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Chapter 4: It gets worse.
Now my movement hanging on the hook was very much restricted and I dare not attempt to pull away too much from my tormentor as she remorselessly continued to act in the role I'd requested.
I thought I was about get some small moment of relief when she relaxed back against the old set of drawers and lit up a cigarette. But after a few deep draws, she looked at the red-hot end of the cigarette and then looked at me - and I knew what was about to happen.
She paused for quite a few smokes during the session and each time after a few relaxing puffs, she'd slowly and sensuously approach my agonized body with an exaggeratedly sexual movement, as if to taunt me with the contrast of extreme beauty and merciless cruelty.
She'd then carefully place the burning end into the chosen area, drawing deeply on the cigarette each time to ensure it was red-hot.
In between these tortures, she'd casually saunter around behind me and then quite viciously thrash my back and backside with a sort of heavy flexible riding crop.
It never even occurred to me she possessed such a brutal instrument until she suddenly produced it from a drawer.
Even the few periods when she rested for short moments, eyeing me speculatively as she relaxed back in the one chair, didn't for a moment relieve my torment. Adding to the pain of her torture was the constant agony of the tight bondage I'd placed myself in.
In a normal situation, even without the torture, the pain of my bondage would have long since had me signalling desperately for the mistress to untie me. Now I could only hang there helplessly, with no prospect of release, as the steel and chain cut into my poor soft flesh just adding to the overall torment.
She was to add to that torment at times as she had rummaged in my bag and pulled out a length of chain and a connector. Attaching that chain to my ankle manacles, she would use it to pull my feet off the floor as the whim took her; so my raw, agonizingly sore wrists took so all the weight of my hanging body.
At intervals, she'd caress my agonized, helpless, naked body, cynically and sensuously running her fingers over the areas she'd assaulted acting as if she was really compassionate and taunt me with wicked contrived innocence telling me the torture would stop if only I'd reveal the information she required. Her wide, flawlessly clear brown eyes momentarily displaying feigned sympathy for the ordeal I was experiencing.
Then, still acting her phoney compassionate role, she'd perform brutally cruel acts like pulling me forward, against the testicle rope, tugging on the body clamp strings, making them bite further into and lacerate my flesh even more, cynically implying that all this was upsetting her delicate sensibilities as much as it was distressing me.
At other times she'd pretend to be genuinely perplexed as to why I stayed silent as she was thrashing me, callously ignoring the fact I was gagged and mimicking and mocking my desperate efforts to communicate. But most of the time she instinctively reverted to acting the role of the pitiless, female monster I'd mistakenly requested.
Despite the fact that most of my mind was inflamed with agony and despair at the torment I was experiencing, some area of my mind was still following in dread every detail of her activities with a sort of terrified anticipation.
So I was also aware at these moments from her bright, elated, luminous eyes and deep breathing that she was almost certainly getting some sort of sexual stimulation during these embraces. More especially when she'd rub her latex clad pelvis and hips up and down against the hanging, raw, mutilated flesh she now knew she could torture at will.
Later, in pure agony, I was just continuously screaming for mercy like some sort of mantra although I knew only a faint suppressed noise was escaping the gag and the scream was only echoing around in my head.
A few times, almost as if she sensed the word I was trying to form from the constant, faint, muted, piteous squeals escaping from my gag, she'd observe in an amused tone,
"Are those continual faint squeals I keep hearing - screams for mercy?"
She'd walk around behind me, "Mercy isn't a part of the information I'm seeking, here's my version of mercy: I-don't-understand-the word-so-don't-waste-my- time!"
She'd thrash my backside with her thick, heavy crop on each word to emphasize the futility of my efforts to alleviate my torment.
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