Gympie-Gympie for the Gimp

Gympie Gympie for the Gimp (Vignette)

Doctor Eric Harper moaned into the vermillion plastic ball gag strapped into his mouth. Except that he was not Eric Harper in this persona. He was Gimp.

Gimp was in some discomfort, in his expensive Sydney apartment. Apart from his gag-stuffed mouth, and his groin, he was in thick, black rubber. The heat had been turned up in the apartment, and the 40-domething was sweating inside his rubbery cocoon. But that was not the end of his discomfort. A thick, rubber buttplug had been forced into his arsehole, painfully stretching his anus. It was the longest one that he possessed, totally filling his arse. He had been hogtied after his arms had been tied, wrist to elbow, and elbow to wrist. His feet had been tied to the rope at each elbow, so that his back arched painfully. And then Gimp had been rolled over onto his back. With that painful arch it meant that his rubber-covered knees and masked head were the only part of his body touching the faux stone floor of his playroom. The hood on his head entirely covered his face, apart from his stuffed mouth and two holes for his nostrils. It meant that he could see nothing around him. The inserts in his ears meant that he couldn’t hear anything, either. The ballgag did not take particularly nice, as it had been forced into his arsehole before strapping it behind his teeth.

Gimp’s average-sized cock was as erect as it ever got, thanks to a certain little blue pill. Gimp kept his genitalia free from pubic hair at all times. He liked the smooth look. A leather Arab strap around the base of his cock, and his scrotum, meant that his erection would not go down.

Susan Harper, Gimp’s long-suffering wife and domme, sighed as she gazed down at her pathetic husband. They had been married for almost fifteen years. Her husband, in his Gimp persona, had started out just being into light bondage and domination. But, with the passage of time, his desires had increased. He had demanded ever stricter bondage, and ever greater pain. Gimp had begged “Mistress” Susan for a real “no limits” session, without a safeword. And, after much begging by her pathetic excuse for a husband, Susan had granted it. And she intended to break Gimp, so that he would never ask for such a session again.

Gimp liked Susan to dress in all manner of revealing clothing. He had spent a lot of money buying her costumes: basques and corsets, thigh-high black leather boots with stiletto heels, long leather gloves, and scary leather masks. But the good thing about Gimp being in his hood was that he couldn’t see what she was wearing. So Susan was in her favourite jeans. She wasn’t wearing any top, though, just because it was so hot in Gimp’s dungeon. She saw no reason why she should ruin clothes she liked with sweat-marks.

In his rubber isolation, Gimp awaited the onset of pain with restricted – rather than bated – breath. He could not see or hear anything. His body ached, and his skin was wet with perspiration. Those – and the smell of rubber – were his only sensations at the moment. He did not know what his Mistress intended to do. But he knew that, whatever it was going to be, it would involve his cock and balls. Perhaps Mistress Susan was going to whip them to shreds: he had bought her a nasty little cat o’ nine tails, with jagged little lead balls sewn into the ends of the leather strands. Perhaps Mistress Susan intended to put a ball-crusher on his defenceless testicles, slowly – ever so slowly – turning the screws until his balls were almost flat, and he knew the meaning of true agony. Perhaps she was going to pierce his cock and testicles with glowing, red hot needles. He had a collection of piercing needles. But they had only been used on his nipples, so far, and they had not been heated. But he had bought his Mistress a little blowlamp, in case she intended to do something like that. His fantasies had been filled with such fantasies, ones which might cause real damage to him and his bits. He knew that, had he had a safeword, he would have used it, for he was only human. But that option had been taken away. He was terrified and turned on at the same time, for he had no idea what his wife would do.

Mistress Susan had chosen to do none of the above: ho whips, no red hot needles, but something else entirely. She had a friend who was a botanist, who had got her fresh leaves of the gympie gympie plant. The gympie gympie plant was a shrub found in Australia, with the scientific name Dendrocnide moroides. It was also known as the stinging tree. It was a member of the nettle family. But it was a lot worse than the nettles found in Europe or America. It could grow up to be as much as thirty feet tall.

Susan, in a thick plastic bag, had several stems with leaves attached. The stinging hairs were found on both the stems and leaves. This plant was supposed to be perhaps the most venomous plant in the world, and was certainly the worst in Australia, a continent known for venomous thing. Yet only one person had ever died of an encounter with the plant. That had been back in 1922, but it had been the species cordata, rather than moroides, which Susan intended to use.

She smiled grimly. Her husband did not know what was going to happen to him. The little stinging hairs, when they broke off in the skin of a victim, would stay in there for up to a year. Touching the affected area could cause those little hairs to release more toxin. So it could hurt for many months, every time that the area was touched.

Susan put on an old mask she had bought for Covid, as you didn’t want to inhale any of the spores. She then put on some very thick leather gloves, and grabbed the bag with the gympie gympie in. She knelt down beside her husband. She was very careful not no touch the leaves or stems herself, as it was next to impossible to get rid of the little stinging hairs, once they made contact with you. And the sting was so bad that it could almost send you insane. Horses that had come in contact with the stinging tree had, in some cases, had to be shot. Oh, this was going to hurt…

Susan got a green leaf, heart-shaped and some eight inches long, out of the bag. She stroked it over her husband’s hairless scrotum, .making sure that she got the entire ball-bag. The effect was almost instantaneous. Gimp tried to break free of his bonds, as he felt the worse pain he had ever felt: a stinging, burning pain all over the flesh of his scrotum. It felt as though his balls had been put inside an open flame.

Susan carried on working, as Gimp screamed around the ball-gag. She rubbed a fresh leaf on his perineum, and his anal ring, stretched wide by the butt-plug. Another fresh leaf was used on the shaft of he erect cock, and on the big, purple glans. Gimp tried begging for Susan to stop, but, of course, she could not hear him. Nor would she have stopped, anyway. The stupid fuck had asked for a no limits session, and that was what he was going to get.

Finally she got out a stem of the plant, one narrow as a metal sound, but with the nasty, stinging hairs all down its length. Gimp realised what was going to happen when his wife used one gloved hand to spread his pisshole open a little. He shook his head from side to side – as much as he could, in his upside-down hogtie. But his mmmmph-protestations were ignored, as they should be in any no limits play. He didn’t get to decide.

The stem was introduced to his urethra, and was fucked up and down, so that the whole length of the urethra, making sure that the entire inside of the cock was stung. Gimp discovered new Hadean depths of torture. He had not thought it possible for his cock to hurt more. But it did. He was in so much agony that he could hardly breathe.

Just to make sure that she got every little bit of hidden urethral flesh Susan then fucked his cock with a fresh stem, the hairs breaking off inside his cock. There was no way in which to remove them from there. And Susan knew that each time that he pissed, and each time he came, that those nasty little hairs would be reactivated, releasing more toxins, perhaps for as long as a year. Could he go a year without touching his cock?

Susan left the room. She left Gimp in agony, put on a tee shirt and jacket, and went to have a coffee. Thanks to her botanist friend she knew – and Gimp didn’t that he had not yet reached the plateau of the agony that he was suffering. That would not occur for another twenty or thirty minutes, and would last hours, perhaps days. A perfect amount of time to get a coffee at the local Starbucks.

A little over forty minutes later Susan re-entered the torture chamber. Gimp was where she had left him, on the fake stone floor. He was still conscious. But he was trembling from the wave of burning torture running through his groin. But he was still hard, thanks to the Arab strap and the little blue pill.

Susan wondered if he could cum while he was in such pain. She decided to find out, for any orgasm would not be pleasurable, but even worse torture, as the sperm shooting out would irritate the venomous hairs in his urethra.

Susan put on some leather gloves, and began masturbating her husband’s cock, giving him the most painful handjob in history. Just grasping his cock brought new blasts of hellish agony to his cock. It was a pain that did not lessen, and that he could not get used to. As she masturbated Gimp she raped his arsehole with the massive butt-plug, something which had always helped bring him off in the past. In between each half-dozen or dozen thrusts she let go of the butt-plug, so that she could pinch his nostrils shut, temporarily cutting off his air. She didn’t like using dangerous breath control. But that was another trick that helped Gimp cum. Even so, it took an hour of molesting his cock before Susan knew that he was close. She pinched his nostrils closed again and – as Gimp gasped for air – sped up her wanking of his tortured cock flesh.

Gimp spurted whit cum high in the air, as he screamed around the plastic gag, as the sperm shooting out felt more like a white hot iron running the length of the inside of the cock. He screamed, and fainted, overcome by the pain.

Susan smiled. She didn’t think that Gimp would ask for another no limits session any time soon. And, if he did, she could always go and see her botanist friend…

The End.