The Bastinado Scene2017-01-24T23:38:42+00:00

The Bastinado Scene

 

The rattle of chain makes me take notice from the hardcover book I’m reading. The day was long and unforgiving, and almost nothing satisfies me quite so much as losing myself in a good book.

Almost.

I look up and see you still standing there, inexorably pinioned to the ceiling.  The leather hood prevents you from knowing where I am.  Your bare feet have been on the cold concrete floor for probably close to 30 minutes now, chilling in anticipation of what I plan on doing to them.  But you don’t know that yet.  All you know is that your Mistress intends to hurt you. To make you hurt. To make you curse, spit, swear, and finally come to the point of desire where you simply want more.  Your suffering is my pleasure, and you know that.

Slamming the book shut causes you to jump, making the chains quiver and sing. The muffled sound of the book from within the confines of such a thick hood indicates that you will likely have only a vague idea of where I have been lounging. Inevitably, I smile. For what could be more amusing than to know that your slave has no idea of your intentions?  I look down and see how the tops of your feet have turned white from the temperature change, yet the soles are increasingly pink.  Pink, due to the need for blood to keep the soles of your feet warm. Pink, on your Mistress’ command.  And pinker they shall become as you suffer before me… as you suffer for me.

I stand, intentionally barefoot so that you struggle to hear me when I move.  A swift step brings me face-to-hood with you. I am close enough to you that you can feel my blood singing, radiating heat from my body, but far enough away so that leaning in will not grant you my touch.  I am not the coddling kind.  I bring my hands to the carabiner holding your cuffed hands in place and free them momentarily from the hook holding you up, only to clasp your arms together again in front of you, preventing your freedom.

“Present.”

Ever obedient, you kneel before me, bringing your cuffed hands behind your head, spreading your knees wide as you sit on your heels. You are so nearly at your most vulnerable.  Hooded, cuffed, and nowhere to go… for where is one to go when they are mere chattel to a Goddess? Equipment for a deity to manipulate as she sees fit; no more.  I hear a muffled gasp as sensitive knees make contact with the concrete floor.  You know better than to whimper before me, unless your whimpering is the plea of release; even then, you know that I will not give it to you. Your pleasure is my property, and I do not share my property with others.

Your breath grows heavier and more ragged. I sense more than hear the desire spark to life. Whether that desire is yours or mine, I could not rightly say at that moment.

“Lie on your back.”

Without moving your hands, you carefully shift to lie on the ground, taking care to do it with grace. I did not tell you to move your hands, and so you obey even the most silent of commands. Many months of training, punishment, and conditioning have taught you this much about my impossible demands. I see you shiver slightly as you lie on the cold ground, and wait to see if you request release from the unforgiving cold. Fortunately for you, you do not.  A smile spreads upon my lips to find your nipples fully erect and gooseflesh beginning to spread on your body.  You will be distracted from that soon enough.  I sit back down and reach for a length of rope.

“Give me your feet.”

Your legs lift up and slowly lower to fall into my outstretched hand – the only physical contact you have had from me thus far. As I lower your legs onto my knees, I see your cock twitch out of the corner of my eye. With the other hand, I take the length of rope and begin tying your ankles together. I move quickly, making note of what I will do should that cock harden without my approval. You know the ramifications of disobeying your Mistress all too well.  Once your feet have more or less been “fused” together by the rope, I pull your big toes back with one hand.

With the other hand, I reach for the rubber strap. My favourite tool. Your loathed assailant.

“Mistress?”

I vaguely hear you speak.  A question embedded within a single word. I don’t bother answering. The warmth has begun to spread from my head to my belly and further down still.  The Beast has awoken and calls for agony. It demands satiation.

Satisfaction.

I do not hesitate to give it what it wants. For that Beast is me, my nature… my truest and most genuine form. I crave the siren’s song that now sings in my veins.

It is time to reap what is mine.

Smack! You haven’t even been warmed up yet.  Your warm up was thirty minutes of standing barefoot on a concrete floor.  I hear you gasp.  Your breathing comes ragged as you compose yourself.  Good luck with that.  It’s not stopping here.

Smack! Harder this time. I hear you stifle a groan.

“Mistress?” you weakly call again as the third strike comes down on your feet.  I glare at your hooded head.

“The only noise I want to hear,” I say through gritted teeth – a combination of annoyance and amusement – “is you screaming. If you aren’t doing that, shut up.” I note that you don’t even bother responding with “Yes, Mistress,” which causes me to smile, acknowledging that you have in fact, understood my command to its fullest extent.

My assault on your feet continues for some time, during which your noises progress more passionately, culminating into a sound that is more animal than human. The crescendo is what I await, my patience ever thinning. My desire ever growing.  Your feet have developed a sheen from the sweat that has begun forming. The balls of your feet have developed into a bright red instead of a pink. I caress your soft arches with a swift, raking of my nails across delicate flesh.  Your cries give me a smile. I hear your breath, shallow from the torment of the tortures I inflict upon you.

There is no joy for the recipient upon whom foot torture is exacted.  The intoxication of your suffering and surrender is a heady elixir. I very nearly forget where we are, despite the fact that my dungeon is your homestone in this kinky and depraved world.

I trade my rubber strap for a bamboo cane, and resume what I began.

“Count to thirty, slave.”

I hear you whimper, fear in your scent, and my bloodlust surges at such a beautiful invitation.

Raising the bamboo, the assault begins again.