50 To The Stroke: Cock and Ball Torture

My mind has always drifted to the realm of fetish-oriented sexuality. When I was a boy sneaking peeks at my father's porn, I'd occasionally come across images of women in leather or rubber, and those were the pages I always returned to. And movies with severely clad villainesses always gave me a perverse little jolt. As an adult, I've dabbled in role-play and b&d. Once or twice I stopped into a fetish club, but was always too inhibited to participate in any of the play scenarios. I stood on the fringes of the scenes, sipping a cocktail, totally anonymous.

Over the last ten years or so I've gone to a few dominatrixes. But even in the privacy of a studio or dungeon, I kept my guard up. I could never figure out why. We're alone. They've seen cretins like me a thousand times. It's my money being spent. Why hold back?

When I finally met Mistress Sayako, I realized why. As gorgeous as some of the dommes were, and as hot as they looked in leather or vinyl, they simply did not command my respect. They were like pretty little girls or saucy strippers playing dress up. I'm sure that before long they got bored with the game and moved on to other scams.

But Mistress Sayako courses with erotic power and intrigue, and she personifies the experienced, lifestyle dominatrix. The second she walks into the room, the air is electric. So sophisticated, so mannered, and so very deadly.

I wrote to her that I longed to see her completely adorned in leather-a cat suit or something that would deny me the privilege of seeing her flesh. Even in her presence, I wanted to be denied this gift. I also requested the honor of seeing her in her highest, most severe heels.

There's one thing that cannot be argued: this goddess has a mighty impressive wardrobe! After hours of turning to her photos online (thank goodness for ALT + TAB when you're at work or supposedly searching vacation spots for you and your wife!), I still was not prepared for the thrill of seeing Mistress Sayako in person, dressed exactly as I'd requested. I think I would have gladly paid the tribute just to sit and stare for an hour.

But sitting and staring was not what I requested, and it sure as hell was not what she delivered. I wrote to her that I fantasized about being severely tortured-paddled, flogged, whipped. My nipples nearly ripped from my chest. And my cock severely chastised.

Be careful what you wish for with Mistress Sayako. In fact, be careful what you even dare to imagine in her presence-I'm not superstitious, but she seemed to have an eerie knack of looking into my soul and taking me places I thought would only linger in my imagination.

She stormed into the room in the cat suit. The heels were just as I'd hoped-absurdly, impractically high. I couldn't imagine anyone standing up in those things, much less walking gracefully and decisively. I dared to mutter a compliment, telling her that her heels were stunning.

She flicked her wrist and I realized then that she held a bullwhip; the crack made me leap. I think I broke into a severe sweat that instant. And I realized then that this was not going to be like the other sessions.

"Did I tell you you could speak, slave? And who told you you could remain clothed? I thought you informed me you were an experienced player...but I see you know nothing about how to conduct yourself in your mistress' presence."

I knew what to do, and stripped. I knelt before her, full of the thrill of anticipation.

"Since you like my shoes so much, why don't you kiss them?"

As my tongue snaked across the shiny shoes she began her vicious work. She bent forward and her dainty fingers twisted my nipples ruthlessly. I began to panic: Would she draw blood? Would she really rip them from my body? Now, how in the hell would I explain that to my wife?

It hurt like the blazes, but it felt every bit as good as I imagined it would. Odd-as the sharp pain shot through my body, as I felt like I might pass out, I thought, "I'm home. This is what I've yearned for all my life."

But she was only getting started. Be careful what you wish for, indeed.

She released my nipples and kicked my lips away from her heels. Placing one sole on my chest, she shoved me to the ground.

"Wait there," she commanded.

She returned with cotton rope, and quickly created elaborate knots and bound me severely. I still marvel at how she did it so damn fast!

"I don't want you to move during this. And believe me, you're going to want to wriggle free once I get to work."

She placed a ball gag in my mouth.

"Oh yeah: I also don't want to hear your screams."

I lay on my back. Yes, I was terrified. I knew she meant every word she said.

She fixed clamps to my nipples, tight as they'd go. I thought I'd felt pain when she twisted them with her fingers. This was blinding pain-and with the clamps on, it never went away.

She drew a chair close to me and admired her handiwork. Then, she slowly extended that extremely high heel I'd requested, and used the tip to trace a line down my hard cock. Up and down, gently at first. I was in heaven.

And then, in hell, as she increased the force. I tried to pull away from the pain, but where was I going to go? So instead, I bit into the gag. She grinned malevolently as she did her work. Her grin seemed to increase each time she ground the heel into my flesh. Each time the tip of the heel found its mark, the pain was initially concentrated in my cock, but would instantly fan out across my body. I bit down so hard that I worried I my teeth would leave permanent marks in the ball gag. Every muscle in my body clenched as the white hot pain ripped through my body.

I snuck a glance at my poor, abused penis. Was it torn to shreds? Bruised? Bleeding? I breathed a silent sigh of relief as I saw it was intact. And I marveled as I acknowledged its hardness. I don't know if I've ever been harder. In the midst of my agony, I almost felt a laugh emerge from my chest; how in the world could such physical torment be interpreted by my body as pleasure?

Mistress Sayako clearly relished her work. She seemed to delight in using her heel to tease my little cock. Ever so slowly she'd lower it, dangling the tip a centimeter above my flesh. Each time, my cock would bob and dance in the air. To this day I don't know if the involuntary movements were evidence of my cock going into defensive mode, or proof that it was trying to leap forward to receive its torture. Sometimes she'd draw the shoe away, causing my straining cock to relax. At other times she'd blindside me, pretending to pull away, then stomping downward, hard and deep.

She turned her attention to my balls, again beginning softly, teasingly, but then intensifying, using her heel like a weapon. I nearly doubled over in pain (well, I tried to double over, but the ropes prevented that!). To reinforce the torture, she kept up a constant verbal assault. She let me know how worthless my pathetic cock and balls were to her-or to any woman." Maybe you won't leave here with them today. It won't be a loss to anyone, now will it?"

As searing as her attacks on my cock had been, this was far worse. The soft, defenseless flesh "protecting" my balls was infinitely more sensitive. If I'd been able to speak, I believe I would have begged her to just be done with it, and sever them from my body with the razor sharp heels. Anything would be better than this crushing pain.

I had no sense of time during this onslaught. Did I black out? Did my consciousness flee my body for the duration of the torture of my balls? The chronology of events is still scattered in my mind-I have vague recollections of her hovering over me, a divine, malicious vision in jet black, blood red lips smirking at my plight. I somehow remember being impressed...impressed at her absence of pity, impressed at the delight she felt at my agony. She is as cruel as she is lovely, and that's mighty cruel. Weird, but I felt proud to be in a position to inspire or provoke such cruelty.

She paused her attacks and moved the chair back to its place. "Be a good boy and roll over for me, hmmm?" It was hard, tied as I was, but I managed finally to roll over onto my stomach. I could no longer see her, save for occasional glimpses of her heels, but I could hear her pacing about the room, circling me.

And then I heard it-the distinct sound of the whip, flicking through the air. If you've ever heard Mistress Sayako wielding that whip, you'll never forget it. It soon found its mark. I'll never forget that feeling either. I bit my gag harder than before as the whip grazed my ass cheeks. I'm sure she could hear the grunts of my pain as each time the tip of the whip expertly found its mark. And then, the worst of all, as she aimed for my inner thighs, often coming alarmingly close to my poor, abused balls.

Mercifully, she grew tired of the whip after several minutes, and straddled my back. She picked up a leather paddle. After a bullwhip, a paddle really doesn't seem so bad.

"I'm going to give you a hundred strokes. After fifty, I may have mercy on you. But then you'll owe those fifty next time."

I counted each time the paddle found my flesh with a resounding "pop." They came slowly, reflectively, but also decisively. Without question, it was fifty to the stroke.

It's amazing how quickly an hour flies by when you're being tortured! As I lay on the ground in a heaving, sobbing pile, Mistress Sayako untied me as deftly as she'd disabled me. She removed the gag and I gasped for air. The clamps came off my poor, erect nipples. Panting, I tried to regroup from the physical and emotional overload.

"You may now thank your mistress, slave." I crawled up to my hands and knees and worshipped the heels which minutes before had caused my pitiful cock and balls so much agony. It nearly broke my heart when she tore them away and informed me it was time to dress.

She escorted me to the door, smilingly innocently.

I blurted out my thanks for the session and promised a swift return. "After all, I still owe you fifty whacks!"