The Fitting
Part 6
Day 5: Waking Reminiscences.
The next morning, I was woken early by a girl tapping my shoulder, and
holding her finger over her lips. She let me have a pee and then led
me to a nearby room where The Ice Man removed my appliance, checked me
for pressure or rubbing problems and refitted it with the spikes
engaged.
"You can go back to bed until breakfast time," he said. "Don't wake
Keith!"
I slid back into bed beside Keith. It was about 6:00 a.m. and I had
about two hours before breakfast. I lay beside Keith, wide awake,
feeling his warm body beside mine. I was very conscious of the
chastity belt, and was feeling very hot and horny beneath it. My mind
was in that free-spin state where it flits from subject to subject
without any apparent logic. I was remembering many of the events of
this last week at The Ice House. I thought about a man I had been in
conversation with who had suddenly going rigid and vacant as if his
mind was elsewhere; his spikes had cut in. We had been talking about
different people's motivations for doing this: whether everybody had
essentially the same fantasy or whether some where different.
I thought of the two nights I had spent alone, and of playing with my
pussy for the last time. I thought of how needing I had felt the next
day. I felt myself needing to clench, and forced myself to relax,
relishing the feeling of opposing my need, the intensity of my need,
the knowledge that it would not be satisfied, that this feeling would
stretch on indefinitely, increasing all the time. The need to clench
rose in strength, and I remembered The Ice Man's words: "don't wake
Keith!" I forced myself to relax, biting my lip, dreading the pain,
knowing that I would cry out. I had a thought: Keith did not know I
had the spikes engaged. How long could I go without him knowing? How
long could I keep it a secret?
I suddenly realised that keeping a secret was very important to me.
Telling Keith about Carol and about that awful man last night had been
a relief, but it had meant that a secret that was important to me was
no longer a secret. Why was secrecy so important? What about when I
had been close to Carol: had I kept something important secret from
her? Yes, of course: Uncle Jim.
He was a Priest, my mother's brother. He would visit our family home
periodically, and I liked to sit on his knee. Nothing sexual ever
happened, but I felt safe and cared-for, and there was another nice
warm feeling inside which I now recognise as sexual arousal, that I
always felt when I was with him. He would tell me stories, read to me,
play games, make me laugh; he would call me his 'Little Angel'.
Thinking back, I wonder if he felt sexual arousal also, but he was
always relaxed, and never showed any signs of it. Later, he moved to
another parish, further away, and we saw less of him.
Later, soon after puberty, I stopped going to confession. The Priest
had been repeatedly telling me that I should just control myself when I
needed to touch myself and to have orgasms. I had decided that these
feelings were so overwhelming that what he was asking was unreasonable
and impossible. So I had stopped going, but I never told my Mother
why; perhaps she guessed. Mother remembered the closeness between
Uncle Jim and me, and asked him to visit and 'have a word with me'.
He told me that at that age, he had stopped going to confession, and
had had doubts about the teaching of the Church. He asked me to tell
him what had been happening in confession. I told him about the
strength of my feelings, and about the impossibility of opposing them,
about the blunt and unhelpful attitude of Father Anthony. He told me
that it had been just the same for him. He told me to go away and do
whatever I needed to do, whatever I wanted as often as I wanted for one
week. Whatever happened, he would give me absolution. But I was to
come back and talk to him again after that time.
For the next few days I rubbed myself raw. I made myself climax five,
six or seven times a day. I engaged in fantasies that I generally
suppressed. He came back to visit the following week. He asked me how
I had been getting on. I mumbled something. He asked me if I felt
that I had achieved anything. I did not know how to answer, and said
nothing. He asked me if I felt that I now understood myself and my
needs better, whether, having done those things last week, I would move
on from there the next week or whether I would simply repeat the same
things again. I thought for a moment, and realised that what I had
been doing had been very repetitive. I said I would probably just
repeat the same things again. "Then you have not progressed in your
own self knowledge and understanding, have you?" I agreed.
"What do you need to do to progress, to develop yourself, your mind,
your understanding of this important part of your life? Did I need to
go and do it with another person, to get pregnant, to have a baby?" I
said that I did not want that, that I did not feel ready for that yet.
"Go away," he said, "for another week. Again I will give you
absolution for whatever you do, but this week, each time, ask yourself
this: 'what do I really need for myself?' 'What will satisfy that
need?' 'How do I progress from here?'"
I did that. At first I asked myself this afterwards, and realised I
had got nowhere. Later in the week, I started to ask myself the
questions before: 'What am I going to achieve if I do this?' 'What do
I really want and need?' and so on. And that was when I realised that
there was something beyond orgasm, something that could never be got
through simply giving way to pleasure, something God-like in intensity
and power that I needed to strive for. And when I thought about this,
I often found I did not want orgasm, I did not want easy pleasures. I
needed to strive through difficulty to achieve something greater than
this.
The next week, I told him of my discovery. I told him that I did not
know yet what it was that I wanted, but he seemed to be satisfied by my
description of the unattainable God-like feeling that I at once knew
about yet had never experienced. I told him that I would work towards
finding it, and that I would find it, wherever it was. He muttered the
words of absolution, and I started going back to confession.
I felt for Keith beside me and wondered what Uncle Jim would say about
where the logic of that search for that Holy Grail, that unattainable
feeling, had taken me. For the discovery I had made was that the
Church did not have the answer either, and that hypocrisy and deception
were all that they offered. I could achieve my goal and satisfy my
family's prejudices through secrecy, deception and this complex self-
indulgent denial.
I felt an intense urge to clench, and suppressed it. Now, I was moving
on into a new realm. Until now, I had been able to deceive myself.
Always before, I had given way to desire when the feelings had become
too strong. Now, there was no longer any possibility of that. Now I
could be true to myself - win through that barrier of self-will into
the wonderful world beyond. Was it truly unattainable? Or would my
Holy Grail now be within my grasp. A moment of doubt assailed me.
Whatever the answer, I need to find out. I go on. I clenched: in the
intensity of my arousal and distraction, a spontaneous vaginal
contraction had occurred, and with it, overwhelming pain from the
spikes.
I went rigid and bit back the scream that wanted to expel from my
throat. A soft sigh of a whispering scream slowly escaped as I
released the clench and fought down the intensity of my arousal. Keith
stirred at my spasm but did not awake. I would learn. This
suppression would become habitual and total. The route to my goal was
not through pain, that I now knew. Did it lie through denial imposed
by the fear of pain? I would find out.
Day 5: Sex after Lunch.
After digesting my breakfast, there were some periods of intense
exercise. I was expected to try as many different types as I could:
swimming, running, jumping, rowing, dancing, cycling. I even had a
wrestling session with another girl wearing a 'total denial' on her
last day. The purpose was to discover any rubbing or pressure
problems. I was not as fit as I would really like to be and kept
running out of breath. I had to stop for a rest several times that
morning, but they kept urging me to try as hard as I could at every
different thing. There was not a moment to feel aroused.
Afterwards, I showered long and slow, and then had lunch. After lunch,
it was proposed that Keith and I retired to our room for a rest after
the exercise, (Keith had worked out along-side me). We were told that
if we wanted sex, I was not to use hands or mouth but to do it by
squeezing his penis between my thighs. This is something we rarely do,
as I am too afraid of it slipping into me, and doing it in our previous
chastity belts had always been uncomfortable because of their poor
design. There had always been a risk of pregnancy also, with those
chastity-belts.
Keith did not know the spikes were in place. The belt had been removed
briefly after the exercise session just to check for fit, but had been
replaced without change. I felt a warm glow of arousal from the
knowledge of this secret.
We lay for a while together, feeling the ache from the exercise. There
is something about the aftermath of exercise that makes people sexually
aroused, and Keith was soon starting to notice me beside him. I rolled
over and got on top, squeezing him between my thighs. We kissed and
just lay there for a while. He wanted me to move up and down, but I
crossed my feet between his legs, and just squeezed rhythmically. "No,
just leave it to me!"
I was tantalising him with the slowness of my stimulation. He was
urging me to speed up, trying to lift my body on top of him, but I
would not change tempo. "No, you just do what the man said: he said
just squeeze thighs. He didn't say anything about jigging up and down,
anyway I'm too stiff and aching from all that exercise to do that.
Just relax and let me do the work.
"I've decided," I said suddenly "I think you cheat on me when I'm at
work or out. I think you masturbate without telling me. I think we
have to get one of these for you and only let you out when I'm around
to make sure that your only orgasms are with me." That was getting him
going. "How often, that depends on how I feel. Once a week should be
often enough, once every ten days perhaps. Maybe longer. The guys
here get it once in three months; they seem happy enough. How would
you feel after three months? Ready for it? Maybe I should stop now
and let you rest, maybe I give you too much. Maybe its not good for
you. Did you see the belt that lets a man fuck without coming? Maybe
I'd let you fuck me if you had one of those. How would it be if we
both had one? We could take turns wearing it. How would you feel if I
got the climax and you went without?" I could feel him getting crazy
and urgent under me. I felt cool, calm and totally in control. You
should just try, sometime, to squeeze your thighs without clenching
your cunt or your penis when you are highly aroused: you need to be
ever so detached and cool to do it.
"How would it feel always to have to make somebody else come but never
to come yourself? You're a whore, a male whore, and I'm your pimp. To
stay in condition, ready for action, you're never to come, only your
clients come. There's a steady stream through the door, and I send
them in at twenty minute intervals all day, and you have to satisfy
them all without ever coming; you have to save it all for me. So you
wear one of those belts to make sure that never happens." It was
getting harder to squeeze my thighs when aroused without clenching my
vulva; I had to concentrate. "If you come with a client, I beat you.
I cane you hard on the bum just like you do me, and then I sting your
prick with the whip again, . . . and again, . . . and again." I timed
strong squeezes with the last words as he came between my thighs. I
needed so much to clench, to come, but I just lay on him forcing my
need away, nursing his waning erection between my thighs, feeling the
sticky semen slick and smooth.
He kissed me deeply and strongly. After a few minutes recovery, he
said: "A good thing your spikes weren't engaged!"
"They are!"
It took a moment or two to sink in. "God! How . . . ? Since when?"
"About six this morning, I was up and doing whilst you were sleeping
like a baby. Have a look, if you don't believe me: you've got the
key," I said when he started to look incredulous.
"Hey, no!. I believe you. But . . . Thigh-squeezing? Wow! How was
it?"
"I felt great: calm, in control, totally able to concentrate on your
needs without thinking about mine."
"But are you . . . ?"
"I'm OK; really." I held my hand out, palm down. It was steady, not a
quiver, no shakes. "I tell you, I'm feeling good, steady, calm,
comfortable. No problems, OK?" I had gotten a bad case of the shakes
a few times when he had violated some taboos of mine. And some of the
things I had been saying were right in that taboo area. Talking last
night had helped me to lay a ghost or two. We should do it more often.
"Come. I have to clean this sticky stuff off me before it seeps in
under my belt. That flap on the pee-hole is not guaranteed, and I
don't do the pill, remember?
Day 5: A visit to the Work-shops.
Later, we had the afternoon to ourselves, just walking about the
gardens or just sitting talking. We went into the work-shops at one
stage, because I wanted to see how the male belts worked, how the
clench was detected, where the spikes would be applied. When we had
read about them, looked at brochures, we had concentrated on the female
variety, but now the male ones had a strange attraction for me. I knew
he would never actually wear one, but I also knew that he would be able
to experience more lucid fantasies about the reality if he had seen the
details, and that I would be able to inspire those fantasies with the
right words if I knew what it was all about.
The male crotch-piece was moulded in two halves, right and left, which
were then fastened together with a special adhesive that had to be
baked in an oven to cure. The sensing point was behind the testicles:
the base of the penis would move downwards and outwards with each
clench. A pair of sensing plates were positioned either side of the
urethra. Pain was most often applied to the dorsal nerve of the penis,
just where it emerged from the pubic bone, in front of the suspensory
ligament. A simple but elegant slide arrangement connected the two
within the thickness of the penis-tube. We watched as he assembled one
of the two halves, and showed how a small deflection of the detector-
plate against its spring would cause the spike suddenly to jump out.
The young man describing its action to us did so with considerable
feeling. He told us he was wearing his for only the second month of
his first three month period. He was clearly feeling it very deeply.
I asked if he had a friend here, or if he was alone; all the staff
seemed to live in.
"Yes, I do. My girl-friend works in the kitchens. We both progressed
to this kind at the same time. It's the ultimate, and we wanted to
experience the ultimate. Before that, it was the 'nemo tangit' kind,
but it sometimes left us feeling kind of flat. Just now, we're both
right on the edge, if you know what I mean."
"The edge over which lies either desperation or enlightenment?" I said.
"Desperation is what we have at present. It is the intangible
something beyond that that we seek."
"Do people actually achieve it?" I asked.
"They stay; they seem happy and contented enough. But they don't
answer the direct question. We're waiting to see."
"So, what do you think, Keith?" I said, holding up the penis
tube. "Something to think about for the future? All the guys here
seem to be in an equal share relationship. It seems to work for
them." He didn't answer. He knew this was a wind-up, a reference to
our previous love-making.
That made me think of another thing I had meant to ask: "Tell me. How
do you make love when neither of you is able to climax. Do you have
sex sessions when you are in bed together? What is the end point for
you? Is there a clear culmination point that you both know has
arrived? What happens?"
"That depends. I guess it is a lot like other lovers. Sometimes if we
are tired we just go to bed and go to sleep. Sometimes we kiss and
cuddle a bit first. Sometimes we have a really hot session where we
practise brinkmanship, taking each other right to the brink of letting
go. One thing we do is to take both of us to the brink and stay there
for a lo-o-o-o-ng time. We don't do that too often, though, it is too
exhausting."
"And do the spikes ever cut in when you do that or have you learned
sufficiently not to do that?"
"It happened once or twice with me. I think she is much more in
control of her feelings than I am. She went rigid a couple of times,
but she said it was an ecstatic feeling made her do that."
This talk was making me all hot and urgent again, and I had a hard
fight keeping from clenching, especially when Keith started to press
the plate to operate the spikes on the part-constructed penis tube.
After we went out, I snuggled up to him and looked up into his eyes in
the sexiest way, saying: "I'm frustrated, Keith, I'm horny. It has
never been like this before, so implacable, so relentless, so
absolute. Keith, if I ask you to fuck me will you let me out?"
"No, absolutely not; never." I shuddered deep down inside, nearly
climaxing there and then. I went rigid with the pain of the spikes as
I clenched involuntarily, but managed not to cry out. What a man! He
knows just what to say to a girl in need.
Day 5: Training.
After dinner was another training session. The idea here, I was told,
was to make sure that I had no fear of clenching when I was not
aroused. It was essential for my health to exercise those muscles
periodically and not let them atrophy. For this reason, I should at
first try consciously to clench several times a day when I was not
aroused. For this, a small insert was placed in my anus: a pressure
sensor that bleeped when a certain pressure was reached. Clenching the
vagina also caused the anus to clench.
I get the shakes, as I have said, if my bottom is interfered with, so I
insisted on inserting the sensor myself.
I first did some physical exercise on the bicycle to ensure I was not
aroused at all. Without the belt on, I found that clenching could
easily cause the bleep. I next did it with the belt on but the spikes
disengaged. It was hard to convince myself that the spikes were not
going to hurt me, and I thought of what Shirley had said. I eventually
managed to bleep the device, and to do it repeatedly on demand. Then
the spikes were engaged. I did some more exercise to ensure that there
was no arousal, and soon found I could clench and bleep the device
without hurting myself. I was to wear the bleeper all the next day,
and those watching over me were to ensure that there were bleeps during
every hour throughout the day.
There was an interview session to find out how many times I had felt
the spikes cut in that day, and how I had got on with the love-making
session. I thought I had done pretty well but I was told that my
performance was much as expected, and that if the spikes had not cut in
a few times, more would have to be done to make sure that they did. It
was essential to feel them sufficiently for the suppression of the
clench to become habitual and unconscious.
I was told that I had had sufficient experience to spend my first night
with the spikes engaged. This was something I especially feared, as I
often got intensely aroused in that strange state between waking and
sleeping.
When we got to the bed-room, there was a cane and a martinet on the
dressing table. I swallowed.
"I am to beat you tomorrow morning: one of the beatings you are due.
It is to ensure that the appliance does not impede this process." I
felt myself getting hot and twitching under the belt.
This was a surprise, and, as I thought about it, I knew that the
beating was going to be a problem. I find the tremendous conflict
between submitting to the cane and wanting to protect myself to be
highly arousing. And when each stroke falls, there is an involuntary
clench from the shock of the stroke which I then prolong as a means of
managing the pain and nursing my arousal. With the belt on, I would
not be able to do this, and would even have to suppress the clench
response to each stroke.
I lay awake a while, wondering about the beating, and feeling a sick
apprehension. The sort of anticipation of conflict that makes me
really aroused. I put my hands down between my thighs, feeling the
tender and sensitive skin either side of the crotch-plate, teasing
myself, knowing that my arousal would be going nowhere.
I was lying that way, in a warm miasma of contented frustration when I
heard the door open. One of the helpers came in, her finger over her
lip, beckoning to me. I got out of bed; Keith did not stir. She led
me to the fitting room.
Ice Man was there. "This exercise is an important part of the spike
awareness training and a proof-test of the effectiveness of the
appliance," he said. "For this you have to be secured on the couch."
He gestured, and I got up onto the couch.
I had been expecting this, for we had read about it in the reports. He
secured my legs in the stirrups, my wrists to the sides of the couch,
and strapped a 'butterfly' type vibrator over the crotch-plate of my
castity-belt before securing my waist to the couch with another strap.
"The purpose is to demonstrate that, even with the most intense
stimulation, orgasm cannot occur in this device. It will also improve
your control over the clench reaction which will be helpful during the
beating tomorrow."
The vibrator was mains powered and he had a box with a couple of knobs
on it in the circuit. He switched on the vibrator, and watched my
reaction as he adjusted both the strength and the speed of the
vibrations. I don't know how he could tell, but he soon had me being
stimulated at an irresistable level.
I had used vibrators in the past, and they certainly made me orgasm,
but not in a way that gave me any real satisfaction. During one part
of my 'trying to be straight' period, I had read that Catholics can
sometimes fear the orgasm because of their religious conditioning, and
that regular use of the vibrator can overcome that. I had religiously
used it every night for a fortnight before giving it up in disgust as
failing utterly to penetrate the complexity and subtlety of my need.
The vibrations were getting through to my physiological responses, and
I felt in an almost detached way the arousal, which had already been
high, reaching the point where I would have to clench. Normally, with
a vibrator, I would be clenching long before this point, but I was both
consciously and subconsciously suppressing the clench, of course.
Now, it became more and more difficlt to hold it back, and I suddenly
realised that this was not just somebody trying to force an unwanted
orgasm on me, this was a tremendous challenge, a conflict of major
dimensions. And as I realised this, and reached down into the depths
of my self-will to try to conquer the unwanted but intense stimulation,
another part of me responded to the thought of the conflict with a
tremendous leap inside my vulva that had me screaming and in tears as
the spikes bit in.
The restraiints were needed, then. I writhed and struggled in my
bonds, part of me wanting to tear off the vibrator, part of me wanting
to tear off the belt. My thighs fought to close over my tightly
enclosed and protected crotch.
I fought back the arousal, and the tears, and the clench reaction, but
the vibrator purred inexorably on, and as the pain subsided, slowly the
arousal built up again. This time I was ready and gritted my teeth and
thought of other things as the arousal got to the point of overcoming
my self-will. My hips rolled and struggled beneath the belt that
secured my waist, arching with the intensity of my feelings.
In the end, the inevitable happened, another clench. I screamed in
despair. I had been beaten again, betrayed by my weak and fickle
physiological responses. I determined to master them.
Again I fought back my tears and cries, and tried to quieten my
struggles. Again the vibrator purred on, its implacable mechanical
stimulus penetrating ot the very core of my being. It seemed to search
out places that I never knew about where arousing sensations could be
found. I tried to become detached, elsewhere, as this fickle body
craved the empty solace of a mechanical climax.
Would the climax occur despite the appliance? Could it occur? Three
clenches in succession were needed, then I would be climaxing,
oblivious to further pain. My idiot body actually wanted this, wanted
the weak way, the . . . "AAAAAaaarrrgh!"
I had not been concentrating, had let the clench happen. Again I
fought back the clench that wanted to overwhelm me, fought back my
cries and my tears, more in frustration and rage at my own weakness
than through the pain. I struggled to bring myself to my senses.
This time I would remain calm and focused, I would concentrate on the
sensations, not to enjoy them and have them overwhelm me, but to
conquer them and control them. I would concentrate on suppressing the
clench; it would be easier now.
I concentrated on my breathing, using the trick of a woman in labour:
shallow panting breaths. I calmed my body's movements, relaxing into
the restraints, letting my mind concentrate on pressing down into a
permanently relaxed state in my vulva. There would be no more clench.
The sensation from the vibrator had receeded somewhat into a steady
tingling; my nerves were probably reaching saturation point with the
intense sensation. This would make the thing easier to cope with, I
relaxed a bit, and found that The Ice Man was adjusting the intensity
and speed. Now, it was a deeper throbbing, less of a purr; stronger
but slower. I felt that he was laughing at me. This was penetrating
deeper than before. I was determined to win.
I focused my mind on fighting off the sensation. Something deep within
me built and built . . and built. Soon I knew that it was futile, that
the clench could not be stopped. Should I just let it happen, prove to
him that his device didn't work, at least, not on me. Was I an
exception? The only question in my mind was whether it would be just
one clench or whether there would be enough to precipitate the orgasm.
With a dreadful, horrible inevitability, I just let it happen, knowing
that I had no means of stopping it. "AAAAAaaarrrgh!"
I knew, then, with absolute certainty, that there would be no orgasm
for me in this device. The pain was just too much. I was taken by it
into a different mind-state, one where there could be no orgasm. And
when I returned to the mind-state that wanted the orgasm, felt the
arousal, then the moment had passed, and time would be needed again for
the build-up, which would inevitably end in the same way.
Now I knew with absolute certainty that there would be no orgasm, I
could concentrate on suppressing the clench. There was no point to
letting it happen: it would get me nowhere. I found, then, that I could
do it. As long as there had been the possibility of orgasm as well as
pain, then I had been letting the clench occur, responding to a small
but present hope. With no hope there, there was no reason to allow the
clench.
Several minutes passed as I conquered tne clench reflex, then The Ice
Man deepened and intensified the vibrations once more. Now it was a
deep throaty growl, rumbling right through my belly, setting me on
fire. Slowly and inexorably the pressure and intensity rose. I had
more difficulty resisting this. Much more. . . . "AAAAAaaarrrgh!"
Now there was only resentment that I had been subjected to this pain
unnecessarily. I was already convinced that the search for orgasm was
futile. I spat out my venom and resentment in a rare but virulent
shower of invective.
"You can control your reaction to even this stimulus," was The Ice
Man's calm reply when I had at length dried up. He deepened and
strengthened the stimulus still further.
It was not so much a pressure that I had to exert, a forcing of a
reaction, rather it was the determination to maintain an absence, an
emptiness. This was where I had been going wrong. I felt lighter and
easier, now, as my whole approach suddenly inverted: just leave a gap
in my response: no reaction: so easy!
The growl persisted for several more minutes and I felt a heat in my
groin from the straining motor of the vibrator. A tiny part of my mind
was needed now to focus on maintaining that negation of response; the
rest was almost bored by the ordeal. I thought ahead to the beating in
the morning. Yes, that would be easier, now, thanks to this training.
My mind started to drift onto thoughts of that beating, and for a
moment, I let go of that negation, but I stopped myself, returning to
conscious awareness before any clench occurred.
The vibration stopped. I felt weak and shattered. I was unfastened
from the bonds, and helped to my feet. I had to sit down for a while,
and I had a drink of water as my throat was on fire from the
screaming. Then I was led back to my room, to bed.
I lay awake for a while, feeling a strange mixture of achievement and
frustration, but there was no intrusive arousal. I no longer felt that
I had to concentrate on keeping the spikes at bay. I was not really
aware of going to sleep, and did not wake during the night. In the
morning, I awoke early, or rather came to in a half-awake state, and
forgot about the belt for a while but automatic reactions cut in before
I had any unpleasant reminder.
Then I remembered the cane and the martinet, and I felt a deep shudder
inside me. The arousal during a beating was an insulator against the
pain and the orgasm after was a soothing balm. Now these would be
denied to me. How would I feel? How would I cope?
Day 5: The Beating.
After breakfast, we went together, me carrying the cane and the
martinet, to the room used for checking the fit. Here the belt was
taken off, and I was asked to inspect myself to see if any plucking was
necessary. I had plucked only a week before, and so there were only a
few very short pigmented hairs. I was given tweezers and told to
remove these. Then the belt was put back on, spikes in place.
"If it proves to be a problem, you can get a 'no orgasm' appliance that
leaves most of the vulva exposed for the purposes of plucking," Keith
was told. "We already have the measurements, so the additional cost
would only be manufacture and a little checking of fit."
"We'll see. She sometimes comes if I don't watch her, but I think we
can manage without."
The bleeper was put back inside my bottom to detect any clenching. A
chair had been positioned in the middle of the room. The ritual
started.
"Three weeks ago, you had an orgasm without my permission. Do you deny
it?" "No, Keith. Please beat me. Beat me so hard and long that I
never want to do it again, please!"
He pointed to the chair. I bent over it, grasping its front legs, my
feet either side of the back legs.
"Remember that she is aroused by the whole process of the beating, and
will be inclined to clench involuntarily at each stroke. Treat her as
you did the first time you beat her, starting gently, and gradually
building up the intensity as you see how she takes it."
I felt on fire as I waited for the first stroke to land. I was in as
intense a state of conflict as I could remember. I knew that I would
have to use every effort of will to prevent the stroke causing the
clench. Normally he would have to tell me to stop clenching and would
threaten extra strokes to get me to stop between each. Could I use the
same sort of negation here as I had learned last night? I would have
to learn it as it was a different reaction. I felt the cane tap gently
against my bottom as he took aim.
There was a brief disturbance of air, and a line of fire painted itself
across my bottom. It was not hard at all, but it stung, and I
consciously forced myself to exhale slowly and to bear down to oppose
the desire to clench. Oh! This was intense and massive internal
strife. So much I needed to clench! So hard I fought to oppose this
irresistible force! What glory! What ecstasy!
I said the words demanded by the ritual: "Please, Keith, that was not
hard enough. Please beat me so hard that I never want to have another
orgasm again without your permission."
There was a long pause. I was trying to hold my breath so as to be
ready for it, but he took me by surprise, striking just as I breathed
out. Again the brief whurrp of disturbed air and the cane stung my
bottom again, just a little harder, and lower so it hurt more. I
jerked a little in surprise but avoided the clench as I sucked in air
through pursed lips. The power I needed for self-control was extreme.
I tried to be calm, to detach myself. Always before when I was beaten,
I would offset the pain by means of fantasy, by imagining myself
somewhere else; that this was happening to another. Now I could not,
for to do so would have meant that the body's automatic responses would
occur, and I would be brought back sharply by those spikes. I fought
back my habits of the past and concentrated on winning this battle
between self and will.
Each successive stroke was a little stronger than the last, and he
waited between each so that I relaxed, and had time for the pain to
sink in and become strong. This delay also meant that I could not
receive the stroke with tightly held breath, but had simply to take it
unprepared. The need to clench to nurse the pain was enormous. The
need to distract myself was terrible, but the need to concentrate to
keep the spikes at bay was overwhelming. Above all, the powerful
intensity of the complex multi-faceted conflict was an intense fire
within me.
Eventually, the inevitable happened, as I am sure it was meant to. The
stroke became so hard and my arousal from this intense internal
conflict became so strong that the spikes bit in. I do not cry out
from a beating, but I cried out at this: I cried out not so much from
the pain as from my self-condemnation that I had lost this, my first
challenge of a beating. I knew that there would be many more such
battles, and that my ability to endure and sustain my self-control
would increase, but for now, I had lost. I felt ashamed at my
weakness. I had had harder beatings in the past, but then I had always
had the clench to help me.
After I had recovered, I again uttered the words, asking for the
beating to increase in strength. My arousal was less, now, but I was
determined to prove myself. I tried to focus on the sort of negation I
had learned last night. The next stroke landed equally hard, not
harder, and I was able to sustain it, to suppress the clench. There
were three more, equally hard, and I did not clench again; the negation
was starting to work.
Then Keith uttered the words that ended the ritual: "If I do it any
harder, Miranda, I will do you a permanent injury, so I'm going to
stop, now. I think I will have to whip you on the cunt instead."
Afterwards, I remained there as I recovered, and felt the awfulness of
being denied the ability to clench into my arousal as a means of
slaking my suffering. I concentrated on negating my need, and this
made me feel the intensity of the pain in my bottom all the more.
When I got up, half an hour later, the arousal had mostly gone. The
belt was removed, and both it and I were checked for damage. There was
a fear that the pressure waves that surge through the flesh from each
stroke would cause bruising where they impacted the belt-edge. The
belt was designed as far as possible to avoid this, but the part round
the bottom hole was clearly right under the firing line. There was
fortunately very little bruising or swelling in these areas. I looked
at the damage to my bottom in the mirror: it was not as much as I had
sometimes received, but nothing to be ashamed of.
Next was to be the cunt-whipping. The belt was taken off. I lay back
on the couch, legs raised and apart, resting but not secured in the
stirrups, my bottom hanging over the edge of the couch. Usually, at
home, my knees would be right up beside my shoulders, but the stirrups
made my legs farther apart and not so high. The martinet stings
horribly, but there is little deep pain because it is not very heavy.
I generally clenched tightly with every stroke, and wondered what would
be expected of me this time. Instead of clutching my ankles, I grasped
the bar at the top of the couch.
It felt strange not to have the belt with its spikes in place, as if
this were somehow easier, and that I was cheating. He laid it on thick
this time; perhaps he was showing off. He really made me suffer, and
he beat quickly, rather than his usual slow and methodical style. I
was told later that he had been instructed to do it as hard as I was
ever likely to get it so that the belt would be proved under worst-case
conditions. I was really in one single clench all through, and
certainly had no opportunity to raise my arousal to orgasm point.
Immediately he had finished, the belt was clapped back in place
quickly, spikes engaged, as I lay on the couch. It took me by
surprise, and I had to fight hard to suppress the clench as the
intensity of the pain built.
I really wanted and needed the ability, then, to clench in my arousal,
to ease the suffering of my wounded cunt. The soothing balm of orgasm
would have been very welcome. It was not to be. My suffering was to
be enjoyed to the full. I throbbed, and smarted, and ached. I lay
there and started to think of the way I used to orgasm in this
situation; now I could not. The conflict between the extreme desire and
the inability caused by the belt heightened my arousal wonderfully,
causing a glorious agony of heightened frustration.
Afterwards, the belt was taken off and the parts inspected to see if
the swelling from the beating was affecting the fit of the belt. I
felt puffy and full inside the crotch-plate as it was refitted, but I
was told that there was no need for it to be left off: that the
swelling would be contained by the device and would not cause health
problems. It had been built with some extra space inside for this very
purpose, and now it was merely a question of checking that the
calculations had been right.
I walked around a little gingerly for the next few hours, but it eased
up after a brisk session on the exercise bicycle. I was checked again
at intervals through the rest of that day but there were no problems.
