On Display to Thousands

I’m startled by the sudden opening of the door and rapid approach of Master D, as he loudly calls out his verbal welcome of “I’m back. Miss me?”  What startles me most is his appearance. He is wearing heavy black mid-thigh high boots, a leather upper chest harness and nothing else. My eyes are drawn to his swaying member which is sizable even in its current flaccid condition. Not as big as Sir Michael, but still long and thick. Much bigger than me. I’ll be challenged when forced to suck it which I’m sure will occur sometime this weekend. I confirm also what I notice when he was fully clothed. He is very fit, strong, and muscular without being overly muscular. A man’s man. 

As he checks out my self-bondage he tells me, “Nicely done. You and that pillory are perfect together. FYI, while downstairs, your past Masters and I discussed what to call you this weekend. I understand you are ‘Bitch’ in the contract, but DR. D says ‘Cunt’ is more fitting. I recall reading in your birthday journal that your wife called you ‘Toy’ but that’s not happening. We did give ‘Gay Play Toy’ a thought, but no. Oh, that thought reminds me, you will be expected to write and post this visit too, just like your other servitude time.”

“Since you like pussy and not cocks, I thought ‘Gay Cock Lover Boy’ would twist your nipple, but DR. D poo-poo’d my choice saying it would be too long to say in the heat of the moment. Then thinking about our plans for Sunday, you being a straight sub bound and forced to show yourself off to the crowd, the term ‘Sissy’ came to mind. I knew that would piss you off too, since you are such an A-type dominant male in your regular world. So ‘Sissy’ it will be, seeing you have no vote in the matter,” he says cheerfully.

I see I guessed wrong on labeling the douche box. That’s not the only thing flooding my mind. What was that thing he said about Sunday?  He walks away and then returns with a blindfold which he puts on me.

“I know you like playing in the dark,” he says.

The loss of sight distracts my last thoughts, as I concentrate on listening to try to determine what is next. It’s only a matter of seconds. Wack. My legs nearly buckle. It’s a hard solid upper swat of the riding crop to my balls. My balls that are tightly held in their sack due to the constricting ball stretcher strap. God, it stings. Then I’m hit again, same spot, just as hard. Three more stings come in. I am now hanging from my wrists and neck as my legs have given out beneath me.

“Good choice, a riding crop to the nut sack is always an excellent introduction to my whipping style. I like that you are wincing in pain, yet you did your best not to cry out. Let’s see if you can sustain that,” observes Master D.

I hear him walking away as an uncontrolled tear runs down my cheek. He returns quickly to attach a clothes pin to each nipple. Then he adds four more pins, one to each side of the ones pinching my nipples. It is subsequently back to the crop. He is assaulting the clothes pins trying to dislodge them with repeated swats. This is far from pain/pleasure. The contract supposedly says no to severe pain, but I think in his mind he is establishing limits and I haven’t called out a slowdown safe word.

I’m thinking about it, now close to uttering it, when his rapid and accurate swings dislodge both secondary pins on the left breast and one of them on the right. Maybe this will end soon and I hold off. I’m trying to mentally fight back the pain. I don’t like the ‘Sissy’ term I’ve been labeled with, finding its meaning different than maybe intended, so I want to tough this out. I’m not a wuss, not a sissy.

It takes probably ten more swats till the other pins are knocked off. The right nipple proving the worst as one hit caused it to hang and swing from the nipple tip before a second blow ripped it the rest of the way off. That final nipple clothespin removal was far more painful than all the other hits of the crop.

“Good boy! That’s the way to suck it up. Now, let’s warm up your buns. I recall you love to be paddled,” he remarks.

Love is a strong word. I may prefer it over other whippings, but it still hurts when delivered. And he does deliver. I’m glad he’s not into making me count each hit out loud, but to myself I count. Ten wicket swats to the left cheek, all in a row. Then a matching ten to the right. I won’t be sitting anytime soon.

“OK, as a final whipping treat, let’s stripe you. Candy cane subs are always a delight to the crowd.” He then takes a single tale whip and works my shoulders, back, butt and then hind legs. The sound it makes as the tale whizzes through the air before the tip slashes across my skin is haunting. And painful as it leaves its red six-to-eight-inch mark, most right to left, the remainder left to right, across my skin. Yes, painful, but certainly less than my ball sack strikes and nipple clip removals. That doesn’t mean my body doesn’t jump and squirm involuntarily when each strike lands.

“Oh, you do stripe nicely. You’ll handle Sunday well,” he says soon after his last swing. That’s the second time he said something about Sunday, and the word crowd was used a couple of times too. Just how big is his party? Something else unknown to get anxious about, I guess.