Cade Posted 12 hours ago Laying on white sheets that perfectly match white walls only found in hotels and hospitals, she feels the cool, crisp linen as an anchor on her back for her frantic mind. Naked and legs splayed affords her not an ounce of humility as I stand at the foot of the bed, casting scrutiny on the pathetic slut's offering: that quivering quim presented for my cruel cunning. Years of desperate pining and agonizing to be my victim has finally paid off - every careful step she has taken like the moves in an elaborate game of chess has led her here. She could not imagine she would be fōrced to sacrifice her queen mid-game, but she also knows I intend to take far more. Anticipation turns her stomach like when drūgs come on too strong, and I watch the rise and fall of her breasts to time my āssāūlt with her breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. In with the good, out with the--- SMACK! The loud slap to her most sensitive flesh causes a gasp that burns her throat. But she does not scream from the sudden and sharp pāin; she knows better. She knows not to provoke the ravenous beast. She knows as I spank her pussy and inner thighs mercilessly, this is me showing kindness. This is me waking her flesh. Just as sudden, the spanking stops as she inhales deep, trying to process the pāin. Agony aflame in her crotch, she also knows she should cry and beg me to stop, for mercy she, beyond doubt, doesn't deserve. But to her betrayal, her body misses the heat of my palm and the weight of my hand, what she wants to beg for was just one more taste of that excruciating caress. That memory of human touch is replaced with the stinging strike of my cane over her thigh, in a rain of rattan licks that stripes her from knee to knee - no courtesy shown to her already tender vulva, of course. I grace her with the intensity only my 5mm canes can deliver, aptly named the "Stinger" for being able to give the sensation of being stung by bees with each strike. A swarm of angry bees attack her labia as my hunger peaks; she moans long and low as some form of release as much as to just get a cool breath into her tightened lungs and chest. As if by magic, the bees disappear, allowing her the chance to regain composure as she huffs to catch her breath. The composure would be short-lived however, as the sudden change in my energy - from ravenous beast to controlled authoritarian - gives her one serious case of mental whiplash. I sit comfortably and casually between her legs, thighs lined with the sensitive welts and bruising only a seasoned sadist could inflict. The supportive smile on my face as her breathing returns to normal feels strangely surreal compared to that of the Devil that was just here. “We will be doing a series of vaginal staples,” my tone is sterile and steady, perhaps exemplified by the set of examination gloves I don with a snap of rubber. I open the sealed packaging containing the medical stapler as I continue, “The staples will be placed horizontally, crossing from left to right labia majora. Since this is a new experience for you, we will start with one,” tearing open an alcohol prep, I use the damn tissue to clean her vulva, “then go from there. Any questions?” Stumbling over second thoughts and the alarms sounding in her head, she shakes off the deer-in-the-headlights stare to finally respond. “How many do you think I can take?” It was immediately clear she regretted the query. I glance briefly at the stapler and chuckle. “There’s 35 staples…so…I know I can give you up to 35.” She audibly gulps in the way you might see and hear a cartoon character swallow when frightened. She inhales sharply and in a sacred and intimate whisper to her God, she says, “I’m ready.” “Let’s begin.” My smile makes her think of a wolf trying to flirt and entice a rabbit to come out for a bite to eat. Seductively, I slide my fingers over her labia, bring the lips together and ensuring balance before I press the tip of the stapler over the area the clit would be. CLA-CHUNK. She yipes in surprise, the all-too-familiar sound of the stapler catching her off guard, but the intense pinching of the piercing staple was distinctly sharp. That wasn't unbearable, she thought, and when she opened her mouth, “Can I have another?” fell out. Bring her lips together over the shimmering orifice, I slip the tip lower on her cunt. CLA-CHUNK. A slight jump as the needle-like ends dig into her sensitive genitalia, the pāin intensified by anticipation. “Can I have another?” she speaks the words before her brain even has a chance to catch-up. Nor do I. CLA-CHUNK. The staple feels like it enters the mid-way point of her cunt in slow motion, abruptly fōrcing perspiration out of every pore on her body. She feels proud that she didn't shout, the building distress in her crotch brings new fēārs to mind. Focusing on her legs, she worries if she spreads too much, if she'll tear the metal crimps in her pussy lips. “Can I have another?” The words confuse her, but somehow, no other words would come to her vacant mind. CLA-CHUNK. What is left of her melted, mushy mind is washed away in a deluge of dopamine, adrenaline, endorphins and serotonin. She stares off into some unimaginable distance - seeing I know not what - as violent tremors possess her body. Her thighs quiver in a spectacular display of masochistic inebriation, shivering uncontrollably as if she was dropped into icy waters. Swimming against the rushing rapids, she fights to regain conscious awareness for a long stretch. Still in a daze, her voice slurs as it rushes from her mouth, “That last shtaple waz a lot.” My words seem to float to her on bubbles. “Are you ready to continue?” Who can predict what thoughts violate the masochist psyche when it's all doped up on its drug of choice: suffering? Reading her body language, there was little doubt in my mind that she was done, just some dumb slut with shrink wrapped eyes pushed to her limit. No, this one was ready to beg for a reprieve, any escape from this piercing genital ābūsē. Certainly, I didn't expect her to regain control, slowly bringing her quaking flesh still once again. “Can I have three more, please?” Just a minute earlier, I wouldn't have thought her able to handle the staple removal process; now as we lock eyes, her gaze reasserts her endurance and determination to impress me. It did, in fact. I am impressed. CLA-CHUNK. CLA-CHUNK. CLA-CHUNK. Staple number seven was the magical tack that coaxed a scream from her throat. I sit upright to survey my work, birthed from skill and artistry. The staples shimmer in the low light against her red and swollen vagina, evenly spaced along the line of her perfectly flushed slit and ensuring that orifice is out of order. My proud thought: Had it been another kind of gash, it would definitely heal without scarring due to my handiwork. Not allowing my vaingloriousness distract me too long from my patient, I break the news to her with all the cold detachment of a well-practiced bad surgeon. “You're a virgin again.” Without missing a beat, she strains in reply, “I guess this makes me anal only…” Gingerly, she begins shifting to roll over. “Your trashy ass will wait,” she bites her lip hearing my tone turn sinister. “I have something else in mind…”
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