A Hot Fantasy

A Hot Fantasy

One day I come to visit you and you tell me that you’ve always wanted to burn a girl with cigarettes, and, since I once expressed an interest in it too, long ago before we had first met, you’d decided that one day you’d make this sadistic fantasy come true for both of us. Today was that day. I protest vociferously, reminding you that I have a very strong fire phobia that’s probably best not messed with, but you soothe and reassure me, telling me you’ll go very easy on me this first time (first time? I think) and it’d only be for 15 or 20 minutes, max. I want to please you so bad, I always do, so I agree, despite my misgivings. I also agree because I know that if I refused you might very well knock me about and then, when I was passive from the beating, torture me in the way you had planned all along.

You have me strip and then sit on a strange old wooden chair that looked like something you found at a garage sale. You’ve set the chair near a low coffee table. Once I’m seated you secure my ankles to the front legs of the chair with loop after loop of duct tape. Then you duct tape my arms behind the chair at the wrists and wind more duct tape so they’re affixed to the slats in the chair back. Finally you shove my discarded panties into my mouth and close them in with more duct tape. This frightens me a lot. Not only am I completely immobilized and helpless in this chair, but you apparently think that what you’re going to do to me will cause me to scream so badly that it warrants a gag (you don’t mind my normal level of screams). This is not good. You set up a video cam on a tripod pointed at me: you say you want a record of this to jerk off to later.

You sit in a second chair, very close to mine facing me, just looking at me. You start to talk to me, telling me about all the terrifying things you could to me in this position if you wanted to, just because you could. It works: I become very frightened of you. Then you do two horrific things that you never mentioned in this talk. First, you take out of a pocket two beautiful four-inch hatpins. They are antiques, you explain to me, and, unlike modern-day reproductions, their points are very sharp. You prick me a little to demonstrate this and I squeal a bit, more from fear than pain. The hatpins have beautiful Victorian-styled jeweled ends: they look like tiny scepters. You say to me, “I’ve always wanted to do this to a bitch, but never had her in the perfect position to do so. You grab my left breast roughly at its base, squeezing it to make it bulbous. My nipple is already erect from the cold room, but you suck and nibble it to make it harder. Then, looking directly into my eyes, you slowly force the hatpin into my breast. The insertion point is dead center in the middle of my nipple. I start to scream in panic immediately””the pain is horrendous. But what can I do? I’m immobilized, taped to this chair. You smile and push the pin in, slowly, ever so slowly, until only about one inch sticks out of my breast. You do the same to my other tit, pushing harder and faster this time, and again my pleading screams through the gag fill the room. Then you bring over a hand mirror to show me how “pretty” I look. Two tiny rivulets of blood are running down my tits from the points of insertion. It’s horrific and terrifying to see my body mutilated in this way, to realize in my pain that three inches of hard steel are penetrating each breast. As you get up to put the mirror back, I notice you are rock hard. That scares me even more.

The next thing you do to me is even worse: you remove from your ever-present tool bag a heavy duty staple gun: the kind used to firmly fasten announcements about lost pets to telephone poles. It’s not one of those old manual brands, it’s electric. You grab one of my outer labia and stretch it to the side so that it rests against my thigh. My eyes grow wide with shock. “MO! MO! MO! MO! I protest through my gag. You pretend to misunderstand: “Mo’? Sure, baby, I’ll give you some mo’! You laugh, then bend over my thigh to position the staple gun on the labia: then once again looking into my eyes and smiling, you press its trigger. The pain is horrific and the top part of my labia is affixed to my thigh. I shut my eyes and scream, then look at you shaking my head vigorously. I’ve started to weep. You just smile again, and with three more loud popping noises you staple the rest of my outer labia to my thigh. As you repeat the process on the other side, I black out, probably more from anticipation of the pain than the pain itself.

I wake up shivering and sputtering when you empty a bottle of refrigerated water over my head. “Can’t have you leaving our little party so soon,” you laugh at me. “The fun’s barely begun.” I am trembling hard from fear and some profoundly sharp pains in my breasts, labia, and thighs and, sobbing in terror, I try to tell you through my gag, “No more, please, this is too much. I can’t take any more! “Sorry sweetie,” you say looking genuinely concerned and remorseful. “You are going to take more, a lot more, because this is really turning me on. You have no choice, so relax into the helplessness and accept it.” You move your chair very close to me and place your legs around mine. Cupping my face in your hands and moving your head close, you whisper to me of a wonderful romantic time we had on the coast not too long ago, holding hands on a windy cold autumn day as we walked for miles along the nearly deserted shore; amusing ourselves with the small and unusual events and oddities that always happen on a beach; finding that driftwood fort built high on the beach near the dunes which blocked the wind completely; making love in what for us was a very soft and gentle way””you with your clothes on and pants unzipped, me totally naked and mewing like a kitten; falling asleep in each other’s arms; going home to the beach house and having a steak dinner with wine in front of a roaring fire as we watched the storm come in and the crashing, halogen-lit waves. I remembered that wonderful day well. You ended your reminiscence by telling me that you are the same person right now as you were back on that day, having the same kinds of thoughts and emotions toward me as you did then, and all that was different was that you were expressing a slightly different mood to me. “But I’m still just me,” you say, “and I love you to death! Now I’m going to have some more fun with you.”

Your story has the desired effect. As you get up to retrieve the hand mirror, I try to think about how you were that day and imagine that you feel the very same things right now, even though you are putting me through excruciating torment. It blows my mind: that someone could act so kindly toward me and say he loves me yet cold-heartedly watch me suffer terribly and, in fact, be aroused by the sight. I feel very confused.

The sight of my bloodied spread labia in the mirror almost makes me pass out again. Drops of blood are oozing from my labia and tiny streams are slowly leaking down my thigh from behind the labia where the cruel staples have punctured the flesh. The insides of my scarlet cunt are spread obscenely to view, and, surrounded by the brown flesh of my thighs, it resembles an exotic flower, whose dark pink beauty grows underground and is only revealed when the brown earth is spread aside. I can even see my little clit boldly peeking out of its hood, and am terrified at how vulnerable I am. What if you were to put a staple in that? I’ve lost all sense of self-consciousness and whimper naturally at the sight. “Aren’t you cute that way?” you ask me. “I can see everything, even your little pee hole! “Uh-uh! I say through the gag, shaking my head vigorously. You giggle, put the mirror aside, and play a little with the inside of my open cunt: tickling and hurting the tender flesh with your fingers and nails. Then you slap me very hard there, about 30 times.

I’m shrieking and sobbing again by the time you’re finished and you tell me how hard my screams make you. You stand up and unzip, rudely tearing off the tape and gag and replacing the panties with your cock. You order me to suck it extremely well if I don’t want you to get too angry at me. I give you the best blowjob I can, in the hopes that this will calm you and make you more mercifully inclined to me. But you jerk yourself out before you cum, stuff the panties back in, and as you retape my mouth, tell me: “I’m pretending in my mind that you’ve rejected me, bitch, that you refused to finish sucking me off and laughed in my face at my need. You’re going to pay for that dearly.” Before I can get a muffled protest out of my gag, you’ve reached over to the bed and grabbed your pack of cigarettes and the lighter. As I watch in fascinated horror, you pull a cigarette out, light it, take a deep drag and then lean forward and blow the smoke into my face. “You know what’s coming next, don’t you cunt?” you ask, your face taking on that cold hard cast that always means big trouble for me. I moan in terror, and you start to play with me: bringing the burning end of the cigarette close so I can feel the warmth against my skin, pulling it away, bringing it back again, taking it very close to vulnerable places like my eyes. I’m getting more and more panicked, but there is nothing I can do about it. I cannot get out of the chair nor escape with it (you’ve cleverly tied my feet so they are partially seated on the lower rungs of each chair, each foot pointing to the side: This way, I’ll not be able to bend over and walk with my feet tied to the chair).

Finally you stop the teasing and start to burn me. You start with my breasts, alternating light burns I can almost stand with terrifyingly harder ones. When the cigarette is almost gone, you drag purposefully on it to make its tip glow red hot, then extinguish it on the large brown circle that surrounds the tip of one nipple. Throughout this I’m alternately screaming, moaning, whimpering, sobbing, and pleading with you to stop through my gag. But your face remains cold and harsh, and you light up a second cigarette almost immediately. This one gets snuffed out quickly deep inside my belly button and I nearly leap out of the chair with the unexpected burning pain. You re-light it, trail the coals in a line alongside my belly, then extinguish it on my hip. Re-light, snuff out in waist crease, re-light, extinguish on earlobe, re-light, other breast, re-light, thigh, etc. All the while you watch my face, seeming to delight in my terrified and helpless eyes, my sobs, and my muffled shrieks of horror. As for me, I have never experienced pain on this level of intensity before and I am convinced that I either must go mad or find some way to kill myself.

As painful as this is, I don’t realize that you have been so far very merciful. The firm stubbing out of the cigarette means the hot coal only burns for a few moments before the fire goes out from lack of oxygen. While, as everyone who has been burned before knows, the burn continues to ache and throb terribly long after the fire is gone, that ache, bad as it is, is nothing compared to the soul-searing moments when the flesh directly encounters the fire. You take a little break once the second cigarette is gone, pulling off my gag and stuffing your swollen cock inside my mouth before I have a chance to say a word in my defense. I suck it with all the soft, mouth-cunt skills I know, trying to drive you crazy quickly. I think that if you cum you will lose some of your vicious edge and relent with me. In the middle of sucking you I realize something and foolishly stop pleasuring you to speak it: “Hey! It’s been much longer than 15 or 20 minutes! You promised that was how long you were going to take!” Before I realize it’s coming, you slap me very hard three or four times. “You’ve done it again, you filthy bitch!” you say venomously. “You’ve interrupted your cocksucking and I wasn’t able to cum. Now you’re really going to pay!” “Please! I’ll finish, let meÂ…” I start to say, but you cut me off by shoving the panties roughly into my mouth and taping me back up. Your movements are stiff and very angry-seeming and I’m whimpering in fear. The whimpers turn to screeches when you grab one of the hat pins and pull it up and down, then twist it roughly around. It renews the terrible pain in my breast. You quickly do the same with the other pin.

While I’m still screaming from the agony of having three inches of steel buried in my flesh wiggled and tweaked, you reach in your tool bag and come out with a small black leather holder, about eight inches long. Opening it up, you remove a long fat cigar: “La Gloria Cubana, Corona Gordo, Ma-dur-o” you say appreciatively, smelling along the edge of the wrapper, even licking it a little. I don’t believe what I’m seeing: once that thing is lit, it’s burning circumference will be at least three times that of a cigarette. You can’t possibly be thinking seriously of using that on me! You slice off the edge of the cigar with a small knife, then hold your lighter to it as you puff to get it started. Once again you blow the accumulated smoke into my face. It’s very strong, though not foul-smelling, and chokes me. You sit there, for the next five minutes, savoring the cigar and taking small sips out of a bottle of liquor that you’ve got with you. You stare at me speculatively, and I return that look with my most beseeching and begging expressions and noises. The cigarette burning was so horrible, I cannot image what being burned by that monster would be like.

As you enjoy the cigar, you tell me how my helplessly bound position, my spread and stapled cunt lips, my deeply impaled and jeweled nipples, and the black and red burn marks all over my flesh, are so salacious and indecent that they would incite even the kindest man to perform filthy and sadistic acts upon me if he caught me like this alone. “Imagine how much more strongly your vulnerable, partially tortured flesh and your inability to stop anything I might do appeals to me, someone who always has evil thoughts on his mind,” you say darkly. “You’re really fucked tonight, my girl. You don’t have a prayer. All you can do is remain wherever I put you, enduring the torture and screaming.” I am so frightened by these words that I do start to scream, loud fast panicked screams and I begin wiggling so violently in the chair that it starts to rock a little. I stop as soon as I can because I realize then that I have one, temporary out: I can knock the chair over with my body momentum during a particularly painful moment. At least it’ll stop the pain for a short while, I think in relief, and maybe you’ll do something else (a.k.a. better) after that.

When my screams calm down, and I’m just sobbing softly to myself, “Why? why?,” you make sure I’m watching you before you knock off the excess ash, puff hard on the cigar to make the end cherry red, and then bring the cigar down slowly toward my vagina. “No! Oh no!” I start yelling through my gag. I can feel the heat from the coals as you start moving the cigar around as if searching for the perfect place. I look down just in time to see the fire come home: on my shaved mons directly above where my pussy lips start. (You devil: you’ve noticed that’s the spot I always press on when I masturbate.) Then my head is back and I’m screaming louder than I’ve ever screamed in my life as I hear and smell the large tip of the cigar directly burning my flesh. You don’t push very hard, so the coal takes a long time before it finally burns out. The pain is horrendous: nothing in my life has ever felt as bad as that burning flesh. Unlike a painful stovetop burn or a barbecue burn, I can’t instantly pull my flesh away and treat the burn with ice. Instead it goes on and on, searing down in my skin with the same intensity as it had when it first touched it and I cannot get it to stop! It is my worst nightmare come true. When you finally take the cigar away, my head is hanging down, my body covered in sweat and I am wracked with sobs. All that is going through my brain is the thought “please let me die.”

But I don’t die, and after giving me some time to recover, your burn me again, this time on the side of one breast. Once again the inescapable searing pain hits me and I writhe unsuccessfully in the chair trying to get the fire off of my skin. Once again, you hold my tit firmly in place and let the cigar burn down slowly and finally go out. You continue to watch my face as you do this, seeing the mad torment change to utter despair and defeat. Sometimes I glance up to see you staring intently at me, often with a smile on your face, drinking in my pain and terror. No sympathy is evident. Each time I see you this way I vigorously shake my head no, and moan in the most abjectly pitiful fashion. I can’t take this pain anymore, you’ve got to stop!

Well, you do stop after the breast burning. After re-lighting and puffing on the cigar, you roughly and angrily, rip off my mouth tape, pull out the now-soggy panties and order me to suck you. I have the nerve to beg for some water first, and to my surprise, you give it to me. I swish each precious swallow around in my mouth to wetten it for you. Then I open wide and begin sucking you, again with all the creativity I can muster, but there’s less of that now. My mind has been blown apart by the pain, I’m not thinking very well—just feeling. Just feeling. Pretty soon you get impatient with my less than sterling performance. You grab the back of my head with one hand and start raping my mouth rapidly with deep strokes all the way down the throat. All I can do is sit there and try to catch my breath each time your groin moves far enough from my nose that I can do so. I’m also trying hard to ignore the strong gagging sensations that are coming from the deepthroating. You get closer and closer: I know you’re about to cum any second. Suddenly you’re starting to spurt your semen down my throat, but I am barely paying attention to that because at the same time as you ejaculate, you press the lit end of the cigar firmly onto one of my spread outer labia.

The pain is catastrophic, like nothing I’d felt before—even after what I’ve gone through today–and my screams take on an inhuman sound as they vibrate along your shuddering, orgasming cock. You come for a long time, and leave the cigar on my pussy flesh that entire time. When you finally pull out of my mouth, I’m still screaming hysterically, and you slap me viciously back and forth until I stop. I sit there, continuing to sob and moan, my head back, eyes shut, until you make me sit up and look at my poor burned pussy in the hand mirror. The seared labium looks horrible: like some awful black cancer with blood oozing around the edges has grown on it. Like the other cigar burns, the outer layers of skin have curled up and large blisters are beginning to form among the black and red skin. I think about peeing, and how, if I sit the normal way on that toilet that poor seared piece of flesh is going to burn and sting. My entire body, I realize, is going to burn and sting for a long time to come. And I think that I’ll probably have nightmares about this torture years in the future. This is far more intense than anything I’d ever wanted to experience, even with you, and I am shook to the core at how much agony a human can endure without going unconscious.

You relax on the bed next to the chairs where you can clearly see me and we start to talk about what’s just happened. Now that I’m ungagged I can tell you how panicked I was and how I needed you to stop so bad, but you just wouldn’t. You, in turn, tell me how incredibly arousing it was to burn my imprisoned and vulnerable body in this horrible fashion, to watch my beautiful smooth brown skin become terribly marked and disfigured from the burns and especially how sexy it was to watch my responses to the burns. You tell me that you felt like you could have done it all day. “I am so, so grateful that you didn’t,” I reply enthusiastically, and you look at me strangely. “What?” I ask, a little bit of dread beginning to curdle in my belly. “I’m not done with you yet, Sophia” you say softly and as the meaning of your words starts to sink in, and I groan “OH NOOOO!” but you’re up in a flash and stuffing the panties back in my mouth, re-taping them in. Once more I can no long communicate with you expect by noises, expression, posture, and perhaps the smell of my fear.

You’re back, sitting across from me, and you put your face very close to mine and in a sing-song voice say to me “Your naked girl body is all tied up, and I can do anything to it I want to, Ha Ha!” You then grab both hatpins by their jeweled ends and wiggle them vigorously up and down, making my tits wiggle with them and causing me to scream in agony. “Oh!” You say brightly after a few minutes of this torture. “I have an idea!” You take out your cigarette lighter, an expensive brand with a fancy and narrow pizeo-electric torch that burns invisibly, and turn it on, moving it up toward my tits until the faintly visible bluish flame is directly on one of the hatpins. At first, I feel just a little warmth from the flame being so close to my flesh but then, as the metal rod inside my tit starts to heat a mild irritation quickly becomes a hot ache which then becomes terrible, unbearable searing pain. The portion of the hatpin that is within the small torch’s flame is turning bright red and transferring its heat down into my breast. “Oh wow!” you say, “A tiny curl of smoke just came out the hole where the hatpin enters your nip!” “Stop, stop it, PLEASE, you’re killing me!” I sob helplessly. You smile in pleasure and keep the lighter there until I pass out from the pain.

This time, I’ll allowed to wake naturally. When I do, I find myself still bound to the old chair, pain all over my body, but especially in one aching breast. You’re back on the bed, reading a magazine, so I quickly shut my eyes and try to pretend I’m still unconscious. “You should know better than to try to fake something around me,” your voice says chillingly a few seconds later. “I know you’re awake, so you might as well open your eyes back up.” I do so, regretfully. How did you see me wake when you were so intent on the magazine? “Now that you’re back, it’s time for more fun!” I stare at you dully, I’ll still a little sleepy but mostly just horrified that I’m going to be subjected to more excruciating pain. You perch yourself on the chair in front of me again, and oh, god, you’ve got that hellish lighter with you again! “Now that one tit resembles a hardboiled egg on the inside [your imagery makes me feel like throwing up], I think we ought to cook the other one to even things out. It’s only fair, you know.”

OK, this was it. I knew I couldn’t consciously endure that sort of terrible pain again. As you bring the lighter closer and closer to my uncooked breast I suddenly begin to rock back and forth in the chair, moaning in fear. I rock harder and harder, and just as the lighter is about to start heating the other hatpin, I manage to fall backwards, my knees knocking the instrument out of your hand and halfway across the room. The bang to the back of my head is terrible and disorienting, but not as terrible as getting the inside of my breast burnt. You’re on me in a second, your hands angrily closing around my throat. “You little cunt, you are to take whatever I want to give you and you WILL not resist or you will suffer even more.” You shake my head roughly by the throat and bang it hard several times against the back of the chair while you make your point. “Now before I sit you upright, against a wall, I’ll show you why this was such a bad idea on your part, bitch!” You retrieve the lighter and sit on the floor at the base of the chair where one of my feet is helplessly tied to its side support rail.

You reach up and grab your half-smoked cigar, light it with the lighter, and, as you puff on it, say, “It’s a good thing I wanted a tobacco fix just now, or I’d be using the lighter directly instead of this cigar.” You they grasp my foot firmly by the toes so that it cannot move, and start to run the lit end of the cigar along the exposed areas of the sole of the foot. You make sure the ash is off and the hot coal makes direct contact with my feet, lightly touching down various spots, dragged slowly over others. The bottoms of my feet are extremely sensitive and I scream bloody murder as I feel them being relentlessly burned. In between burns I cry and whimper. Finally, you snuff the cigar out right in the arch, and I wail my tortured response to this. You laugh in pleasure then ask, “Have you had enough of trying to escape or do I need to burn up the other foot to make my point?” I make intense pleading noises and you decide to set me upright and “give me one more chance.”

You remove my gag again (I don’t know why), the video camera is repositioned and its tape changed, and the chair I’m tied to is set back against the wall. Your legs are straddling mine so I cannot knock myself over sideways, and once again, the lighter is applied to the pin in my breast. You face is very close to mine: you’ve ordered me to look at you and not shut my eyes or turn away for any reason, and so you see my anger and confusion slowly change to panic as the steel in my body begins to heat up and then become desperate terror and suffering as the pin becomes burning hot inside my tit. I try to be stoic in the face of your expression of smug satisfaction (which slowly becomes intent arousal), but it’s no use—I start to scream. As I do, you cover my mouth with yours and kiss me violently, raping my mouth. I continue to scream in the back of my throat as your hand has not moved a centimeter and is still sending that terrible heat into the hat pin. It goes on and on and on, and eventually I fall silent and passive just giving out a little whimper now and then. When you finally see a wisp of smoke from my other tit, you tell me it is cooked enough and stop applying the heat. I just sit slumped in the chair, not moving, my eyes dead. There’s been so much pain, so much, I think now that it will never end. I’ve completely given up: I’m just a piece of meat to be tortured, and you’ll stop not when I plead you to stop but when you’ve gotten your fill of sadistic pleasure from my pain.

You sense where I am, perceptive bastard that you are, and you untie me from the chair completely with soothing words of sympathy and encouragement, You rub life back into my wrists and ankles, then help me over to the bed, and lay me on my back, telling me how proud and pleased with me you are, as your rub the prescription burn salve you’ve brought along onto the large and small burned spots on my body (you gently kiss and tongue each spot—it hurts–before sopping on some salve). You’re especially gentle with the one on my poor stapled labium, and in fact, you tell me you’re now going to remove the staples so that the wounds in these parts of my body can begin to heal. But, you don’t offer to remove the tit pins, and that evil monster in your pants is rock hard, and you reposition the video cam so that it will capture, at close detail, the removal to come, so I don’t completely trust you. You remove the staples with a standard staple puller and I scream like a banshee as it’s going on. Although you offer me more soothing encouragement (only three more to go, baby, you can live through that) I catch a glimpse of your face between my legs and once again it’s wearing that look of cruel excitement. You wash between my legs gently with soap and water, which stings, but at least it isn’t alcohol, and pat me dry, telling me it’s best to let wounds like that have exposure to the air. I put a towel between my legs to soak up the excess blood and you order in some room service: a pizza for us to share and some coffee to re-energize me. You make me remain naked while the bellman delivers the room service, of course.

After eating, drinking several cups of the coffee (while you have more liquor), and basking under the barrage of your kind and solicitous words, I am feeling much more like myself again. I get up to pee, and it isn’t as horrific an experience as I expect: by squatting over the toilet and spreading my labia wide I can avoid almost all contact of the urine with my burn and puncture wounds. When I come out of the bathroom, I see you’ve turned on the TV and we lay together companionably on the bed, you with your arm around my ass, watching the evening news. Every once in a while you reach down and rub or poke at the burn on my labia, and I squeal in pain and you laugh. We discuss the news and other subjects, like we always do, equals again, and I am so so SO relieved that my ordeal is over. Our conversation drifts to the topic of the recent torture you have visited upon me and I start to tell you how intensely painful it was for me and how I felt I was losing my mind during some of it. Uncharacteristically, you tell me, coldly and abruptly, that you don’t believe me, you don’t believe I felt much pain at all and that I was actually just faking it because I didn’t want you to see how much I was getting off on it. I fall for it, I am so stupid sometimes, and start arguing angrily back at you that contrary to your belief the pain I experienced was horrific, far beyond anything I’d ever imagined you’d do to me and very terrifying.

“Stop lying, Bitch!” you say with a dangerous tone in your voice. “You’re making me very angry.” “OK,” I retort in an overly calm but annoyed “what a little baby you are” tone, “I won’t talk at all then!” and I roll over away from your arm to the other side of the bed. “Get back here right this second, I didn’t say you could remove your ass from my hand, cunt!” While your voice is cold, your face is smiling at me, as if to say, “isn’t this a fun game?” so I play back: “Fuck you! I like it much better over here!” “Oh do you?” you say, that cold dangerous tone still in your voice. “Yeah!” I answer defiantly. “Well, I happen to like youÂ… (you roll over on top of me, pinning my arms) back on that nice chair you were on all day. In fact, that’s where I think you need to be right now.” You backhand me hard then, and order me to get back on the chair. I can’t believe this, we were all done, I had survived it and there wasn’t going to be any more pain. “I can’t go back there!,” I wail, and you sit up and slap me again. I look between your legs and see that your cock is still very hard and start to realize that maybe you had planned to do this to me all along. “Ok, I’ll go back to the chair,” I say meekly, hoping that my show of cooperation will earn me leniency later. “Just a second, bitch, let me position it.” You get off me then walk over to the chair, picking it up. You look around the room, whistling, and finally set it on the long coffee table that fronts the sofa on the other side of the room. You snap your fingers, point to the chair and say, “On your seat, woman!” I obey, wondering why you want me at that height. I’m still too low for fucking but far too high for sucking.

I find out soon enough. After I am re-secured to the chair and the home-made gag replaced over my mouth, you press a tiny lever on one side of the chair seat that I hadn’t noticed before. I scream as the central potion of the seat falls away and my pussy and ass slip down into the wide hole that is left. It felt like sitting down on the wide, cold porcelain edge of the toilet when you haven’t noticed that the seat has been left up. You laughed loudly at my surprise, removed the now-hanging seat bottom from its hinges, and positioned a lamp on the floor so that the parts of me hanging under the chair were fully lit. Then you repositioned the video camera, to catch my full body in profile. I realized that the little black plastic box I’d sometimes seen you holding today was a wireless remote. It probably allowed you to zoom the camera in when things got “interesting.” You wrapped one more piece of duct tape around my waist so that my hips wouldn’t accidentally slip all the way through the hole in the chair’s seat, then sat back on the couch and just looked at me and talked for awhile. “Isn’t this a wonderful chair? Look at how vulnerable it’s made your pussy lips and bottom and asshole to anyone sitting on this couch! All I have to do, Sophie, is lean forward a little (you demonstrate), to reach whatever part I want to play with. Pretty interesting, isn’t it? It’s going to be especially nice for our next round of cigar play, don’t you think?” Cigar Play! Oh shit! For some reason I hadn’t put two and two together and figured out this was why you wanted the chair positioned in this way and the bottom removed. I moaned my fear and you laughed in mock-sympathy: “Just dawned on you, did it babe?” You lit a second La Gloria, having finally finished off the first after lunch, and puffed a little on it, playing with my hanging-down labia and bottom with the free hand. You are amused by how wet my pussy is: you won’t listen to me when I tell you that I always have this purely physiological reaction to torture and that it has nothing to do with my ability to enjoy the torture in my head. When you got down to business, it was as horrific as what had passed before: the burning sensation from the wide tip of the cigar was terribly painful, especially on my cunt, but also everywhere else you pressed. Only twice did you slowly stub the cigar out on my body during your playing. One was in the center of my right buttock: you made the searing coal last and last so that a deep hole was burned into my flesh. “That’s my mark on you,” you explain. “That sucker will never completely go away, and you’ll always remember me when you feel it. How does it feel to be marked like a fire hydrant is marked by a dog?” The other deep burn was on the outside of the labium opposite the one that was burned on the inside. I had plenty of lighter burns, however from your touching the cigar to my flesh with less pressure and for less time and from your .moving it slowly up an area of skin. One place that was hurt very badly with this “slow moving” procedure was the delicate skin just within the crack of my cunt lips. you very slowly dragged the cigar along that crack as I screamed and screamed, leaving a tiny line of seared flesh behind you.

After taking a short break, just to watch me moan and sob, you said that there was one more thing you were going to do to me before you untied me. I was deathly afraid to get my hopes up over this, but I decided to try to endure whatever you gave me with dignity and grace so that perhaps you wouldn’t get angry with my “complaining” and think I needed more torture. Unfortunately, that fine resolution proved impossible to keep. After flicking off the ash and puffing the cigar up so the end was glowing brightly, you lay on your back on the coffee table as you had several times before when torturing me there. This time, however, you stuck two fingers to the sides of my anus and forced it open wide. Before I had time to feel the horror, you stuffed the lit end of the cigar in the now-large hole, about an inch or so, and let my sphincter close around it. No matter how I screamed and squirmed and wiggled and pushed, I could not get that cigar out of me. I managed to push the fiery tip closer to the edge of my ass, but, as you explained to me in great amusement later, that just provided the coal with more air and allowed it to stay lit longer. You laughed in cruel and lustful delight at my squirming and wigglings, the way my pussy lips bounced and jiggled as I tried to get that cigar out of me, and the squeezing of my large buttocks back and forth. I put on quite a show for you. I think it took at least five minutes before it was completely out. After the pain faded enough that I no longer had to jerk and spasm, I slouched in the chair, my body again covered in sweat, exhausted and completely defeated. If you had wanted at that point to burn my clit off with the cigarette lighter I would have said, “sure, go for it.” I no longer cared at all what happened to me. In fact, I didn’t even feel at that time as if there was a me anymore. All that remained in my shrunken world was pain and less pain (or relative relief).

When you later yanked the cigar out, pulled my anus open, and looked inside with a flashlight, you said in awe, “Man, I really fucked you up bad in there!” You brought the video camera over, pointed it up my anus, then spread it wide so it could record the damage for your later erotic enjoyment. “OK, baby, it’s time to take you off the chair for the last time,” you said. I nodded, not feeling anything good or bad about that. As you led me to the bed, you asked me “You’ll do anything I say right now without hesitation or thinking, won’t you?” “Yeah,” I said, knowing it was true. Even if you told me to jump out the high window in this room, I would comply. I had no more fight left in me. “All right then, there’s one more thing you’re going to do for me then, cunt.” Get on the bed on all fours, I’m going to rape your ass from behind. I got on the bed and into position obediently but couldn’t help gasping at you words. You wanted to penetrate and fuck the hole that you’d so badly burned a few minutes ago?! How could I stand it, when even ordinary screwing back there threw me into a frenzy of pain? Mercifully, and honestly, I do realize what a mercy it was, you squirted a bottle of lube up my ass. While I ordinarily hated the humiliation involved with this (You always insisted you do the lubricating and it made me feel, especially when I was on all fours, like a stupid animal who couldn’t lubricate itself nor comprehend why anyone would want to squirt this gooey stuff up it’s orifices) today it was a relief: the goo felt cool against my inner burns and I knew it would help a little to shield them from the scraping of your cock.

It wasn’t much of a relief, however. You gently wiggled your head in the opening to my small screams and moans as it touched the burned tissue, then, once the tip of your cock was inside, slammed into me with one hard sudden thrust and I felt the skin in my rectal tunnel re-ignite with pain. You then pulled yourself out, slowly and excruciatingly, scraping every centimeter of burned tissue as you did so, and then WHAM! you threw your large cock in me as hard as it would go. I was screaming as soon as your large thrusts began and didn’t stop until you were through with me, about twenty minutes later. Just as you came, you reached under me and grabbed my poor tits with their hatpins still in place. As you began to spasm, you pushed very hard with the base of your thumbs, one on the head of each pin, pushing them that last final inch into my tits. This was the last thing I had expected and my scream took on that horrified croaking sound it had had the when you had heated the hat pins earlier in the day. “We’re going to do this again sometime” you whispered in my ear when you were all done and resting comfortably on top of my collapsed and pain-wracked body. “This was incredible fun.”

I really hated myself for having suggested cigarette play to you in the first place. I had had no conception at that time that it would in reality hurt so bad and that you would take it so far. As I think about this regretfully, I feel a hot violent gush of liquid filling my bowels. You have relaxed your bladder and are pissing up me! You laugh and laugh at my gasp of surprise and my look of shock. I’m surprised that after all I’ve undergone today I can still blush beet red with shame and outrage at this latest indignity. When you’re all done pissing in my butt, you pull out, shake the last few drops off on my ass and then tell me to get in the bathroom and take care of your piss. I make a run for the toilet, and then nearly pass out from pain as your hot, acidic pee runs past my burned and abraded rectum. Afterwards, I sit there crying, utterly overwhelmed, until you come in and get me.

The End

© 2003 Unda. Crucia. Eximius.

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