Punishment by Mark

They were happy in their relationship. But he had always known that for her there was something missing. Eventually, she told him about her Ds desires, and since then they played briefly several times. But tonight was different. Tonight, she said, she was going to teach him the real meaning of slavery and domination. And so now he knelt at the side of the bed, in a curious mix of trepidation and excitement, listening acutely for sounds from the room next door as she got herself ready. After what seemed an eternity, she entered the bedroom and he felt his pulse quicken as she walked towards him. She was as beautiful as ever and yet at the same time transformed. He had never seen her dressed as a  fantasy domme, and as she paused and stood before him he could not take his eyes from her thigh-length spike heeled boots, the soft silkiness of stocking tops, and the way the corset accentuated her curves. She threw her flogger and cane on the bed, and then carefully placed a heavyish looking wooden box on the bed side table.

‘Tonight’, she said, ‘you are going to feel pain that you have not felt before’.

She ran her fingertips over the discipline instruments as she talked, her red fingernails tracing the lines of the flogger.

‘But understand: that will be just the introduction. Once you are ready, I am going to open this box, and you will know the true meaning of fear’.

He involuntarily glanced at the box. It was fashioned from a dark, dense wood and inlaid into the top were geometric patterns made out in mother-of-pearl. It was, perhaps, 80 centimetres long, and 50 centimetres in height and width. What could it contain? It was big enough to hold something coiled, like a whip. But it had looked heavy enough to contain something metallic, some sort of instrument, some sort of machine. As he gazed at it, his mind told him that he could hear a slight sound. Was there an animal in there?

With no warning, she grabbed him by the hair, shoved him over the edge of the bed, seized her flogger, and began to beat him. She had been right. He had never experienced pain like this. But as each painful blow landed, his eyes were drawn back to the box. If its contents were much worse than the pain of flogging, it had to be a coiled bullwhip, or perhaps a metallic flogger. His ass and back felt as though they were on fire as the heavy flogger thudded down onto him. He could hear her breathing deepen in response to her exertions, and then finally a moment’s respite as she stopped. He could not see her behind him, but as he waited his gaze found the bedside table. The box had moved, and it was then he knew that there was something alive inside it, scurrying, gnawing, its movements causing the box to shift across the tabletop.

This was beyond his capacities for coping. But before he could protest, a different pain engulfed him as the sharp sting of the cane replaced the dull thud of the flogger. He felt tears begin in the corners of his eyes as each cane stroke amplified the agony of the one that had preceded it. Now he really did understand the meaning of pain, the searing heat from each stroke sending waves of it through his entire body. And yet. His gaze fearfully found the wooden box once more. And yet, this was only an introduction. As the speed of her strokes intensified, his tears flowed freely until, suddenly, silence. She threw the cane down, walked across the room, and closed the door behind her.

He waited. The room was silent. Time passed slowly. Eventually, he raised himself from the bed, unsure and timorous. Time passed. Almost without his realising it, his fingertips found the raised mother-of-pearl designs on the lid of the box. He knew that when she came back, he would experience real fear. Time passed. The pain from the flogging and caning eased slightly, but this gave him no comfort. He knew he had yet to undergo the box. Time passed. Eventually, his fear could not be controlled. His fingertips found the little catch at the front of the box, and he slowly raised the lid, almost too afraid to look inside. He raised the lid a tiny amount and his eyes took a moment to adjust to the box’s gloomy interior.. His breath burst from him in an uncontrolled exhalation. There was no animal, waiting to bite and tear at his flesh. His eyes widened as he raised the lid further. There was no whip, no electrical machine, nothing made from cruel, gleaming steel. The box was empty. As the dim light from the bedside lamp finally illuminated its interior, he saw a white rectangle lying on the bottom of the box. Listening carefully for sounds from beyond the bedroom door, he scrabbled frantically to pick it up. It was a white, glossy card, not much bigger than a business card. He could make out black embossed writing on it. Forgetting caution, he drew the card from the box and held it under the shade of the bedside lamp, allowing its light to spill over the card’s surface. One line had been printed on it. As he read it, he finally understood, and the pain of the flogging and caning gave way to a deeper seated fear as he realised what his life was to become. Written on the card, in flowing, curlicue script, were just four words: ‘Welcome to the mindfuck’.