"You can go back to bed until breakfast time," he said. "Don't wake Keith!"
I slid back into bed beside Keith. It was about 6:00 a.m. and I had about two hours before breakfast. I lay beside Keith, wide awake, feeling his warm body beside mine. I was very conscious of the chastity belt, and was feeling very hot and horny beneath it. My mind was in that free-spin state where it flits from subject to subject without any apparent logic. I was remembering many of the events of this last week at The Inaccessible House. I thought about a man I had been in conversation with who had suddenly going rigid and vacant as if his mind was elsewhere; his spikes had cut in. We had been talking about different people's motivations for doing this: whether everybody had essentially the same fantasy or whether some where different.
I thought of the two nights I had spent alone, and of playing with my pussy for the last time. I thought of how needing I had felt the next day. I felt myself needing to clench, and forced myself to relax, relishing the feeling of opposing my need, the intensity of my need, the knowledge that it would not be satisfied, that this feeling would stretch on indefinitely, increasing all the time. The need to clench rose in strength, and I remembered The Inaccessible Man's words: "don't wake Keith!" I forced myself to relax, biting my lip, dreading the pain, knowing that I would cry out. I had a thought: Keith did not know I had the spikes engaged. How long could I go without him knowing? How long could I keep it a secret?
I suddenly realised that keeping a secret was very important to me. Telling Keith about Carol and about that awful man last night had been a relief, but it had meant that a secret that was important to me was no longer a secret. Why was secrecy so important? What about when I had been close to Carol: had I kept something important secret from her? Yes, of course: Uncle Jim.
He was a Priest, my mother's brother. He would visit our family home periodically, and I liked to sit on his knee. Nothing sexual ever happened, but I felt safe and cared-for, and there was another nice warm feeling inside which I now recognise as sexual arousal, that I always felt when I was with him. He would tell me stories, read to me, play games, make me laugh; he would call me his 'Little Angel'. Thinking back, I wonder if he felt sexual arousal also, but he was always relaxed, and never showed any signs of it. Later, he moved to another parish, further away, and we saw less of him.
Later, soon after puberty, I stopped going to confession. The Priest had been repeatedly telling me that I should just control myself when I needed to touch myself and to have orgasms. I had decided that these feelings were so overwhelming that what he was asking was unreasonable and impossible. So I had stopped going, but I never told my Mother why; perhaps she guessed. Mother remembered the closeness between Uncle Jim and me, and asked him to visit and 'have a word with me'.
He told me that at that age, he had stopped going to confession, and had had doubts about the teaching of the Church. He asked me to tell him what had been happening in confession. I told him about the strength of my feelings, and about the impossibility of opposing them, about the blunt and unhelpful attitude of Father Anthony. He told me that it had been just the same for him. He told me to go away and do whatever I needed to do, whatever I wanted as often as I wanted for one week. Whatever happened, he would give me absolution. But I was to come back and talk to him again after that time.
For the next few days I rubbed myself raw. I made myself climax five, six or seven times a day. I engaged in fantasies that I generally suppressed. He came back to visit the following week. He asked me how I had been getting on. I mumbled something. He asked me if I felt that I had achieved anything. I did not know how to answer, and said nothing. He asked me if I felt that I now understood myself and my needs better, whether, having done those things last week, I would move on from there the next week or whether I would simply repeat the same things again. I thought for a moment, and realised that what I had been doing had been very repetitive. I said I would probably just repeat the same things again. "Then you have not progressed in your own self knowledge and understanding, have you?" I agreed.
"What do you need to do to progress, to develop yourself, your mind, your understanding of this important part of your life? Did I need to go and do it with another person, to get pregnant, to have a baby?" I said that I did not want that, that I did not feel ready for that yet.
"Go away," he said, "for another week. Again I will give you absolution for whatever you do, but this week, each time, ask yourself this: 'what do I really need for myself?' 'What will satisfy that need?' 'How do I progress from here?'"
I did that. At first I asked myself this afterwards, and realised I had got nowhere. Later in the week, I started to ask myself the questions before: 'What am I going to achieve if I do this?' 'What do I really want and need?' and so on. And that was when I realised that there was something beyond orgasm, something that could never be got through simply giving way to pleasure, something God-like in intensity and power that I needed to strive for. And when I thought about this, I often found I did not want orgasm, I did not want easy pleasures. I needed to strive through difficulty to achieve something greater than this.
The next week, I told him of my discovery. I told him that I did not know yet what it was that I wanted, but he seemed to be satisfied by my description of the unattainable God-like feeling that I at once knew about yet had never experienced. I told him that I would work towards finding it, and that I would find it, wherever it was. He muttered the words of absolution, and I started going back to confession.
I felt for Keith beside me and wondered what Uncle Jim would say about where the logic of that search for that Holy Grail, that unattainable feeling, had taken me. For the discovery I had made was that the Church did not have the answer either, and that hypocrisy and deception were all that they offered. I could achieve my goal and satisfy my family's prejudices through secrecy, deception and this complex self-indulgent denial.
I felt an intense urge to clench, and suppressed it. Now, I was moving on into a new realm. Until now, I had been able to deceive myself. Always before, I had given way to desire when the feelings had become too strong. Now, there was no longer any possibility of that. Now I could be true to myself - win through that barrier of self-will into the wonderful world beyond. Was it truly unattainable? Or would my Holy Grail now be within my grasp. A moment of doubt assailed me. Whatever the answer, I need to find out. I go on. I clenched: in the intensity of my arousal and distraction, a spontaneous vaginal contraction had occurred, and with it, overwhelming pain from the spikes.
I went rigid and bit back the scream that wanted to expel from my throat. A soft sigh of a whispering scream slowly escaped as I released the clench and fought down the intensity of my arousal. Keith stirred at my spasm but did not awake. I would learn. This suppression would become habitual and total. The route to my goal was not through pain, that I now knew. Did it lie through denial imposed by the fear of pain? I would find out.
Day 5: Sex after Lunch.
After digesting my breakfast, there were some periods of intense exercise. I was expected to try as many different types as I could: swimming, running, jumping, rowing, dancing, cycling. I even had a wrestling session with another girl wearing a 'total denial' on her last day. The purpose was to discover any rubbing or pressure problems. I was not as fit as I would really like to be and kept running out of breath. I had to stop for a rest several times that morning, but they kept urging me to try as hard as I could at every different thing. There was not a moment to feel aroused.
Afterwards, I showered long and slow, and then had lunch. After lunch, it was proposed that Keith and I retired to our room for a rest after the exercise, (Keith had worked out along-side me). We were told that if we wanted sex, I was not to use hands or mouth but to do it by squeezing his penis between my thighs. This is something we rarely do, as I am too afraid of it slipping into me, and doing it in our previous chastity belts had always been uncomfortable because of their poor design. There had always been a risk of pregnancy also, with those chastity-belts.
Keith did not know the spikes were in place. The belt had been removed briefly after the exercise session just to check for fit, but had been replaced without change. I felt a warm glow of arousal from the knowledge of this secret.
We lay for a while together, feeling the ache from the exercise. There is something about the aftermath of exercise that makes people sexually aroused, and Keith was soon starting to notice me beside him. I rolled over and got on top, squeezing him between my thighs. We kissed and just lay there for a while. He wanted me to move up and down, but I crossed my feet between his legs, and just squeezed rhythmically. "No, just leave it to me!"
I was tantalising him with the slowness of my stimulation. He was urging me to speed up, trying to lift my body on top of him, but I would not change tempo. "No, you just do what the man said: he said just squeeze thighs. He didn't say anything about jigging up and down, anyway I'm too stiff and aching from all that exercise to do that. Just relax and let me do the work.
"I've decided," I said suddenly "I think you cheat on me when I'm at work or out. I think you masturbate without telling me. I think we have to get one of these for you and only let you out when I'm around to make sure that your only orgasms are with me." That was getting him going. "How often, that depends on how I feel. Once a week should be often enough, once every ten days perhaps. Maybe longer. The guys here get it once in three months; they seem happy enough. How would you feel after three months? Ready for it? Maybe I should stop now and let you rest, maybe I give you too much. Maybe its not good for you. Did you see the belt that lets a man fuck without coming? Maybe I'd let you fuck me if you had one of those. How would it be if we both had one? We could take turns wearing it. How would you feel if I got the climax and you went without?" I could feel him getting crazy and urgent under me. I felt cool, calm and totally in control. You should just try, sometime, to squeeze your thighs without clenching your cunt or your penis when you are highly aroused: you need to be ever so detached and cool to do it.
"How would it feel always to have to make somebody else come but never to come yourself? You're a whore, a male whore, and I'm your pimp. To stay in condition, ready for action, you're never to come, only your clients come. There's a steady stream through the door, and I send them in at twenty minute intervals all day, and you have to satisfy them all without ever coming; you have to save it all for me. So you wear one of those belts to make sure that never happens." It was getting harder to squeeze my thighs when aroused without clenching my vulva; I had to concentrate. "If you come with a client, I beat you. I cane you hard on the bum just like you do me, and then I sting your prick with the whip again, . . . and again, . . . and again." I timed strong squeezes with the last words as he came between my thighs. I needed so much to clench, to come, but I just lay on him forcing my need away, nursing his waning erection between my thighs, feeling the sticky semen slick and smooth.
He kissed me deeply and strongly. After a few minutes recovery, he said: "A good thing your spikes weren't engaged!"
"They are!"
It took a moment or two to sink in. "God! How . . . ? Since when?"
"About six this morning, I was up and doing whilst you were sleeping like a baby. Have a look, if you don't believe me: you've got the key," I said when he started to look incredulous.
"Hey, no!. I believe you. But . . . Thigh-squeezing? Wow! How was it?"
"I felt great: calm, in control, totally able to concentrate on your needs without thinking about mine."
"But are you . . . ?"
"I'm OK; really." I held my hand out, palm down. It was steady, not a quiver, no shakes. "I tell you, I'm feeling good, steady, calm, comfortable. No problems, OK?" I had gotten a bad case of the shakes a few times when he had violated some taboos of mine. And some of the things I had been saying were right in that taboo area. Talking last night had helped me to lay a ghost or two. We should do it more often.
"Come. I have to clean this sticky stuff off me before it seeps in under my belt. That flap on the pee-hole is not guaranteed, and I don't do the pill, remember?
Day 5: A visit to the Work-shops.
Later, we had the afternoon to ourselves, just walking about the gardens or just sitting talking. We went into the work-shops at one stage, because I wanted to see how the male belts worked, how the clench was detected, where the spikes would be applied. When we had read about them, looked at brochures, we had concentrated on the female variety, but now the male ones had a strange attraction for me. I knew he would never actually wear one, but I also knew that he would be able to experience more lucid fantasies about the reality if he had seen the details, and that I would be able to inspire those fantasies with the right words if I knew what it was all about.
The male crotch-piece was moulded in two halves, right and left, which were then fastened together with a special adhesive that had to be baked in an oven to cure. The sensing point was behind the testicles: the base of the penis would move downwards and outwards with each clench. A pair of sensing plates were positioned either side of the urethra. Pain was most often applied to the dorsal nerve of the penis, just where it emerged from the pubic bone, in front of the suspensory ligament. A simple but elegant slide arrangement connected the two within the thickness of the penis-tube. We watched as he assembled one of the two halves, and showed how a small deflection of the detector-plate against its spring would cause the spike suddenly to jump out.
The young man describing its action to us did so with considerable feeling. He told us he was wearing his for only the second month of his first three month period. He was clearly feeling it very deeply. I asked if he had a friend here, or if he was alone; all the staff seemed to live in.
"Yes, I do. My girl-friend works in the kitchens. We both progressed to this kind at the same time. It's the ultimate, and we wanted to experience the ultimate. Before that, it was the 'nemo tangit' kind, but it sometimes left us feeling kind of flat. Just now, we're both right on the edge, if you know what I mean."
"The edge over which lies either desperation or enlightenment?" I said.
"Desperation is what we have at present. It is the intangible something beyond that that we seek."
"Do people actually achieve it?" I asked.
"They stay; they seem happy and contented enough. But they don't answer the direct question. We're waiting to see."
"So, what do you think, Keith?" I said, holding up the penis tube. "Something to think about for the future? All the guys here seem to be in an equal share relationship. It seems to work for them." He didn't answer. He knew this was a wind-up, a reference to our previous love-making.
That made me think of another thing I had meant to ask: "Tell me. How do you make love when neither of you is able to climax. Do you have sex sessions when you are in bed together? What is the end point for you? Is there a clear culmination point that you both know has arrived? What happens?"
"That depends. I guess it is a lot like other lovers. Sometimes if we are tired we just go to bed and go to sleep. Sometimes we kiss and cuddle a bit first. Sometimes we have a really hot session where we practise brinkmanship, taking each other right to the brink of letting go. One thing we do is to take both of us to the brink and stay there for a lo-o-o-o-ng time. We don't do that too often, though, it is too exhausting."
"And do the spikes ever cut in when you do that or have you learned sufficiently not to do that?"
"It happened once or twice with me. I think she is much more in control of her feelings than I am. She went rigid a couple of times, but she said it was an ecstatic feeling made her do that."
This talk was making me all hot and urgent again, and I had a hard fight keeping from clenching, especially when Keith started to press the plate to operate the spikes on the part-constructed penis tube.
After we went out, I snuggled up to him and looked up into his eyes in the sexiest way, saying: "I'm frustrated, Keith, I'm horny. It has never been like this before, so implacable, so relentless, so absolute. Keith, if I ask you to fuck me will you let me out?"
"No, absolutely not; never." I shuddered deep down inside, nearly climaxing there and then. I went rigid with the pain of the spikes as I clenched involuntarily, but managed not to cry out. What a man! He knows just what to say to a girl in need.
Day 5: Training.
After dinner was another training session. The idea here, I was told, was to make sure that I had no fear of clenching when I was not aroused. It was essential for my health to exercise those muscles periodically and not let them atrophy. For this reason, I should at first try consciously to clench several times a day when I was not aroused. For this, a small insert was placed in my anus: a pressure sensor that bleeped when a certain pressure was reached. Clenching the vagina also caused the anus to clench.
I get the shakes, as I have said, if my bottom is interfered with, so I insisted on inserting the sensor myself.
I first did some physical exercise on the bicycle to ensure I was not aroused at all. Without the belt on, I found that clenching could easily cause the bleep. I next did it with the belt on but the spikes disengaged. It was hard to convince myself that the spikes were not going to hurt me, and I thought of what Shirley had said. I eventually managed to bleep the device, and to do it repeatedly on demand. Then the spikes were engaged. I did some more exercise to ensure that there was no arousal, and soon found I could clench and bleep the device without hurting myself. I was to wear the bleeper all the next day, and those watching over me were to ensure that there were bleeps during every hour throughout the day.
There was an interview session to find out how many times I had felt the spikes cut in that day, and how I had got on with the love-making session. I thought I had done pretty well but I was told that my performance was much as expected, and that if the spikes had not cut in a few times, more would have to be done to make sure that they did. It was essential to feel them sufficiently for the suppression of the clench to become habitual and unconscious.
I was told that I had had sufficient experience to spend my first night with the spikes engaged. This was something I especially feared, as I often got intensely aroused in that strange state between waking and sleeping.
When we got to the bed-room, there was a cane and a martinet on the dressing table. I swallowed.
"I am to beat you tomorrow morning: one of the beatings you are due. It is to ensure that the appliance does not impede this process." I felt myself getting hot and twitching under the belt.
This was a surprise, and, as I thought about it, I knew that the beating was going to be a problem. I find the tremendous conflict between submitting to the cane and wanting to protect myself to be highly arousing. And when each stroke falls, there is an involuntary clench from the shock of the stroke which I then prolong as a means of managing the pain and nursing my arousal. With the belt on, I would not be able to do this, and would even have to suppress the clench response to each stroke.
I lay awake a while, wondering about the beating, and feeling a sick apprehension. The sort of anticipation of conflict that makes me really aroused. I put my hands down between my thighs, feeling the tender and sensitive skin either side of the crotch-plate, teasing myself, knowing that my arousal would be going nowhere.
I was lying that way, in a warm miasma of contented frustration when I heard the door open. One of the helpers came in, her finger over her lip, beckoning to me. I got out of bed; Keith did not stir. She led me to the fitting room.
Ice Man was there. "This exercise is an important part of the spike awareness training and a proof-test of the effectiveness of the appliance," he said. "For this you have to be secured on the couch." He gestured, and I got up onto the couch.
I had been expecting this, for we had read about it in the reports. He secured my legs in the stirrups, my wrists to the sides of the couch, and strapped a 'butterfly' type vibrator over the crotch-plate of my chastity-belt before securing my waist to the couch with another strap.
"The purpose is to demonstrate that, even with the most intense stimulation, orgasm cannot occur in this device. It will also improve your control over the clench reaction which will be helpful during the beating tomorrow."
The vibrator was mains powered and he had a box with a couple of knobs on it in the circuit. He switched on the vibrator, and watched my reaction as he adjusted both the strength and the speed of the vibrations. I don't know how he could tell, but he soon had me being stimulated at an irresistible level.
I had used vibrators in the past, and they certainly made me orgasm, but not in a way that gave me any real satisfaction. During one part of my 'trying to be straight' period, I had read that Catholics can sometimes fear the orgasm because of their religious conditioning, and that regular use of the vibrator can overcome that. I had religiously used it every night for a fortnight before giving it up in disgust as failing utterly to penetrate the complexity and subtlety of my need.
The vibrations were getting through to my physiological responses, and I felt in an almost detached way the arousal, which had already been high, reaching the point where I would have to clench. Normally, with a vibrator, I would be clenching long before this point, but I was both consciously and subconsciously suppressing the clench, of course.
Now, it became more and more difficult to hold it back, and I suddenly realised that this was not just somebody trying to force an unwanted orgasm on me, this was a tremendous challenge, a conflict of major dimensions. And as I realised this, and reached down into the depths of my self-will to try to conquer the unwanted but intense stimulation, another part of me responded to the thought of the conflict with a tremendous leap inside my vulva that had me screaming and in tears as the spikes bit in.
The restraints were needed, then. I writhed and struggled in my bonds, part of me wanting to tear off the vibrator, part of me wanting to tear off the belt. My thighs fought to close over my tightly enclosed and protected crotch.
I fought back the arousal, and the tears, and the clench reaction, but the vibrator purred inexorably on, and as the pain subsided, slowly the arousal built up again. This time I was ready and gritted my teeth and thought of other things as the arousal got to the point of overcoming my self-will. My hips rolled and struggled beneath the belt that secured my waist, arching with the intensity of my feelings.
In the end, the inevitable happened, another clench. I screamed in despair. I had been beaten again, betrayed by my weak and fickle physiological responses. I determined to master them.
Again I fought back my tears and cries, and tried to quieten my struggles. Again the vibrator purred on, its implacable mechanical stimulus penetrating to the very core of my being. It seemed to search out places that I never knew about where arousing sensations could be found. I tried to become detached, elsewhere, as this fickle body craved the empty solace of a mechanical climax.
Would the climax occur despite the appliance? Could it occur? Three clenches in succession were needed, then I would be climaxing, oblivious to further pain. My idiot body actually wanted this, wanted the weak way, the . . . "AAAAAaaarrrgh!"
I had not been concentrating, had let the clench happen. Again I fought back the clench that wanted to overwhelm me, fought back my cries and my tears, more in frustration and rage at my own weakness than through the pain. I struggled to bring myself to my senses.
This time I would remain calm and focused, I would concentrate on the sensations, not to enjoy them and have them overwhelm me, but to conquer them and control them. I would concentrate on suppressing the clench; it would be easier now.
I concentrated on my breathing, using the trick of a woman in labour: shallow panting breaths. I calmed my body's movements, relaxing into the restraints, letting my mind concentrate on pressing down into a permanently relaxed state in my vulva. There would be no more clench.
The sensation from the vibrator had receded somewhat into a steady tingling; my nerves were probably reaching saturation point with the intense sensation. This would make the thing easier to cope with, I relaxed a bit, and found that The Inaccessible Man was adjusting the intensity and speed. Now, it was a deeper throbbing, less of a purr; stronger but slower. I felt that he was laughing at me. This was penetrating deeper than before. I was determined to win.
I focused my mind on fighting off the sensation. Something deep within me built and built . . and built. Soon I knew that it was futile, that the clench could not be stopped. Should I just let it happen, prove to him that his device didn't work, at least, not on me. Was I an exception? The only question in my mind was whether it would be just one clench or whether there would be enough to precipitate the orgasm. With a dreadful, horrible inevitability, I just let it happen, knowing that I had no means of stopping it. "AAAAAaaarrrgh!"
I knew, then, with absolute certainty, that there would be no orgasm for me in this device. The pain was just too much. I was taken by it into a different mind-state, one where there could be no orgasm. And when I returned to the mind-state that wanted the orgasm, felt the arousal, then the moment had passed, and time would be needed again for the build-up, which would inevitably end in the same way.
Now I knew with absolute certainty that there would be no orgasm, I could concentrate on suppressing the clench. There was no point to letting it happen: it would get me nowhere. I found, then, that I could do it. As long as there had been the possibility of orgasm as well as pain, then I had been letting the clench occur, responding to a small but present hope. With no hope there, there was no reason to allow the clench.
Several minutes passed as I conquered the clench reflex, then The Inaccessible Man deepened and intensified the vibrations once more. Now it was a deep throaty growl, rumbling right through my belly, setting me on fire. Slowly and inexorably the pressure and intensity rose. I had more difficulty resisting this. Much more. . . . "AAAAAaaarrrgh!"
Now there was only resentment that I had been subjected to this pain unnecessarily. I was already convinced that the search for orgasm was futile. I spat out my venom and resentment in a rare but virulent shower of invective.
"You can control your reaction to even this stimulus," was The Inaccessible Man's calm reply when I had at length dried up. He deepened and strengthened the stimulus still further.
It was not so much a pressure that I had to exert, a forcing of a reaction, rather it was the determination to maintain an absence, an emptiness. This was where I had been going wrong. I felt lighter and easier, now, as my whole approach suddenly inverted: just leave a gap in my response: no reaction: so easy!
The growl persisted for several more minutes and I felt a heat in my groin from the straining motor of the vibrator. A tiny part of my mind was needed now to focus on maintaining that negation of response; the rest was almost bored by the ordeal. I thought ahead to the beating in the morning. Yes, that would be easier, now, thanks to this training. My mind started to drift onto thoughts of that beating, and for a moment, I let go of that negation, but I stopped myself, returning to conscious awareness before any clench occurred.
The vibration stopped. I felt weak and shattered. I was unfastened from the bonds, and helped to my feet. I had to sit down for a while, and I had a drink of water as my throat was on fire from the screaming. Then I was led back to my room, to bed.
I lay awake for a while, feeling a strange mixture of achievement and frustration, but there was no intrusive arousal. I no longer felt that I had to concentrate on keeping the spikes at bay. I was not really aware of going to sleep, and did not wake during the night. In the morning, I awoke early, or rather came to in a half-awake state, and forgot about the belt for a while but automatic reactions cut in before I had any unpleasant reminder.
Then I remembered the cane and the martinet, and I felt a deep shudder inside me. The arousal during a beating was an insulator against the pain and the orgasm after was a soothing balm. Now these would be denied to me. How would I feel? How would I cope?
Day 5: The Beating.
After breakfast, we went together, me carrying the cane and the martinet, to the room used for checking the fit. Here the belt was taken off, and I was asked to inspect myself to see if any plucking was necessary. I had plucked only a week before, and so there were only a few very short pigmented hairs. I was given tweezers and told to remove these. Then the belt was put back on, spikes in place.
"If it proves to be a problem, you can get a 'no orgasm' appliance that leaves most of the vulva exposed for the purposes of plucking," Keith was told. "We already have the measurements, so the additional cost would only be manufacture and a little checking of fit."
"We'll see. She sometimes comes if I don't watch her, but I think we can manage without."
The bleeper was put back inside my bottom to detect any clenching. A chair had been positioned in the middle of the room. The ritual started.
"Three weeks ago, you had an orgasm without my permission. Do you deny it?" "No, Keith. Please beat me. Beat me so hard and long that I never want to do it again, please!"
He pointed to the chair. I bent over it, grasping its front legs, my feet either side of the back legs.
"Remember that she is aroused by the whole process of the beating, and will be inclined to clench involuntarily at each stroke. Treat her as you did the first time you beat her, starting gently, and gradually building up the intensity as you see how she takes it."
I felt on fire as I waited for the first stroke to land. I was in as intense a state of conflict as I could remember. I knew that I would have to use every effort of will to prevent the stroke causing the clench. Normally he would have to tell me to stop clenching and would threaten extra strokes to get me to stop between each. Could I use the same sort of negation here as I had learned last night? I would have to learn it as it was a different reaction. I felt the cane tap gently against my bottom as he took aim.
There was a brief disturbance of air, and a line of fire painted itself across my bottom. It was not hard at all, but it stung, and I consciously forced myself to exhale slowly and to bear down to oppose the desire to clench. Oh! This was intense and massive internal strife. So much I needed to clench! So hard I fought to oppose this irresistible force! What glory! What ecstasy!
I said the words demanded by the ritual: "Please, Keith, that was not hard enough. Please beat me so hard that I never want to have another orgasm again without your permission."
There was a long pause. I was trying to hold my breath so as to be ready for it, but he took me by surprise, striking just as I breathed out. Again the brief whurrp of disturbed air and the cane stung my bottom again, just a little harder, and lower so it hurt more. I jerked a little in surprise but avoided the clench as I sucked in air through pursed lips. The power I needed for self-control was extreme. I tried to be calm, to detach myself. Always before when I was beaten, I would offset the pain by means of fantasy, by imagining myself somewhere else; that this was happening to another. Now I could not, for to do so would have meant that the body's automatic responses would occur, and I would be brought back sharply by those spikes. I fought back my habits of the past and concentrated on winning this battle between self and will.
Each successive stroke was a little stronger than the last, and he waited between each so that I relaxed, and had time for the pain to sink in and become strong. This delay also meant that I could not receive the stroke with tightly held breath, but had simply to take it unprepared. The need to clench to nurse the pain was enormous. The need to distract myself was terrible, but the need to concentrate to keep the spikes at bay was overwhelming. Above all, the powerful intensity of the complex multi-faceted conflict was an intense fire within me.
Eventually, the inevitable happened, as I am sure it was meant to. The stroke became so hard and my arousal from this intense internal conflict became so strong that the spikes bit in. I do not cry out from a beating, but I cried out at this: I cried out not so much from the pain as from my self-condemnation that I had lost this, my first challenge of a beating. I knew that there would be many more such battles, and that my ability to endure and sustain my self-control would increase, but for now, I had lost. I felt ashamed at my weakness. I had had harder beatings in the past, but then I had always had the clench to help me.
After I had recovered, I again uttered the words, asking for the beating to increase in strength. My arousal was less, now, but I was determined to prove myself. I tried to focus on the sort of negation I had learned last night. The next stroke landed equally hard, not harder, and I was able to sustain it, to suppress the clench. There were three more, equally hard, and I did not clench again; the negation was starting to work.
Then Keith uttered the words that ended the ritual: "If I do it any harder, Miranda, I will do you a permanent injury, so I'm going to stop, now. I think I will have to whip you on the cunt instead."
Afterwards, I remained there as I recovered, and felt the awfulness of being denied the ability to clench into my arousal as a means of slaking my suffering. I concentrated on negating my need, and this made me feel the intensity of the pain in my bottom all the more.
When I got up, half an hour later, the arousal had mostly gone. The belt was removed, and both it and I were checked for damage. There was a fear that the pressure waves that surge through the flesh from each stroke would cause bruising where they impacted the belt-edge. The belt was designed as far as possible to avoid this, but the part round the bottom hole was clearly right under the firing line. There was fortunately very little bruising or swelling in these areas. I looked at the damage to my bottom in the mirror: it was not as much as I had sometimes received, but nothing to be ashamed of.
Next was to be the cunt-whipping. The belt was taken off. I lay back on the couch, legs raised and apart, resting but not secured in the stirrups, my bottom hanging over the edge of the couch. Usually, at home, my knees would be right up beside my shoulders, but the stirrups made my legs farther apart and not so high. The martinet stings horribly, but there is little deep pain because it is not very heavy. I generally clenched tightly with every stroke, and wondered what would be expected of me this time. Instead of clutching my ankles, I grasped the bar at the top of the couch.
It felt strange not to have the belt with its spikes in place, as if this were somehow easier, and that I was cheating. He laid it on thick this time; perhaps he was showing off. He really made me suffer, and he beat quickly, rather than his usual slow and methodical style. I was told later that he had been instructed to do it as hard as I was ever likely to get it so that the belt would be proved under worst-case conditions. I was really in one single clench all through, and certainly had no opportunity to raise my arousal to orgasm point. Immediately he had finished, the belt was clapped back in place quickly, spikes engaged, as I lay on the couch. It took me by surprise, and I had to fight hard to suppress the clench as the intensity of the pain built.
I really wanted and needed the ability, then, to clench in my arousal, to ease the suffering of my wounded cunt. The soothing balm of orgasm would have been very welcome. It was not to be. My suffering was to be enjoyed to the full. I throbbed, and smarted, and ached. I lay there and started to think of the way I used to orgasm in this situation; now I could not. The conflict between the extreme desire and the inability caused by the belt heightened my arousal wonderfully, causing a glorious agony of heightened frustration.
Afterwards, the belt was taken off and the parts inspected to see if the swelling from the beating was affecting the fit of the belt. I felt puffy and full inside the crotch-plate as it was refitted, but I was told that there was no need for it to be left off: that the swelling would be contained by the device and would not cause health problems. It had been built with some extra space inside for this very purpose, and now it was merely a question of checking that the calculations had been right.
I walked around a little gingerly for the next few hours, but it eased up after a brisk session on the exercise bicycle. I was checked again at intervals through the rest of that day but there were no problems.
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