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Hands Down
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
Hands Down, by Veronica
PART I: THE MASTER SPEAKS: IF YOU DON'T WRITE ...
I have just thought of a proper punishment for not writing. We
might need the better part of a day to see this one through.
I seat you in front of a specially prepared desk and tell you
that you habeen warned to write many times. The time for
warning is over. You see two sets of large electrical staples
(like to anchor a wire to the floor) have been driven paay
into the desk's surface. The sets are separated by about 12
inches. As you stare at each set you see that they are laid out
roughly like a hand with two staples for each finger ad thumb.
"You want me to slide my hands into those, don't you?", you
say, as you ben to move your hands forward.
"Palms upward", I tell you as I turn your hands over. It is a
tight fit but you manage to wriggle your hands in. You realize I
have made them to precisely fit your hands. Now I bring up two
leather thongs from the edge of the desk and tightly secure your
wrists so you cannot lift them nor can you pull them back.
You know what is coming and you are not surprised when I tell
you I am now going to give you a *reason* for not writing. From
the first bamboo rod slash on each palm your tears begin. Very
quickly you are crying ...then yelping ...then screaming, "Stop,
I'll write!"
The slashes descenith a monotonous regularity. Your cries
are loud, then soft. You beg for surcease. One particularly
painful blow falls and you scream. I continue the vigorous
bastinado for a full five minutes. You are near to fainting.
I sit back and observe the effect on your hands. Your once
white hands are now crisscrossed with red. Still sobbing, you ask
to be released. "Not yet", I tell you and I walk away. A quarter
hour later I return and untie the leather thongs.
"My hands won't come out", you tell me, "They have swollen into
the staples".
I look. "Indeed, they have", I agree. "Well, I am going out to
take care of some matters. If the swelling goes down by
dinnertime, I would like steak".
PART II: THE SLAVE'S RESPONSE: The Wages of Silence
I have not been able to look at my hands for quite some time --
exactly how long, I am not sure: the only clock in the room, a
sleek, silent electric timepiece, is mounted on the wall behind
me, and I cannot turn around to se it; the row of windows that
would have relieved the gloom are shuttered and closely draped.
//Is it dinnertime yet?// I wonder, cautiously trying my
unconventional bonds.
Despite my care, the movement sets off ripples of pain that I
know from my previous attempts will only fade slowly. For a few
moments, I sit, staring stupidly at my palms and fingers, swollen
into their already tight bonds, crisscrossed with bright welts as
though they had been pressed against a red-hot grille.
Suddenly, tears that should've been long used during my
punishment rolling down my cheeks to the desktop, I begin jerking
violently at the staples pressing into each finger, frustration
and fury at my solitary confinement temporarily anesthetizing me
to the pain.
After three yanks, my fourth attempt at escape is aborted by
two large hands appearing out of thin air to grip my wrists.
"Shhh," you order me, your lips against my ear. Immediately, I
obey, oddly content now that you are with me.
You feel me relax, and release my wrists, withdrawing for a
second; but you have not left the room, and so I slump in the
uncomfortable straight-backed chair and concentrate on enduring
the pain I have inflicted on myself.
I feel your approach, and I open my eyes to see you tuck
towel-wrapped ice packs around each of my swollen hands. You
perch one hip on the corner of the desk, and even in the dark
room, I know you are looking at me, not my hands -- I can feel
your gaze caressing my face, following the lace trimming the top
of my white silk teddy, circling my breasts, sliding over my
belly, combing through the black curls covering my delta, then
dropping lower --
My body responds to your scrutiny as though responding to your
touch: my nipples harden into stubby little points that stiffen
even more as the soft silk abrades them; tiny shivers of arousal
jolt my skin wherever your eyes light; the narrow strip of
material between my legs grows damp when your attention lingers
there.
I shift in the chair, and lick my lips. Still staring intently
at my crotch, you command, "Stand up, Veronica."
I brace myself for the misery the remnants of my lessoning are
sure to give me the second I begin such a drastic maneuver, and I
am surprised when rising from the chair only makes my cold hands
throb a bit more. You reach out a long, hard finger to smooth
away the remnants of the fast-drying tear track on my near cheek.
"See? the ice is working," you reassure me.
To spare myself, I "stand" bent at the hips, my arms folded
double so that my shoulders hovered some six inches above my
pinioned hands, and my taut nipples brush the icepacks' cool
terrycloth towels with each breath. You lift the corners of the
icepacks to check my hands, and nod at what you see. "The
swelling will go down soon," you say, half to yourself, laying
the icepacks back down and returning your attention to my body
beneath the semi-transparent garment.
You stand up and walk around behind me slowly, examining me as
if I were a horse up for sale -- running your hands and eyes over
me, soon untying the bow straps holding up the top of my teddy
and baring my breasts for weighing and squeezing, kneading my
belly, lightly slapping my buttocks and thighs, sampling the damp
silk over my cunt. I tremble in embarrassment.
I am not surprised when I feel one of your hard, warm fingers
hook itself under the crotch of the teddy and pull the snaps
apart. You smooth the soft material down my legs and let it fall
to the tops of my white five-inch heels.
A fingertip parts my labia, revealing the moist tissues. You
take each lip between thumb and forefinger and open me. I blush
furiously as you hold me open, watching without comment as I grow
wet.
I am annoyed with myself when I find my hips thrusting back
helplessly, my greedy cunt begging for a more emotional, less
impersonal touch. You ignore my unvoiced plea, observing my
passion for a minute or two before placing your thumbs
side-by-side in my cleft and sliding them up between my buttocks.
When you press open my asscheeks to expose my anus, I hang my
head in mortification, and grow even more aroused in spite of it.
You do not penetrate me, you only look, and my breath grows
short, my labia swell, and the scent of my passion seems to fill
the room.
The sound of your zipper cuts through me, and I offer myself up
to you without reservation, pressing my breasts into the cold
packs and my cheek to the desktop. You enter me in one smooth
motion, one hand arching over my hip to tantalize my clit, the
other drifting up over my belly and ribcage to capture my nipples
between your knuckles, the rough wool of your suit pants grinding
against the tender skin of my asscheeks and inner thighs.
I come on the third stroke, bowing my back and pressing my
cheek to the smooth wood. But you do not stop -- your strokes
become shorter, your wool-covered hips driving your cock into me
at various angles, your shaft scraping every wall of my tunnel.
The second time, my orgasm lifts me up on my toes and forces a
cry from my lips as your seed gushes into me.
We both collapse in temporary exhaustion, me with my breasts
against my numb and frozen hands, you along my back, your teeth
bruising the skin where my neck and shoulder meet. After a moment
or two, you relieve me of your weight and the special sensation
of your softened shaft.
Knowing what you want, I raise my head and turn enough to meet
the wet fingers you are holding out to me. I taste my own juices,
and it renews my desire. By the time my tongue has laved your
shaft clean, and half-hard again, I am breathing shallowly and
silently urging you to take me again.
"No," you answer, re-arranging your clothes. You root around in
your pockets and move back behind me. A soft dry cloth -- your
handkerchief? -- wrapped around two of your fingers cleans me
*very* thoroughly, and is then withdrawn.
The soft jingling and the long, thick, smooth shape that you
push into my cunt is very familiar to me, and I cannot suppress a
sound, half-passion, half-denial.
"I thought you might like some company, Veronica," you tease me
as you pull the chair far out of my reach. "I thought you might
like you good friend Catnip to visit you," you continue with a
slight chuckle in your voice, making sure that the
remote-controlled vibrator we have nicknamed "Catnip" is
well-seated within me.
You fasten a slender, specially-designed belt about my waist,
buckling it in the small of my back. Catnip's restraints are
next, two delicate chains that rest in the groove between labia
and thigh and are attached to the dildo vibrator by a short,
glove-soft strip of leather passed through a hole in the base of
the device. "We don't want you to lose Catnip," you remark,
attaching the chains to their well-spaced hooks on the waist belt
to insure that Catnip stays put. Once again, the leather thongs
nailed to the edge of the heavy wooden desk are wrapped around my
wrists, and then closely tied to the side loops of the belt,
preventing me from rising.
Catnip begins to vibrate at his lowest, most disturbing
frequency, which arouses but does not sate. I twist my hips and
rub my thighs together, anxious to concentrate enough of the
sensation to build to an orgasm. "Oh, no, Veronica, it can't be
so simple," you chide. The next thing I feel are your hands on my
ankles, moving them apart. You lash them to the inner front legs
of the desk, more than three feet apart. To keep my balance, I
must press my chilled breasts into the ice packs.
"That's better," you tell me, patting my ass. "Just stay there,
let Catnip keep you company while I'm gone, and wait for the
swelling to go down." You kiss me deeply, invading every crevice
of my mouth before walking to the door.
Already I am writhing under Catnip's ministrations. You open
the door, and then stop. "Oh, by the way, I think I'll set six
steaks out to thaw."
I contort my neck in an attempt to look behind me. "*Six*?"
Your voice is the epitome of innocence. "Why, yes, didn't I
mention it? ... I feel like a party. I'm going down to invite the
Sterlings and the Houstons over for dinner. If you like, I'll
send the ladies up to say hello when they arrive," you promise
gaily, closing the door on my gasped protests.
********************************************************
When you eventually come back, I am in a frenzy stronger than
the one you originally found me in, trying desperately to relieve
my lust.
I don't know how long you watched me from the door; I was too
deep in a lust-filled haze to know much of anything. But I did
know when you parted my buttocks, the dollop of lubricant
deposited on my anus hardly having a chance to land before it was
driven into me by your shaft. My inarticulate scream comes not
from pain, but from the sheer pleasure of being so completely
filled.
Dimly I realize that you are so deep inside me that the wool of
your trousers will leave the pattern of its weave in my skin. The
realization is enough to send me over the edge. The deliverance
of my orgasm is such that I can only shake, paralyzed, a low
keening moan that swells from my throat.
I lie limply on the desk, happy that you are within me, but
unable to move, unable to think. I can still feel, though, and I
tremble when you lean over and lick the rim of one ear. "Better
now?"
I make a small, possibly affirmative sound in my throat.
"Good," you rasp. Your big hands grip my hips, and you begin to
thrust, long strokes that take you from total penetration to near
separation.
At first, I simply lie there, passive and accepting. But
something -- the motion? The still-humming dildo? Or the need to
respond to the master of my body? I do not know -- rouses me, and
arouses me. I begin to meet the steadily increasing force of your
shaft, at first weakly, then, when your hands find their way to
my clit, with escalating enthusiasm. This time, both our voices
call out triumphantly when we come.
You recover more quickly than I. Sated and languid, Catnip
finally quiet inside me, I watch, smiling, as you untie my arms.
I like you in this considerate mood, and enjoy your tender
ministrations. "Lift up a little," you murmur. "I have to look at
your hands."
I am tired, but I am able to obey. When my breasts are removed
from the melted icepacks, I gasp -- they are so cold!
You remove the towel-wrapped icepacks from my hands. The welts
do not look as angry as before. "That's better," you say,
slipping your arms around me. You grip my wrists and, with slow
wiggles, pull my still-swollen fingers free of the staples with
less pain than I expect.
I straighten in the circle of your arms, grateful to lean
against your chest when my legs balk at bearing my weight. You
are still examining my hands. "Do they still hurt?"
Experimentally, I flex them, and wince. "Yes, Sir -- but not as
much as my breasts!"
You touch my crinkled nipples. "Brrr!" you agree, warming the
nipple between your thumb and forefinger. "Come on, let's take
care of you. Can you walk?"
Vainly, I try to suppress a grin, for we both know I would
rather be carried than walk. In an obliging mood, you pick me up,
all right -- you turn me around and toss me over your broad
shoulder like a sack of flour, my hip against your neck, my head
swinging at your waist as you stride off to the bathroom.
You sit me on the bathroom counter and care for my hands,
slathering a cooling cream on them, and then winding so much
gauze around them it looks as though I'm wearing boxing gloves. I
laugh, and make jokes, hoping foolishly to postpone the next
step.
Finally, you sit on the vanity chair and order me to you.
Shyly, I lie face-down across your lap while you remove Catnip
and the restraining chains, wishing you would not continue. But
you do. Your fingers part my asscheeks once more, and insert the
enema syringe. As you fill me once more, you scold me quietly and
thoroughly for letting my correspondence pile up, gentling your
censure with caresses but promising to repeat and prolong the
punishment if I repeat or prolong my rudeness. When I admit in a
shamed little whisper that I can hold no more, you set me on my
feet and fill the bathtub with hot water and my favorite scented
oil as I sit blushing on the toilet.
With an air of old-world courtesy that somehow does not seem
out of place in this unusual setting, you help me up and into the
steaming tub.
"Wake up, little one," you call for the third time in ten
minutes.
I jerk awake. "Forgive me, Sir," I sigh.
You squeeze the loofah sponge, sending a cascade of warm water
down the center of my back. "You've had a long and tiring day."
Your supporting hands bracketing my waist help me stand up. "If I
put you in bed, do you think you can stay awake long enough to
eat?"
My stomach reacts to the mention of food, and I realize that I
haven't eaten. Knowing my appetites as you do, you rub my belly
playfully. "I grilled steak," you say lightly, wrapping me in a
fluffy, over-sized bath sheet. "Baked potatoes with plenty of
sour cream, and green bean casserole."
You throw me over you shoulder and pat my buttock. Head down, I
grin. "But nothing sweet?" I say in a pouting tone.
"I ate all the cookies while I was grilling the steaks," you
reply ruefully.
The master bedroom in the country house is huge, but the
oversized brass four-poster bed manages to dominate it. You set
me down on the edge of the firm-soft mattress and remove the bath
sheet. "Sit here and let the fire warm you up. Don't go to sleep.
I'll be right back."
I *do* doze off again, but the sound of the door opening brings
me back. You enter balancing a large serving tray on one forearm.
I lean against you and eat steak and drink fine red wine from
your hand, since I cannot handle silverware or wineglasses with
my bandaged hands. I laugh out loud when you explain why the
Sterlings and Houstons declined your invitations, and whimper low
in my throat when you tug at my nipple and ask if I'm still cold.
Your hand claims my breast, and I nuzzle your nipple in turn,
sleepy but willing. After a few moments, though, you stop
kneading me. "Not tonight," you announce staunchly, to yourself
as well as me. You release my teat to turn off the lamp over our
heads.
When you pull me down beside you in the shadowed, flickering
light of the dying fire, I can finally relax. Always, when I
annoy you, I wonder if you'll ever *stay* angry, even after the
punishment is complete -- I wonder until you fit your naked body
with mine, pulling my head onto your chest atop your heart,
pushing your knee high between my thighs, capturing my breast in
your hand and rubbing the nipple back and forth absently. When
you do, I breathe once, deeply, filling my nose with your
distinctive scent, snuggle into your warmth, and fall asleep, the
smile of the well-mastered submissive at home on my lips.
Yours in submission,
Veronica
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