asked, but notably while continuing to suckle and knead my flesh.

"Don't talk with your mouth full" I admonished him through my gag, ignoring the blatant hypocrisy, there would be time for an explanation later...

When my husband got tired of entertaining himself with my boob, he milked the other one for me; symmetry was always important to him, but in this case me as well. Eventually he reached up and removed my gag and blindfold, the latter nearly out of his reach.

"How was it?" he asked me, between kisses on my sweaty and no doubt salty body, kissing from my mound up to my boobs, slowly and sensually. This was my husband, the considerate lover who loved to kiss me from my toes to my nose as if worshipping my body. I loved that kind of thing too, but I NEEDED this kind of thing, this rough and aggressive plundering of my body. He knew this, and was quite accommodating of my kinks, it was after all fun for the both of us.

"How did you do it?" I asked, ignoring his question, as I was still coming to grips with all that had happened. I half expected there was still somebody else involved, although to what extent I wasn't sure.

"The beard was a Santa Claus beard, bought at the costume shop and easy to Velcro on, but there I screwed up and used the voice I had created for that man too early, back before I had blindfolded you. That man, just like me, loves your ass, and loves to go down on you, so I gave him those traits plus a little, and a voice to match, that I ended up not using."

"The flannel shirt I offered to buy from Steve, but he wouldn't give it to me unless I told him what I was doing with it. I didn't go into specific details obviously... Hope you don't mind." My husband offered backhandedly, as if it was an afterthought.

... Steve was an older guy my husband used to work with, and in real life he had a gravelly voice from years of smoking, and hard drinking, and general bad life choices, so this character and his voice made sense from that point of view...

"So, let me guess, Steve is a boob man?" I asked my husband from my position above him.

"Very much so, he even told me specifically how to milk them, told me I should try it out on you, that it feels fantastic for women if you can get them wound up enough. That's about as close as he came to telling me he thought you had fantastic tits, but I could tell he so wanted to. I think he might be beating himself off right now just thinking about what we're doing, most especially while wearing his old shirt." My husband informed me.

Such didn't necessarily excite me, both Steve, and his various bad habits, were a serious turn off for me. He was one of those guys that you wouldn't be surprised to find named on the police blotter for some petty crime, it was in fact why he and my husband didn't work together any longer.

I still expected that my husband had some help, and not just advice on how to best milk my boobs.

"What about the buckets? They had been kicked from my feet both at the same time, no one man could do that," I informed my husband as if quoting some law of thermodynamics.

"Not kicked, pulled," my husband corrected, pointing out the rope that he had tied to the handles; he must have taken up the slack and roughly jerked them from my feet while creating the illusion that two men had kicked them simultaneously. It was a good trick, but a scripted one, and not the least bit spontaneous. This gave me some idea of all the work he had put into this little charade entirely for my benefit; his reward for this would have to be extraordinary, once I thought of something suitable.

"Condoms?" I asked. "Since when do you need those with me?" I further queried.

"Not just one either, I had two on to deaden the sensation of being deep inside your perfect little body, so I could last a little longer. Turns out I didn't need to as the two Viagra pills I got from Steve with the shirt still has me a hard as a rock."

"You don't need Viagra, you're not even thirty yet!" I admonished.

"Apparently your right as this thing won't go down yet, and my eyesight has a blue tint around the edges."

"REALLY?" I asked.

"Don't worry, I'll get YOU down now." My husband offered with the hint of a double entendre, but he looked ridiculous while doing so with a big white plastic looking stiffy, wrapped with two condoms, bobbing upright between his legs.

"Not yet, I'm fine here!" I commanded. My mind was going in several directions, and I decided to be very honest with my husband, lest he think he went too far with all this, which he hadn't.

"Honey, would you do something for me?" I asked. "Something a little out there, it's been a fantasy of mine, actually several of them all rolled into one. It would check all the boxes for me and make this day even better than it already is." This of course sounded silly to me the moment the words left my lips. Everything about this so far was way more than just ‘a little out there.’

"I would do anything for you," he answered unconditionally, neither of us knowing the doors we would open by his doing so.

I went on to explain what I thought the perfect scene would include, and since I was already strung up, and seeing as how his Flannel Man alter ego had promised me both a fucking, and a whipping, I told my loving husband that Flannel Man hadn't kept his word... yet.

My husband then repeated everything back to me, just so he had this straight, but who could blame him? His prize for all this would be a first ever for the both of us, but he had asked for such before, and I felt foolish for forbidding it in light of everything else we had done to date.

"Pull the buckets out again so you're totally suspended, then gag you with the panties I packed for you to wear home. Then blindfold you again and bandanna tie the panties in. After that you want some good 'before' pictures front and back, so we can look back on this later."

I then heard the tone change in his voice, but here's where it got serious.

"Then you want me to lay ten stripes across your body with the implement of my choice, front and back, dark enough to be able to see in the 'after' pictures I am to then take, and if I can't see them, I'm to whip you again and make them darker?"

"Yes pleeeease?" I whined, my honeypot starting to produce again at the word "whip."

A belt, or switch, or even something similar and improvised was what I had asked for, just as long as the marks were visible in the after pictures he took. I told him to try not to draw blood, but if he did to make sure he got a picture of that as well. This was my lust talking, I was so wound up, to be able to live this out in such relative safety, that I didn't think I was even capable of feeling pain at the moment. The gag would prevent me from backing out in case I did, and give me that helpless "I can't stop this" feeling I was after, especially if my husband went back to using Flannel Man's sinister voice and personality.

Flannel Man, and not my husband, would then be doing this ‘for’ me, or even ‘to’ me, if things should go south. But, if it did I could only blame myself, and maybe even Flannel Man for the outcome. Did my husband realize the ‘free pass’ I was giving him? Or perhaps the one fate had instead provided?

"And after I have the second set of pictures... I can have your ass?" he asked.

"Flannel Man can have my ass, but please go gently on that part, even though I know that sounds counterintuitive." I hedged, trying to do my best to remind him that his alter ego would both be doing the ‘work’ and getting the reward... and assuming any liability incurred for a bad scene.

"You know, there's a whole bunch of men who would do anything to be me right now... who would so get off on all this, I mean REALLY get off on it!" my husband opined while looking me up and down appreciatively.

"I know, just make sure Flannel Man is one of them!" I commanded...

This was "game on" time in my mind, my husband first removed the buckets from my toes, but doing so gently as my hair, and therefore my head, was to be pulled tight once again by the rope and ring contraption entwined in my long hair. Kicking the buckets out this time, or even pulling them out by the rope still attached to them, might have a consequence similar to a hangman's, and I'm certain he had considered that, even though the limbs my head were indirectly attached to seemed to have some spring to them.

My husband needed the buckets to stand on so he could gag and blindfold me efficiently, although I supposed it might have been theoretically possible for him to do so from ground level, if I cooperated. In any event I had a few minutes to get used to hanging again while he searched out what he needed from his pack for this ultimate scene we were about to perform together, one eerily similar to my lusty teenage self entertainment fantasies.

I also became aware that my head wasn't as pulled tight high and haughty as it had been before, and when my husband came back to me I asked him to tighten the rope holding my head aloft. After I assured him it would be ok he did as I asked, forcing my head again into a chin held high haughty stance, something about the position, and the lack of control of still another part of my body, doing something magical to me.

Before he gagged me he held a water bottle to my lips, which I emptied, telling me not only how thirsty I had become, but that he envisioned this next part might take some time to get right. He was more right than wrong, but he was responsible for my safety, and I was only interested, primarily, in achieving my kink. The actual act of drinking bound up like this was unique to say the least, most especially when another is tipping the bottle for you, the process seeming almost sensual to me.

"I think Flannel Man has every right to be seriously pissed off at me," I offered cryptically over my shoulder as last minute advice, and to be certain that my loving husband didn't somehow intervene and soften Flannel Man's justice. We then shared a look which spoke volumes...

Without further delay - and to prevent any more discussion on the subject - I then opened my mouth wide and cooperatively. My husband had already wadded up the cotton panties he had brought for me to wear back towards the car in the morning, he gently and almost tenderly pushed the wad of thin cloth in, so as not to choke me with them. This act as well was far more sensual than it may sound, his fingers then further packing the bulk of the cloth into my open mouth. All this as he stood on the bucket he had placed once again behind me. This time I didn't head butt him, although if I had...

He then tied the bandanna off, cleave gagging me with it this time once he had removed the extra knot. This held my panties deep into my mouth, my cheeks bulging almost comically, but I was completely mute now with my mouth stuffed as it was. The bandanna felt cold and wet with my earlier oral secretions, my husband's tying it off tight wringing out some of my nasty used saliva right onto my lips, not to mention the sweaty and rank smell right under my nose. I was forced to breathe exclusively from my nose now, something I hadn't pondered with the concept of being panty gagged. We had other gags at home, but the hollow ball kind that I could breathe around if necessary.

This gag was very real and functional in comparison, but I had come too far to back out now, and voicing my second thoughts reservations would be almost impossible now anyway. The cotton of my panties also had a wicking effect on my mouth, drying it out almost instantly, but in my fantasy erotic dreams I had more times than not been gagged with my own panties, ripped from my body while being held down and taken in every way imaginable by a group of unsavory characters.

The blindfold bandanna had the same clammy feel of old sweat to it, and here my husband not only made it tighter so it didn't slip this time, but he left a long tail hanging down partially obscuring my face and preventing me from peeking under. The last time it slipped I had been thrashing around wildly from Flannel Man's tickle torture, and my head hadn't been held high at that point as well, so I thought it unlikely to slip this time.

It was only then that Flannel Man had truly returned, my husband assuming the once again sinister voice that I associated with that stinky shirt.

"Nice tits," Flannel Man complimented in his crude voice, grabbing them again, savagely; once again lifting me by them, but this time with his head well clear of my own. He squeezed and pinched as I yelped in reply, but even to my own ears it sounded almost silent. This time he lowered me slowly though, and when he did my head was again held high, the motion making it feel as if I were nodding in approval of his actions.

"I promised you a whipping, but first some before pictures to share with my friends," the evil man threatened. He was, in my mind, no longer my husband, but the heartless and cruel character he had assumed, the one I had specifically suggested should be seriously pissed off at me.

I heard the click of his cell phone's shutter sound, first in front, then in back, I wondered if he really would share these pictures with anybody. My face was mostly covered, and I had no ink on my body with which to easily identify me, so in a way these could still be anonymous. My husband would never do such a thing, at least without asking first, but Flannel Man was another matter entirely. That man, and the man his character seemed to emulate, might sell such pictures to the highest bidder, or even keep them himself to self entertain with.

With the pictures taken I specifically knew what was to happen next, I had obviously asked for it!

...I didn't know the implement to be used, nor the placement of the first stroke, but I was confident that I could endure ten of almost anything, horned up and determined as I was...

The waiting was the worst part though, my begged-for punishment not coming instantly, my senses working overtime to determine not only what would be used, but where the first stroke would land.

"Blacken MY eye, headbutt ME!" Flannel Man scolded from behind and to the right of me, sounding as if he were building himself up for this task, or perhaps letting me know that marks on my body would be in retribution for the marks I had accidentally put on his.

The first stroke landed across my ass, diagonally, right to left, I heard the smack of it landing what felt like a full second before I felt it's results. This almost certainly was my husband's soft and well worn favorite leather belt, this perhaps the most benign thing he could have chosen for my first ever whipping... at his hand.

The belt had forced me to contract the muscles along my back side and flinch hanging as I was, my involuntary reflex action to get away from that which had surprised me completely natural. I wasn't going anywhere though, so my efforts were in vain. No noise escaped my lips either gagged as I was, but I hadn't tried to make any, this first stroke slightly anti climatic for me.

Flannel Man HAD to lay into me harder, both for my own purposes, and because if he kept up like this there would likely be no tell tail marks on my spread eagled body for the camera to catch, and we would be doing this again, and possibly again after that. I then realized how ambiguous my instructions had been to my tormentor, my heat of the moment requests easy to misinterpret.

The second stroke came several seconds later, after I had stopped swaying in my bonds from the first. This one landed lower, the end of Flannel Man's improvised whip catching the inside of my left thigh up high, as well as my right thigh just below my ass. I yelped into my gag with this one when the sting hit my brain, the tail of the belt cracking in the air when it hit my left thigh as well.

I pulled my arms and thrashed to get away on reflex, but I also became aware that my actions had caused the relatively small white birch trees I were suspended from to flex inward, and this caused my head, that was likely suspended from a different tree's branch, to bob up and down, as if I were nodding in approval. I didn't necessarily want to stop this, but these actions my body was being forced to perform likely made it look like I was egging on my tormentor.

Three, four, and five landed progressively higher up my back, and away from my tender inner thighs, I convinced myself that number two had been a case of mistaken aim. The tip of the belt hurt the most, and made the crack that was present with each stroke after the first experimental soft stroke.

The belt snaked around my body with each of these, the bite of the tail felt more on my exposed sides than my back proper, those muscles taunt and flexed by my hanging posture. This was kinky as hell though, I was actually living out my fantasy, and half way there by my count.

"That was a warm up, 'what about me' girl, now we really start!" Flannel Man threatened. Or was that a bluff? I knew it was part of the act, or at least one part of my brain did, but the other I allowed to wander to a very dark place more in line with my irrational fantasies...

The next stroke landed diagonally just like the others, but across the front of my hanging body as I expected. This forced my tormentor to switch positions, and also hands, Flannel Man, just like my husband, right handed and likely stronger with that one. This one also felt more severe, sharper, the first stroke landing just above my mound, the tail cracking on the outside of my left thigh this time.

This should have hurt at the very least, but something had happened, I felt like a spectator watching this happen to another, slipping further into a familiar daydream.

These were medieval times, the woman all the other women of the town were envious of, and the one the men had secretly lusted for at the same time, was strung up in the town square for punishment. What she had done was unimportant, the interrogation in the dungeons had led to a confession that very day, and medieval punishment swiftly served.

She was tautly spread eagled between two massive posts, her feet off the platform completely, the platform itself ten feet above the watching crowd so all could clearly see the spectacle that was about to occur. There was a carnival like atmosphere to the crowd, with mixed in lusty stares not able to be concealed on their eager faces. These peasant women, and men, had come to see a show, and the executioner came to give one, thus preserving the illusion of justice, at least for some.

The woman's clothes were modest, but in the way of justice, the brute of an executioner, reeking of smoke, putting his whip down so as to rip the clothing from her bound and helpless body, her modesty not his concern. He was a muscular man, wearing the concealing mask of his trade, the mask no doubt allowing him to do things he might not be inclined to do ordinarily.

The man ripped layer after layer from the bound woman methodically, as if peeling an onion, throwing the scraps to the cheering crowd, all in his haste to get to the treat that lay hidden beneath. Eventually she hung facing the crowd nude and helpless, but still her head was held high, she seemed determined to meet her fate stoically. She had a haughty beauty to her that the dungeons had failed to remove, although her nude body gave evidence to the torment it had already endured, the men it had already entertained, all on a pretense crime just to have her strung up before the townsfolk as she now was.

This was nothing more than a show, and she the unfortunate performer, the script already written...

Seven, eight, and nine landed progressively higher on my spread eagled body, Flannel Man adjusted his swing so as not to actually damage my body, I was strangely envious of my daydream victim and her rather different fate. ‘I’ was almost done, my ‘executioner’ to take his liberties with my body, if the pictures I had conditioned came out as expected. My daydream alter ego was not so lucky though, she was just starting, and I sensed her ultimate fate was quite different from my own.

Stroke number ten landed just under my right boob, the belt snaking across my body. The tail of the belt cracked in the silence, its tip biting into the soft flesh on my left side, about six inches lower. This one stung and caused me to really thrash about; once the pain signal got to my brain, I screamed into my gag by reflex, although the sound was nearly perfectly muted by the cloth stuffing my mouth. I knew there would be a mark with this one at least, my own torment almost over, although this was bittersweet at best. A part of me irrationally wanted it to go on, to take me to that place once again that I had briefly visited with my daydream alter ego, but another part of me knew it was over, the count ten, and my kinky request fulfilled, although not quite as viciously as I may have wanted.

I then heard Flannel Man reposition himself, and I assumed I would hear the shutter sound from his cell phone's camera seconds later, his pictures documenting this other ‘first’ for all time. I knew that one day I would be too old to play like this, that this kind of thing was a limited time offer with an expiration date, and before I couldn't any longer, I wanted to experience all that I could from life.

Instead I was surprised to hear the crack of Flannel Man's belt once again, his swing coming from the left side of me now and still in front. My body rebounded because I had been so unprepared, and this again set my head into a nodding motion, no doubt telling my tormentor that I still approved of his torture. The sting came a second later, this stripe as well landing across my mound, but from the other direction, hinting at the symmetry that my husband and Flannel Man seemed to share.

I tried to scream, half in pain, half in shock at the apparent betrayal. This scream was nearly silent though, there being no air in my lungs with which to make it. Where the two marks intersected across my mound it especially stung, the whip there biting on flesh already once bitten.

That got my tormentor's attention though, and a response.

"That one hurt 'what about me' girl? We're only halfway to your 'ten in front, ten in back,' unless you want to beg for mercy. Go ahead and try though, it might even be fun to listen to, if I could somehow understand you." Flannel Man kept himself in character, I challenged myself to do the same.

My tormentor had obviously applied my ambiguous wording in a manner other than I intended, but who could blame him? He also had given me a way to try to get out of my ‘other’ ten strokes, and I had to nip this in the bud less he start forming some sympathies toward me and soften his blows. I needed this, despite my screams, in fact, I probably needed just a little more than this.

"FUCK YOU!" I articulated into my gag as clearly as possible. The words however sounded more like two humming syllables coming from deep in my throat to me.

Flannel Man understood them though.

...I should have realized earlier, both men apparently had a thing for symmetry, and it's hard to symmetrically apply five strokes under such circumstances. That made this misunderstanding an honest one, and not some treachery, I was in for a ride twice as long as I had thought under a best case scenario, but it was entirely my fault. This also allowed me to try to slip back into my daydream, but I couldn't quite get back there.

My tormentor laid four more stripes across the front of me, left handed, the mirror opposite of the ones he had just given me, but possibly slightly more aggressive, despite him using his non-dominant arm. Was this because I had cursed him, challenging him to up his game?

Where they crossed the others on my body, they really stung. I was curious to see what these looked like in the pictures I had requested. Despite the pain, and it really didn't hurt in the big scheme of things, I was loving this, and a part of me wanted it to continue, if for nothing else but to see how much I really could take.

The last five strokes landed across my back, my tormentor's right hand again used, and the soft belt feeling anything but soft by that time. I had thrashed and shook myself to exhaustion over the course of the ordeal, hanging in my bonds and nearly missing the sounds of Flannel Man's camera. I wondered then how my fate compared to that of my daydream alter ego.

Instead of immediately claiming the prize I had offered, my husband climbed up on the bucket behind me and removed my gag and blindfold, I felt his deflated condom-covered manhood where it pressed up against my ass, he apparently not up for such at the moment despite the Viagra. The gift was still his for the taking, whether it was now, or later. In contrast, my honeypot had been producing nearly throughout the entire ordeal, despite my exhaustion, I was still ready to go.

Truthfully I was physically exhausted, just not sexually so, everything I had been through took more out of me than I had ever anticipated, not to mention the lingering sting of where the belt had crisscrossed my body. The marks that I had yet to see I wore like a badge of honor, foolishly confident that I could endure so much more should the opportunity present itself again.

My husband, and even his alter ego Flannel Man, were both off their sexual high though, this told me something, but I was numb to it at the moment.

The untying part for me is always anti climatic, and it was no less so this time. I told my busy husband casually that I didn't know how we could possibly top this one. He was busy untying me, so his one word grunt-like answers and I attributed to that, but again, I was off my game...

...The rope burns were far worse than the marks my husband's soft belt had left on my body. The latter looked like slightly red stripes on my otherwise tan skin. Had I been more pale - like my daydream alter ego - I'm sure things would have appeared different, but suffice to say, by the time we had hiked back down to the car the following day, the marks were all but gone. Things were different now, but that's a different story...

The End


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