The Surrender
Chapter 2

Copyright© 2012 by Polecat

BDSM Sex Story: Chapter 2 - “You can forget about safe, sane, and yes, consensual too,” She loves her husband and their bdsm sessions but always calls out her safe word just as things are getting started. What is she to do? Cancel her safe word, that's what

Caution: This BDSM Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Consensual   Heterosexual   True Story   BDSM   MaleDom  

It had to be on a weekend of course. The townhome in the city was totally inadequate for my plans. For one thing, there was a citizen's crime watch, which really means a patrol of nosy neighbors that would not react kindly to a woman's screams in the middle of the night. No, that just would not do.

I had to prepare everything. Later on, I would let Richard handle all the details; that would surely add to the excitement, the anticipation. Not this time; this time I had to do it myself. Not only that but my preparations had to clearly show him that I meant what I said, that all limits were off, that I was his to do as he wanted.

As soon as I got to work I requested the next week off; in case I needed the time to heal from, whatever. I e-mailed Richard a copy of the request, to let him know I was serious. At lunch I started to assemble the required tools.

A good thing about Texas, you can find a tackle store anywhere, and no one thinks twice if you ask for a bullwhip, or a crop. They assume you want to ride a horse, or practice with the whip. If you ask for a length of rope, they assume it's for a lariat. If you ask for leather cords, they are for your saddle.

Thus, no one asked any questions of me, when I bought all the necessary implements. I wore a short, bouncy, pink skirt and a white cowgirl blouse while doing the shopping. To my surprise, when I visited the restroom, the crotch of my lacy pink panties was sopping wet. I discarded it in the stall and went commando the rest of the day.

The workweek dragged by, slowly. My mind raced to whatever would happen in the weekend. I did not know what to expect and Richard, on purpose, did not tell me anything. I wondered if he went on his own shopping spree, but dared not ask him.

Friday evening finally arrived and I left work early. My purchases loaded on my pickup truck, I drove to the ranch we had in the hill country, outside San Antonio. I seldom went there, it was more of a hunting refuge for Richard, however we kept it fully stocked with the necessities (mostly liquor and wine) of a civilized life.

Richard would not be in for at least another two hours so I had time to prepare everything.

I went to the semi-basement den, where we kept the billiards table, foosball, home theater and other toys. In the middle of the room there was a long coffee table made of rustic wood. It would do perfectly, I imagined, until we came up with something else.

I placed the leather thongs, around each leg of the table, ready to tie wrists, knees, or ankles, as needed; a folded blanket would provide some necessary padding.

I laid the crop, bullwhip and cane on the billiards table. Wafts of my own musk reached my nostrils as I was setting things out. My hands trembled in fear of what was to come but also in excitement of what would be a fantasy, fulfilled; I hoped. It was not just being bound and whipped, of course; there were other things, things I've always feared to do, or to have done. Things that I feared, and wished too, that were done to me. I thought about those things as I placed a small container of Vaseline beside the three instruments. I would not tell Richard what those things were, but I hoped, no, I was sure the open jar of thick lubricant would signal permission, if not request.

I drew a bath, dropping some aromatic salts in the tub; the scent of eucalyptus and orange filling the bathroom. I soaked in the tub for a long time; almost too long. I took a look at myself in the mirror and decided to shave off my neat little landing strip. If I was turning a new page, it would be with a whole new me. The landing strip yielded to the razor easily; I did a quick inspection to make sure there were no stray hairs left. I did not wear any perfume; I relied on my own musk to provide any olfactory titillation needed.

I put on a black, see through, strapless, bustier garter, matching thigh high hose, and lacy thong. The thong left my creamy ass cheeks exposed, neatly framed, under the bustier, and between the garters; a fitting target for the instruments I laid out in the basement. I put on my strongest, waterproof mascara; at some other time, I would want to wear mascara that will run under my tears; tonight was not that time.

I heard his truck on the gravel. By the time he opened the front door, dashingly handsome in his Stetson, ranch jacket and jeans; I awaited him, in the living room, offering him a glass full of Maker's Mark and ice.

He kissed me, his lips crushing mine with a passion we had almost forgotten. He took the proffered drink with one hand, mine with the other. I led him to the basement door but followed him down. I noted that he carried a paper sack with him, contents unknown.

His lips pursed in a silent whistle when he saw the instruments lined up on the billiards table, his mouth widening into a, slightly sick, smile. He placed his bag beside the instruments.

"We might not have time for all of these tonight," he said.

"We have all weekend," I said, draping my submissive body on the coffee table.

He tied my wrists, arms, knees and thighs to the legs of the table. I saw him walk up to the bag and get something from the inside; a ball gag. Suddenly this did not seem like a good idea anymore. I wanted to tell him to stop, that I did not want this to continue but, to my surprise, I restrained myself. Besides, he might have ignored my desires anyway; I told him to.

"I don't want to hear you scream too much, not tonight," he said.

Then he said, "Open up."

Once immobilized and rendered mute, he picked up the bullwhip. He let the thin end of the tapering braided leather trail over my face. I kissed the leather strip at its end.

"Let's start with a few cuts to that delectable ass of yours."

His words sounded slurred, not by the whiskey, he could drink way more than that and not feel it, more likely by his own excitement.

He cracked the whip on the air a few times, experimentally. I screamed every time, although it probably sounded more like a moan through my ball gag.

I sensed rather than saw when he was ready to strike the first time.

"I think twenty is a reasonable number," he said, to no one in particular.

Crack! The sonic boom of the bullwhip reached my ears a fraction of a second before a stripe of fire cut through the flesh of my ass. I screamed into the gag.

"Annannas! Annannas!"

My old safe word, rendered useless, by my own design.

Crack! A new line of fire crossed the old fading one. I tried to struggle, to get free of my bonds, to, at least, rub my ass. It was useless; he tied good knots.

He also took his time, allowing the pain of each cut to peak, and recede, before the next strike. Tears joined my screams of agony to no avail. Sweat covered my skin and beads of the salty liquid burned my eyes when I shook my head in panic. My fists clutched at the old shag carpet with every stroke of the whip. One of my fingernails snapped during my desperate clawing.

He paused, after the tenth stroke, to drink; I heard the ice tinkling in his glass. I felt the air-conditioned air cooling on my skin, while my ass burned. I took a deep breath, and smelled myself. Startled, I sniffed the air cautiously and, indeed, there was a faint odor, the same that permeated my panties, after one such fantasy. The air was also cold in my snatch, where moisture trickled, hesitantly, out of my tunnel. I heard him putting down the glass and braced myself for the next round.

If I had not been gagged I might have screamed the walls down, by the time he was done. He let me calm down; he let the fires on my ass cheeks subside, before releasing me from the table and helping me to my feet. He did not remove the gag, not yet. He took a lariat out of the bag and draped the lasso over my neck, tightening it slightly, but not enough to hinder my breathing. I worried at this, this could be dangerous, but I did trust him. He tied my hands behind my back with a length of leather. I tried to free them and couldn't. The leather bonds felt good on my wrists.

He led me to a full length mirror on the wall and turned me around. The sight of my ass, covered in angry red welts shook me so much I almost fell to the floor, and would have, had he not held me up. At the same time, inside me, my organs squirmed, moisture welling; my pelvis rocked, once, of its own accord.

He released the garters from the hose and opened my bustier.

"We'll do your breasts next."

After the experience I'd just gone through, the thought of the whip on my breasts was unbearable; I shook my head, but he ignored me. He led me by the lariat on my neck to the table. I felt proud of him.

I sat down at the edge of the table and laid on my back on it; my C cup breasts exposed, falling slightly to my sides, crowned by the pink nipples that stood erect, whether from the cold air conditioning, or due to something else, I could not say. He fastened my arms and elbows to the table legs, and did likewise with my ankles. The heaviness on my pelvis, the heat inside me was like nothing I'd ever felt. I began to shiver; not from the cold.

 
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