Another erotic story from the FLOGMASTER!Copyright 1985-2016 by the Flogmaster. All Rights Reserved. Free distribution via electronic medium (i.e. the internet or electronic BBS) is permitted as long as the text is _not_ modified and this copyright is included, but _no_ other form of publication is allowed without written permission. This document _may_ contain explicit material of an ADULT nature. ***READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!*** Anything offensive is your own problem. This story is for **entertainment** purposes only, and it does _not_ necessarily represent the viewpoint of the author or the electronic source where this was obtained. All characters are *fictional* -- any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental.
About the Fantasy Series"What is your deepest, darkest, most secret fantasy?" Those words bring a chill to anyone. To reveal something so private, so personal, is difficult. Yet that's exactly what we have here. In each story, a narrator reveals his or her most private sexual fantasy. In the grand tradition of such things, it is a *fantasy* -- it may not be realistic or even physically possible. It's not necessarily something he/she would want to experience in real life, but the illusion can be appealing. But no matter how bizarre or incomprehensible, fantasies reveal something intimate about ourselves. So . . . learn and enjoy. And send me your fantasies! The Flogmaster
(****, MF/F, Severe, whipping, enema)
A movie star visits an unusual spa. (Approximately 1,983 words. Originally published 1998-03.)
As the taxi drives away I look around, feeling alone. I am finally here. For seven whole days I shall be here. When I leave I shall be transformed. That thought pleases me, but makes me nervous. I know I have been indulgent of late and I deserve this, but the treatment is severe and difficult to endure.
The attendants inside check me in and soon I am ready to begin. I am led to my chamber where my clothes are removed. Wearing a short robe I am led to the showers where two female attendants wash me, one directing the spray while the other coats my skin with lather. I luxeriate in the feeling of anonymity. Here I am not a beautiful, spoiled movie star but a nobody, just a body to be treated.
After the impersonal shower I am toweled off and led to the medical chamber where I am weighed, measured, and examined inside and out. It is all done very routinely, impersonally, and I enjoy the feeling.
Naked, I sit and wait for the doctor to return. When she finally does she has my week's schedule on a little card for me. "This is a tough one," she says. "We are going to really push you this time." I nod, pleased, but nervous.
My card says my first appointment is with Raoul. I remember him well. A large muscular man who used to be a professional body builder. Now he is the whipping master at the spa. I go to him with apprehension. He is pleased to see me, but he says I have gained weight.
"No problem, though. We shall see it is gone before you leave."
I nod, knowing he speaks the truth.
We begin with a light whipping, me strapped to a vertical rotating column. As it slowly spins around I am greeted with the lash across my back, my buttocks, my legs. He spares nothing, but goes over me well. This is not a discipline whipping but a preparation whipping. I must be toughened for what I am to endure.
The whipping lasts a half hour, and I am tired when it is over. It was not very painful, but my body tingles all over. "Come back after lunch for the other side," says Raoul, and I nod, seeing the appointment on my card.
Sarah gives me an enema before lunch. Fortunately it is a small one, warm, not hot, and as I sit for lunch I already feel overwhelmed. Lunch is a simple salad. It is elegant and tasty, with three kinds of lettuce, several exotic vegetables, and a spicy low-calorie dressing.
After lunch I spend an hour in the warm sauna, and then it is back to Raoul. Again I am strapped to the pole, but this time my back is pressed against it. My breasts and crotch are fully exposed to his lash and he does not spare me but whips me all over. This is more painful but Raoul is gentle. He does not want to hurt me, only help me to feel. It is wonderful.
After my whipping I go to my room for a short nap, then to Sarah for another enema, this one larger and with warmer water. She leaves it inside me for a good fifteen minutes and when she returns she takes a small wooden paddle from a drawer and spanks my bottom at least a dozen times, sternly warning me not to lose my enema. It is difficult, but somehow I manage. My bottom feels good and warm when she is done, though my face is flushed with shame at being treated like this. It is good none of my friends or associates are here!
I am grateful to Sarah when she allows me to relieve myself. Then I go to my quarters and put on a pair of skimpy white shorts and a sports bra. It is time for exercise.
First is running, so I go to the track. There are half a dozen other clients running, but my trainer is one I have never met before, a tall grim-faced man with a foreign accent. He does not introduce himself but urges me to run around the track. After my first lap he takes me across his lap and pulls down my shorts and spanks my bare bottom a dozen times. It hurts, but mostly because I am ashamed. Everyone can see me!
I get up and run much faster this time, but again he spanks me, this time twice as long. Once more I run around the track, and this time he seems pleased, though he still takes me across his lap and spanks me.
My eyes are glistening with tears when he finishes. Why? I ask. He just smiles.
My next stop is the weight room, and here the strange man makes me really work. We begin with stretching and calisthetics, and then pump iron on various machines for almost an hour. We work on my pecs, my glutts, my abs, my legs, everything. I am exhausted when we finish. My trainer pushed me hard and didn't hesitate to spank me whenever he thought I needed it.
In my chamber the attendants are waiting for me, and again I am showered and washed without being allowed to do it myself. It makes me feel like a helpless child.
Supper is light. A clear broth followed by steamed vegetables and small slice of roasted chicken. The meal is delicious, though the portions are small. For dessert there is a small quivering cube of Jello.
I read for a while before bed, but soon fall asleep. It is barely dark outside but I am too tired to keep my eyes open.
In the morning I am awakened before dawn and led by an attendant to the showers. There are many of us here, all women. Two attendants spray all of us with water and our own attendants wash us down. It is strange. There is much laughter and giggling and yet I can see many of the girls have been treated severely, their buttocks and thighs whipped. In a few days I shall be like them, perhaps even today. Will I be ready?
After a brief breakfast of several kinds of fruit and no coffee, I head for my appointment with the "skin doctor." This is a treatment I both loathe and love. It will last all morning.
It takes place outside, in the desert sun, and naturally I am not allowed any clothing. First is the whipping, this time by the petite female doctor. She binds me to the cross-post with my hands above my head and whips me all over. She uses a cloth whip with many tails, and it does not hurt at all--it only _feels_. It is hard to describe. In some ways it is too light, and I want more, but in other ways it is too intense.
Occasionally during the whipping the woman stops and caresses my body. She feels my skin and tells me I am beautiful, and then she whips me more. Finally, after a long time (it felt like hours but was about forty minutes) she puts down the cloth whip and picks up a heavy leather strap. With this she whips my bottom and thighs, and this _hurts_. No games here, this is pain. I writhe and cry out but it does no good. She spanks me until my bottom flesh is roasting, and then she sprays me with water from a squirt bottle, the fine mist settling all over my body. Then she whips me with the cloth whip for another ten minutes.
After my hour of whipping I am led to the sweatbox, a small metal container in the middle of the courtyard. There are several of these. They are like miniature greenhouses, with curved roofs that dissipate the sun's rays. Inside is a small bed where I stretch out, still naked. The woman locks me in.
Time passes slowly. I drift in and out of sleep. It is very warm. Not hot, but warm. My body glistens with sweat and my buttocks and thighs sting. After an eternity the woman returns. "How long was I in there?" I ask as I climb out. My body drips with sweat.
"Two hours," she says, and leads me to the whipping post again. My arms are bound above my head and this time the whipping is with a real whip--threads of leather dangling from a wooden handle. It is still a light whipping but now the blows sting. The woman moves all around me, varying the blows. She never strikes the same place twice. She'll catch my bottom with a blow and then my breasts. Another will come from the front but slap the backs of my thighs. She whips my belly and back, my chest, the front of my legs, and even brings the whip of between my legs. I am soon moaning softly and whimpering. It does no good.
After the whipping she paddles my bottom with a large wooden board. It isn't a very long paddling, but it is hard and fast and leaves me weeping and my ass throbbing. Then I'm put back in the sweatbox.
It is now close to noon and very hot. I am sweating within minutes, and soon the entire box smells of my body odor. I cannot find a comfortable position. Lying on my stomach is the best, as my bottom is so sore, but soon the heat of the sun makes my buttocks throb and I have to turn over. If I lie very still it isn't too bad, but again, I am soon urged to move because I begin to think that another position cannot possibly be more uncomfortable.
This time I'm in the box for an hour, but it seems like days. I am gasping for air when I am let out. The woman again leads me to the whipping post, and this time I am frightened.
The whipping now is with a thicker whip, and it leaves marks. Tiny welts begin to appear all over my body: my breasts, my belly, my inner thighs, my buttocks, my back, my calves. I cannot stop weeping. It hurts very much.
With the whipping done the woman takes up a long riding crop and strikes the back of my legs and my buttocks a couple dozen strokes. Each blow leaves a thick welt pulsing and throbbing, and I scream with each application.
After the cropping the woman splashes me with two buckets of salt water, one to my front and one to my back. My body burns with feeling. She unchains me and takes me to the mudbaths where I am covered with thick, gooey mud that feels deliciously cool and wonderful against my stinging flesh. I am left in the mud to soak for an hour. I am blissfully happy.
The icy spray used to wash off the mud is horrible. It stings but numbs my body. I am forced to rotate my body every which way so that the spray can wash me clean. The mud has invaded my entire body, especially between my legs, and I know that I shall have to be thoroughly cleaned later.
A white terry-cloth robe is provided and I head for the cafeteria for a late lunch. I am famished and hope that there is more than salad. As I walk, my body aching, I think that this is just the beginning--I have five days left. A part of me is frightened of what lies ahead, but another part, a deeper, perhaps more intimate part, is feverishly excited. I know that a week here will transform me, and though it is costly, it will be worth the effort.