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.
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*** Author's Note ***
This is my first try at Debporn. I was in the mood for something extreme, but Lauren, the main character, had a mind of her own. This story was the result. Lauren took me on a ride, and I'm still trying to recover.
If you are squicked by _anything_, do _NOT_ read this story. It contains incestual themes and plenty of *non-consensual* and *abusive* discipline.
It is also one of the most powerful stories I've ever written. If you're not weeping when it's over, you're not human.
P.S. As Debbie Ann pointed out, this did not succeed as Debporn, so don't let the header confuse you. It is not Debporn.
(*****, ?/f, Edgy, nc torture, debporn, EDGY)
A girl waits in the basement for her beating. (Approximately 2,379 words. Originally published 1999-04.)
Lauren went to the basement to wait for her beating. The stairway was lit only by two nightlights, so she stepped carefully. In the darkness at the bottom, she shivered and hugged her arms across her chest. The cement walls held in the chill. The darkness made her nervous, but she was not permitted any lights. The air smelled dank and stale, a dismally familiar smell to the teenager girl. It always made her knees tremble and her belly quiver.
"Tonight's beating is surely going to be a severe one," she thought miserably. Her step-father was in a foul mood, and he'd run out of a whiskey. Her only reprieve was that he'd driven to the liquor store, but when he got back, Lauren would have his full attention.
She was glad he couldn't count when he was drunk. If he'd discovered that she'd poured the last two bottles of his favorite Kentucky sour mash down the drain there'd be no telling what he'd do. Probably kill her.
The unheated basement was making Lauren shiver. She rubbed her hands over her naked body, trying to stimulate warmth. Her nipples were hard and stiff, and she fondled them for a few moments. "You won't be cold much longer," came the bitter thought.
Her hands drifted to her backside, the sleek rounded flesh of her bottom swollen with heavy weals and broken blisters. Last night's beating had been a difficult one. She'd tried so hard to please him, to cooperate, to not make him angry.
She'd sucked him twice, just like he liked it, with lots of slobbery licking. She'd swallowed the first time, and the second she helped him spray her naked breasts with his disgusting cream. He usually liked that.
But it had done no good. When he was in a beating mood, only a beating sufficed. He'd started with a paddling over his lap. It was a long spanking. Every three or four minutes he switched between the paddle and his hand. He enjoyed spanking her with his hand. He loved the feel of her ass in his palm, the hot flesh bouncing with every hearty smack. Lauren often encouraged him to spank her, for it was better than the strap. She could take a thorough spanking -- even two or three -- if only he didn't turn it into a basement beating.
She hated the beatings. There was no telling how long they'd last. At least a spanking eventually stopped because his hand hurt too much to continue. But in the basement he had access to all his toys. In the faint light Lauren couldn't see them well, but she knew they were there, hanging on the walls around her. There were the various paddles, some wood, some leather. They were all sizes, from big frat paddles that just busted your ass, to small hairbrush-sized ones that meant the spanking could last for hours.
There were dozens straps and whips, too. Lauren had felt them all. Two weeks ago he'd given her a thorough dose of the cat-o-nine-tails. He'd suspended her from the ceiling by her ankles and whipped her entire body for well over an hour. Her breasts still bore marks.
The worst were the groove straps. Those were thin whips designed for punishing private parts: the breasts, pussy, and anus. Lauren hoped that he'd spare her that torment tonight, though she doubted it. If she was lucky he'd pass out before they reached that point. Unfortunately, the man held his liquor well. Though tonight he'd already drunk enough for two men. If Lauren encouraged him, kept him drinking... maybe it would work.
Lauren rubbed her body faster. One hand was between her legs, with several fingers inside herself. She was dripping with moisture. No doubt he'd smell it and thrash her for it, but she didn't care. Orgasms were the only thing that made life bearable.
It was no longer strange that the beatings excited her. Long ago she'd discovered that her step-father's arousal could also be her own. It wasn't how she prefered to turn herself on -- fantasies in the shower were more to her liking -- but it worked. Damn it worked. Even now, naked and alone and dreading what was to come, Lauren was painfully hungry. Her sex ached mercilessly and she pumped wildly, harder, abusing her body violently. Often she reopened wounds and blisters when she masturbated, but the spikes of pain only enhanced the pleasure.
She imagined her step-father coming down the stairs. He was here to beat her. In moments she would be screaming in pain. Perhaps he'd tie her to one of his wooden contraptions. Bound in some vile, disgusting, uncomfortable position, she'd be helpless to anything he wanted to do to her. Perhaps he'd stripe her ass with the rattan cane. He always liked to fuck her up the ass after it was well marked. Or maybe he'd mount her on one of his wooden phalluses and fuck her mouth while she humped herself to orgasm. If he came first -- almost inevitable -- it meant something disgusting, like cleaning his asshole with her tongue, or perhaps a piss bath.
Thinking of these possible torments, horrible as they were, only aroused Lauren further. She came once, with a gasping cry, but it was over so quickly, she kept on, pushing for more. The second came after a bit more work. She had to imagine him using the candles and the hot wax. First on her freshly paddled ass, glowing and sore, then on her whipped breasts and belly. One of his favorite pasttimes was coating her butt with wax, letting it cool and harden, then paddling off the crust. She reached back and squeezed her left buttock as hard as she could, the sharp pain bringing a tear to her eye and surge to her sex. She moaned loudly. She imagined the scalding drops of wax trickling across her butt, a few splashing into the crack, sizzling the sensitive flesh around her anus. It was too much. She came with a scream, the moisture dripping from her crotch like a fountain.
Gasping for breath, Lauren wondered what was keeping the old man. There was nothing down in the dark basement to indicate time. It was one of the things she hated about this place. She could have been masturbating for an hour, five minutes, or half the night. There was no way to know.
She listened. The house was empty, still. He wasn't home yet. She breathed a sigh of relief. She'd forgotten to put on the tit clamps. He'd told her to put them on when he left.
"If those breasts aren't swollen and purple when I get back, I'll take the riding crop to them!" he'd shouted and slapped her face. "Now get down there and wait for your beating!"
Shivering with fear and anticpation, Lauren made her way to the desk at the far side. The room was so dark she could only see the faintest outline, but she knew it was there. The cement floor was cold against her bare feet, and once she stubbed her toe on something heavy. Probably the rack.
In the desk drawer she found the clamps, big ugly things, usually used for woodshop work. Wincing even before she put them on, she forced herself to go through with it. If she didn't, he'd just make it worse for her. Tears burned her eyes and she hissed at the pain. "So tight," she breathed. "That's murder!"
She could feel the blood surging through the heavy, distorted flesh. In a few moments her breasts would begin to ache, then throb. After a while the pain would fade, but every minute of delay promised hideous agony when the clamps came finally off and circulation returned. Often her step-father like to rip them off right as he climaxed. He'd be groaning with release and she'd be shrieking in anguish.
The nipple clamps were next. They were standard binder clips, tiny, metal, with smooth edges. They smooshed her nipples nearly flat. After putting one on the left breast, it took her a long time to screw up her courage for the right. She knew she had to do it. He'd be home any minute, and her breasts were hardly suffering yet. He'd know immediately she'd delayed putting them on. He'd be furious.
Shooting pains pulsed through her breasts as she walked around the room. She hated moving since it caused her breasts to bounce and ache, but the room was freezing. She had to keep moving.
Lauren paused at a wall of leather whips. Her hand went out and caressed one. She recognized it by touch. It was one of the heavier tawses. It was twenty-four inches long, the last eighteen divided into three tails. It burned like fire when struck across the back of the thighs.
The thought of fire gave Lauren an idea. She took down the tawse, took a deep breath, and swung it around her body. It curled over her left side and landed heavily against her bottom. She shuddered and clenched her teeth. She'd forgotten how much it hurt. Still, the warmth in her rear was comforting. She gave herself a few more, softer ones, then moved to her legs. She didn't want marks, just warmth, but then it occurred to her that her step-father might be pleased to see fresh imprints. She whipped herself harder.
She slipped a hand to her crotch, rubbing the wetness she found there aross her skin. She forced her fingers inside, bringing the strap down harder. Her sex surged and tingled with renewed life. Her skin flared with pain and electricity pulsed through her body.
She knew she was overdoing it. He was coming. Her punishment awaited. It was foolish, perhaps even insane, to beat herself before he arrived. But once started she couldn't help herself. It was like a drug. She was possessed. The leather thwacked harder and faster against her battered flesh. Tears flooded down her face but she was smiling. Her mouth was open with high-pitched squeals and low groans, but the sounds came from the fantastic pleasure swelling between her legs.
She heard the footsteps. He was home. Her beating would begin soon. She dropped the strap. Her heart pulsed wildly as she realized she was drenched with sweat and arousal. She reeked with the smell of sex. Though she knew he'd be angry, that he'd probably cane her mercilessly, she didn't care. In fact, she hoped he would cane her until she bled. She could imagine the slow trickle of warm blood running down her thighs.
"Yes!" she hissed, thrusting her hand deeper. Her body shuddered again and again. Dimly it occurred to her that she'd heard knocking and other sounds. The footsteps sounded again and she realized why a tiny part of her brain had sent up those signals of alarm. There were multiple feet. Horrors -- he'd brought home friends!
The thought of another dark night of gang-banging both frightened and stimulated her. More men meant more sex. More men also meant more beatings, but that was okay, as long as she was allowed to come occasionally.
She pumped herself violently, desperate for one last orgasm before her step-father came down the stairs. She knew he'd catch her in the act. She could hear voices near the door. In seconds he'd be down, livid at her brazen act of defiance. She knew this, yet continued, frantic in her quest for satisfaction.
The release, when it came, was two-fold. It felt like a flower opening, like in one of those time lapse biology videos. She felt herself bursting, rupturing, splitting into a thousand shards of emotion. The second part was the light. The light at the top of the stairwell was blinding. It rushed into the room, whitening everything with glare. The voice that shouted was eerie, distorted, and out-of-sync. The heavy feet pounding down were like paddle blows thumping against her ass. Her clamped breasts shook painfully as she shuddered, her cry of culmination high and plaintive.
"Miss Rother? Miss Rother... oh my God. Joe! she's down here! My God! Oh my God! Get down here NOW!"
The hands grabbing her as she fell, the faces of strangers, strong, handsome men in blue uniforms -- it all was a blur. The man explaining, something about an accident, he was drunk, it was over instantly. He's gone.
"You're free," thought Lauren vaguely. "You're free."
But the words didn't make any sense. Nothing made sense. It was a dream, a nightmare. Of course he was coming back. The words weren't real. Only the pain was real. The pain. Nothing stopped the pain. It was coming. Soon. He'd be home soon. He'd promised her a thorough strapping tonight. She thought of herself bound to the wooden horse for her beating and shuddered. She pulled her hands away from those holding her and pushed them down between her legs.
"My God, she's--" cried a distant voice.
"Look at her go!" whistled someone.
"What the hell did the bastard do to her," muttered another.
Lauren didn't notice the men. She was lost. Lost in a world not entirely of her own making, and not exactly a pleasant world, but at least it was a place where she could escape the terrors of reality. So she humped and purred as her body responded to her touch, and wept as the birch rods lashed her legs with welts. Her beating had begun. Everything was okay again.