School BDSM Sex Story – Arousing of Courage

School BDSM Sex Story – Arousing of Courage
by Iphigenia-at-Aulis

I had an anxious feeling as I walked down the hallway toward the gymnasium. Ms Rankor, the dean, had written a note, sealed it, and sternly handed it to me saying, “Jenny, take this down to Mr Zarenzastra.” Ms Rankor is a hard woman.

When I walked into the gymnasium Mr Zarenzastra was talking to a couple of dozen guys in the intra-mural volleyball league, gathered around him. At his behest, he ordinarily goes by the name Mr Z. Approaching a little way toward them, I waited, not wanting to interrupt him. Mr Z is kind of a handsome man, in a different sort of way. A lot of the girls think he is really cool. I hadn’t had that much contact with him; I’m not sure whether he really knew who I was. I stood waiting, a bit nervous.

He glanced over to me, smiled, and said, “Yes, angel, can I help you with something?”

“Ms Rankor told me to give you this note,” I said, handing him the note. I felt a little self-conscious as if I were intruding into a male sports domain. I felt like the whole volleyball league was checking me out as I stood there.

He opened the note, looked at it, and then looked up at me, surprised. “Now why ever does she want me to do that?” he asked.

“Do what?” I had no idea what Ms Rankor had written.

“She has instructed me to whip you,” he said.

I stood paralyzed, speechless. Whipped? What did that mean? And whatever it did mean, could they really do that to me?

“You’re a dear girl,” he said, gently, looking into my eyes. “I’m not sure what to say. …I don’t know how this will go for you. As always, what you experience, your thoughts might judge to be unpleasant, or pleasant. Or perhaps you will form no thoughts or judgments…

“But in any case what I need now is for you to furnish me with some kind of whip,” he continued, and turning to three members of the volleyball league, he said, “Rod, Mick, and Steve, I want you to go outside with her and help her prepare something suitable, something not so severe as to actually harm her, but something that will satisfy Ms Rankor.”

It was then that I noticed the keen interest, even excitement with which all the volleyball league guys were eyeing me. Why should they like the idea of me being whipped? Wouldn’t they want to defend and protect me instead? I never thought boys had anything against me, even if I’m a little shy with them. But it seemed like a lot of them were positively leering at me. Is the idea of a pretty girl being whipped arousing to guys?

Rod, Mick, and Steve accompanied me toward the door. I didn’t know Rod very well, but I knew he was an athlete.

I had spent some time with Mick. We had worked together jointly on a three-week biology project. He’s nice but real quiet and low keyed; fairly inhibited, but there’s a certain philosophical calmness about him that’s appealing. I think he kind of likes me, but he’s never asked me out. I don’t think he asks anybody out.

I knew Steve a little. He’s real bright and well-spoken. Basically nice, …but kind of nerdy. He’s really into computers and the internet.

As we headed out the door, I thought I heard Mr Z saying, “The things people ask me to do. I’m the art teacher. I happen to coach the volleyball league. And now I’m supposed to whip the girls.”

Outdoors we headed toward a big willow tree on the edge of the grounds. Steve was trying to reassure me that it would be okay and that they would take care of everything. I didn’t know what that meant, but I felt better to have them there with me.

When we arrived at the tree, Rod broke off a stiff willow switch about one meter long, and proceeded to swish it through the air with a frightful sound, saying, “Let’s try this. Lift up your skirt and I’ll try it on your legs.”

Who did he think he was to whip me with that thing? “No! Who said you could whip me?”

Steve interjected, “Well Jenny, we need to find something that won’t hurt you too much. We’re going to have to try these things out on you, and then you can tell us how they feel.”

“So just lift up your skirt, so I can try this out,” Rod demanded.

A childhood memory flashed into my mind. When I was a ten-year-old girl, an oversized twelve-year-old neighborhood bully named Malcolm had been using a whippy switch to terrorize a couple of seven-year-old boys he had cornered. I confronted him, calling him a bully, and telling him to leave them alone. The seven-year olds took this opportunity to flee. Malcolm then decided to inflict his punishment on me, thrashing that switch on my bare legs. The pain had lightning intensity, but I fought back the tears and continued to revile him as a bully. After about six lashes with that awful switch, I knew that the tears could not be contained for long. I would be crying, and he would be the victor. But miraculously, from a doorway across the street, a woman, his mother, called out, “Malcolm, you let that little girl be. See how she’s standing up to you!” That had been my opportunity to escape, and I had taken it.

Here meanwhile, as I continued to hesitate before Rod, he brought the willow switch down on the backs of my calves, hard, with a loud swoosh…thack. It felt like fire. I cried out, “Oowww-ow-ow! Oh god!” But he brought it down again, hard, swoosh…thack. “Ahhhhhh! Please, no! I’ll do what you say.”

To hell with modesty, I’d be happy to forfeit that if only he would stop whipping me. I quickly lifted up my skirt. …But to no avail. Swoosh…thack, on the backs of the thighs. “Owwww!” Swoosh…thack again, hard, “Ahhh! That really hurts!” and then again. “Ahhhhh! Please, no!” The burning intensity of that willow switch lashing against my bare skin swept across my entire being.

Then he lashed me hard twice on the fronts of the thighs. As I stood there gasping, crying for mercy, Mick tried to intervene. “Hey, ease up, will you Rod! Jesus, you’re really hurting her.”

The next stroke, again aimed for my thighs, caught Mick on the hand as he moved to protect me. “Ow! You bastard! Cut it out, Rod!” he bellowed.

“Oh shit …sorry …I’m sorry, Jenny. Really. I didn’t know what I was doing. I kinda got carried away with whipping you,” said Rod.

Tears were streaming down my cheeks as Mick put his arm around me, “There, you’re okay now. You’re okay.” A little tentatively, he kissed my tear-stained cheek. Spontaneously, I turned toward his embrace, and we hugged tightly, arms encircling. Despite the pain, I had this glowing, tingling feeling… It was weird…

All three guys then proceeded to closely examine Rod’s handiwork on my legs, gently running their fingers over the reddened welts left by the willow switch. I should have felt embarrassed, even violated, to have these guys, with their faces so close to my crotch, holding my skirt up and feeling my legs. But no, it felt okay.

“This is not going to work,” said Steve. “Look at those welts. There’s no way she can take a whipping with that willow thing. We gotta find something not so fierce.”

“Uh. Yeah. I guess we gotta find something else,” agreed Rod.

“How about if I take my shoelace off, and try that on her,” said Mick.

It sounded funny to be whipped with a shoelace. I think I even giggled. But as he unlaced it off his wide, contour-soled basketball shoe, I saw that it was more than a meter long: a thick, round, black nylon thong, smooth and supple, but badly frayed at the ends, where silky red threads from its core splayed out. It actually looked sort of whip-like, as it dangled from his hand. Or at least whip-like enough for me, if my bare skin was going to be on the receiving end.

“Let me try this on you, Jenny. Hold up your skirt,” ordered Mick.

Hiss…thik. Hiss…thik. Hiss…thik. After voicing a startled “ooh” with the first stroke, I kept quiet and tried to hold my ground as he worked it over my legs. He swung it vigorously. It had a distinct sting, more than I would have expected, and especially when it wrapped around. I was breathing quickly. I shut my eyes. He continued to work it vigorously over my calves and thighs, while I stood taking it, trying to be brave.

After a couple of minutes of this, Steve interrupted, “No, no, no. This just isn’t going to cut it as a whipping. First of all, it’s not loud enough. It doesn’t really have that whistling swish that a whip should have. And it doesn’t smack loud enough when it hits her skin. …Second, it doesn’t look right, the way you have to use your whole arm to get that thing going. It’s too much effort. It’s… I don’t know… it’s undignified. Mr Z isn’t going to want to use that wimpy thing on her. He’s too cool. My image of him whipping Jenny is like… he would use this effortless, disinterested flick of the wrist. …Like, ‘I’m above all this, but somebody’s got to whip these girls.’”

I thought I heard Rod mutter, “Then he can give the job to me.”

“Your right Steve,” said Mick, ignoring Rod’s muttered comment. “This isn’t like a real whipping. We gotta get a better whip for Jenny.”

“Yeah. A better whip for Jenny,” agreed Rod.

The quest for a better whip for Jenny …this whole thing was so bizarre. I wondered momentarily whether I was dreaming all this, but the welts on my legs left by Rod’s willow-switch whipping seemed real enough.

Steve commented, “You know, that’s what’s so good about sex-store whips. They’re loud, ‘…much sound and fury’, but they don’t hurt that much.”

What would he know about sex-store merchandise, I wondered. None of us were old enough to go into sex stores. Then it occurred to me that this must be something he learned on the internet. I wondered if he had a collection of jpegs of pretty girls being whipped. But no, those kind of sites were off limits to young people, supposedly.

“How about if we fasten the nylon thong to the end of the willow switch,” suggested Mick. “The willow switch makes that really good swish sound. And the nylon thong is soft enough not to mark her up too bad.”

Mick then proceeded to fasten the thong to the willow switch. The thing looked real enough to me, about two meters long total, with its crop-like switch and black thong lash. “Okay Jenny, now hold up your skirt and let’s try this on you,” he said.

As I obediently exposed the rest of my legs, there was an extended swoosh-hiss, ending with a loud thack as it hit home. “Ahhh!” I cried out. The greater speed of the thong, when fastened to the end of the switch, really delivered a sting. Swoosh-hiss …thack. “Ooh!” Swoosh-hiss …thack. “Ahhh!” Over and over he whipped it across my legs, moving up and down my calves and thighs. I cried out with every stroke but held my tears. I was determined to stand my ground.

Rod and Steve were watching lasciviously the whole time. I could tell there was a bulge inside their sweat pants. Rod reached into his pants to make an adjustment. But then he just left it in there, pumping away.

“Give me that thing, I gotta have a turn with it,” demanded Rod. He took the whip from Mick, who had apparently gone into some kind of ecstatic trance, continued ‘air’ whipping in my direction, while Rod carried on in earnest, one hand inside his pants, the other flick-snapping that whip on me. “She’s so good. She’s so good.” he crooned.

Swoosh-hiss …thack. “Ohhh!” Swoosh-hiss …thack. “Ahhh!” Over and over. I thought Mick had whipped plenty hard, but Rod was really putting some snap into it. Wasn’t this ever going to end? Hadn’t they fully ‘tested’ this whip? “Ooooh! Please, haven’t I been whipped enough?” I finally begged.

As Rod paused, Steve exclaimed, “No, I read that the more you’re whipped, the more pain-killing endorphins you produce. So the more we whip you, the easier it will go when Mr. Z whips you.” I couldn’t imagine where he had read that. Some weird web site, I supposed.

“But my legs. You’ve whipped them so much. How much more can they take?”

The three of them knelt to examine my legs closely. Looking down, I saw that my legs were flushed with muted stripes, but otherwise looked okay. As Rod was feeling my legs up, he took the opportunity to finger my pussy through my panties. “She’s moist!” he grinned.

Through all the pain, I hadn’t recognized how aroused I was. But why did they have to find that out? Would they think I was really weird now, getting sexual pleasure from being whipped? …Oh, but so what. Was getting aroused from receiving the whip any worse than getting aroused from inflicting the whip?

Mick kissed me exuberantly on the cheek. “You’re so wonderful. You’re the most wonderful and beautiful girl,” he raved. He’s normally such a low-keyed guy. I had never seen him so alive, so spontaneous.

“So we gotta whip her some more,” exclaimed Steve. “How about if we whip her on the ass.”

“I’m not taking my panties off.” I insisted. “If you want to whip me through my panties, okay, but I’m not taking them off.”

They gave me this incredulous look. “We can’t whip you through your panties,” said Steve.

“Why not?”

“Because we love bare skin. We’ve gotta whip bare skin.”

Why they needed to discomfort the thing they loved baffled me. But I wasn’t even going to try to understand it. Nothing that was happening this afternoon was making a whole lot of sense.

They decided to complete my preparation by whipping my ass as I bent over a nearby wooden fence. I wasn’t sure how comfortable this arrangement would be. I was up on tiptoe as I bent over it. The guys had wadded up a sweatshirt to pad my hips. Rod and Mick were on the other side of the fence supporting my upper body, while Steve, behind me, raised my skirt and slowly lowered my panties. This was done with some feigned difficulty, which Steve used as a pretext for fingering my clit, pressing and rubbing it around. The sensation was too strong; I was squirming. I felt really vulnerable, being held immobile by Rod and Mick, while Steve was playing with my pussy.

Finally, with my panties on the ground, Steve took his turn swinging the whip. Swoosh-hiss …thack “Ahhh!” Swoosh-hiss …thack. “Oooh!” As the whip rose and fell, Mick, holding me, took the opportunity to reach into my blouse and feel up my breasts, rubbing and prodding my nipples. Meanwhile, Steve was really laying it on, stroke after stroke, with me crying out with everyone.

Then he slowed down and I realized he was trying to take more careful aim. He was trying to smack it directly onto my pussy. Even with legs together I was vulnerable, bent over that way. I really didn’t want to find out how much a direct hit on the pussy was going to hurt. Some of his strokes between the ass and upper thigh had already been close enough to sting my pussy lips.

“Oh god! Please! You’ve whipped me so much. I’m on fire. No more! Please no more!”

At that they relented, releasing me. While Mick hugged me and dried my tears, Rod admired Steve’s handiwork of whip marks on my ass, softly caressing them. To facilitate cooling my burning ass, Mick suggested leaving off the panties for a few minutes. He stuck them in his pocket, and the four of us headed back toward the gymnasium.

As we approached the building, Mick kept saying, “You’re so wonderful Jenny. You take the whip so well.”

Steve added, “You ought to be high as a kite on all those endorphins we got going.”

“Actually,” I replied, “I’m feeling spent. I don’t know if I can face another whipping. …I’m really afraid.”

“Oh Jenny,” said Mick, “you’re strong. You’re so strong and beautiful. Just take it moment by moment. If the present totally occupies your mind, there won’t be room for fearful thoughts about what comes next.” Saying that, Mick passionately kissed my lips. In our long embrace, I felt my fears melting away and Mick’s confident exuberance flowing into me.

As we entered the gymnasium, I imagined myself as a queen, flanked by my bodyguards, going to negotiate with the emperor, Mr Z. Still, I recognized that I was a queen in a weak position. I would have to submit to his power. Even in this fantasy, it was hard to evade the thought that I was to submit to a whipping.

The boys volleyball league was still in the gymnasium, along with a bunch of other students, who I suspected would not ordinarily have been there. All eyes turned toward us.

“Ah. I see you have brought back something for me to exercise on Jenny,” said Mr Z as we approached.

“Yes, it took us a while to test it out,” said Steve, handing him the whip.

As Mr Z examined the whip, he seemed slightly amused by its construction, smooth nylon thong fastened to willow switch. That sent a shiver of fear through me. Did he want something harsher, heavier?

As he walked around me noticing my flushed calves, he asked, pointing to the willow-switch welts, “Were these two welts produced with this device?” Of course, he couldn’t see the other five Rod had left on my thighs.

“No,” Steve answered, “those were done with something we decided was unsuitable.”

To this, Mr Z nodded assent. I breathed a sigh of relief.

Holding the nylon thong in check against the willow switch, he stroked it through the air, listening to its swoosh. Then letting the nylon thong swing free, with a quick flick he lashed it against my calves. Although it was not that hard, it took me by surprise, and I let out a startled gasp. But I recovered myself quickly, preferring to display no further acknowledgment of the stroke. Mr Z has a certain air of dignity about him, and it affects other people. If I was to be whipped here today, in front of all these people, I was going to do it with as much grace as I could.

“Yes, you’ve done well,” he said, ostensibly to Rod, Mick, and Steve, acknowledging each of them with his eyes, but also directing a quick approving glance at me. “Now Jenny, how about if you stand over there,” he motioned.

I looked at Mick, hoping he would accompany me. He seemed uncertain as to what he should do. As I stepped over to where Mr Z had indicated, Mick, after a moment’s hesitation, followed. …And then Rod and Steve too! Mr Z looked surprised for only the briefest instant, but then acted as if of course these were my men, who were to accompany me throughout.

I then stood facing Mr Z, with Mick and Steve on either side a half-step back, and Rod directly behind. I was wondering what would come next when Mick caught my eye. He straightened his bearing, indicating that I should do likewise. When I straightened, following his example, I felt calmer, more ready. It’s funny how your posture affects your mind-state.

“Okay, now remove your blouse,” said Mr Z. I suspected that this meant that I wouldn’t be whipped on the ass, and I was relieved. I had no wish to have to bend over in front of all these people. To be whipped is one thing, to be humiliated is another.

I unbuttoned my blouse and slipped it off. I considered handing it to Mick but quickly decided not. Instead, keeping my head high, I simply dropped it on the floor, as if it meant nothing to me. Mr Z gazed admiringly at my action.

“Adjust your skirt down lower on your hips,” he then ordered. This seemed to imply that I would be able to keep my skirt on, …thank heavens, as it dawned on me that I had never gotten my panties back from Mick.

Even though this skirt, with its fairly loose elastic band, tends to ride a little low, Mr Z must have felt that he needed more bare areas to strike between the bottom of my bra and the top of my skirt. So I adjusted my skirt so it was well down on my hips. When I glanced up at Mr Z to determine whether he was satisfied, his eyes seemed to be glued to my belly button. I wasn’t sure whether I felt self-conscious, or magnetically attractive, or both.

“Now remove your bra,” ordered Mr Z.

My mind raced. The whole volleyball league and all these other students were going to see my bare breasts. Could he really expect me to do this? I glanced around the room. All eyes were fixed on me. I was about to stammer an objection when I heard Mick whispering, “You’re so beautiful. You’re so beautiful.”

I glanced around the room again. Were all these people really to see my bare breasts? What were the implications of that? …There were none. They’d simply see my bare breasts. It meant nothing beyond that.

Carefully and deliberately, I unfastened my bra, slipped it off, and let it drop to the floor. I couldn’t help glancing down quickly at myself. But that glance found nothing there to be embarrassed about.

My hair is only shoulder length, so my top was fully exposed. The cool air kissed my receptive nipples. I felt very free. My mind was clear.

Meanwhile, Mr Z stood transfixed, endlessly gazing at my breasts. It seemed that he tried to break himself from his trance, but was unsuccessful, and instead moved closer to me, staring at one nipple and then the other, with this look of reverie on his face. I guess I had never realized that there was so much to see in a nipple. I was tempted to look down at them to see what it was that I had never noticed before, but I resisted that temptation and kept my head up.

Finally, he managed to pull himself from his reverie and said, “Uh …well …uh …yes. Shall we proceed? Why don’t you clasp your hands behind you.”

Hands behind my back? That could only mean I would be whipped on the front. And without a bra. Was he going to whip me on the breasts?

Mr Z, sensing my hesitation, said, “Oh, maybe I’m asking too much. You are such a dear girl. Let me get something to help you with your hands.” With that, he turned and headed toward the gym office.

I looked toward Mick. He put his arm around me and said softly, “You’re so wonderful, Jenny.” Yet he wasn’t looking into my eyes, but at my breasts.

Steve interjected, “Hey, if he’s going to whip her on the tits, we need to help Jenny by desensitizing them. We can do that by stimulating them a lot. Like, if we get them used to vigorous handling, it won’t be such a shock when the whip comes cracking down on them.”

The guys weren’t waiting for my concurrence on this breast stimulation thing. Within seconds my breasts were covered with hands. Mick and Steve were working one nipple each, tweaking, rubbing, prodding, pinching, poking, pulling, and twisting. Rod, reaching around from behind, had the bottom of each breast in his hands, forcefully kneading their softness. And on top of all their hands were mine, trying not very successfully to keep them from overdoing it.

“Oh please! My breasts!”

“Call them tits!” barked Rod. “Tits! Tits! I love tits!” kneading them even more vigorously.

“My tits! Oh! Ooh! Not so much. Please, my tits!”

My pleas were inadequately heeded. Only with the reappearance of Mr Z from the office did they unhand me, quickly stepping back to their places.

Mr Z approached me, and examined my now slightly flushed breasts, nipples hard as bullets. He eyed Mick, Rod, and Steve in turn, but said nothing. Instead, he took hold of one of my breasts and pushed up gently. Then he took the nipple between his fingers, gently rolling it around. Looking up into his face, my mouth agape, I held my breath. But I kept my hands down, not daring to interfere. In a moment he let go.

I now noticed that he had a length of rope. Handing it to Steve, he told him to bind my wrists behind my back. I crossed my wrists behind me and waited as all three guys worked to bind them together. It took them some time. I’m not sure why they felt it required a really elaborate job; it’s not like I’m very strong.

All was now ready. Facing the assembled eyes of Mr Z, the boys’ volleyball league, and a bunch of other students, I stood, topless, wrists bound behind me, waiting to be whipped. Mr Z stood motionless, regarding me, letting the moments linger. Keeping my bearing straight but relaxed, receptive, I tried to focus on each moment, with no thought or expectation for the next. My awareness seemed to expand outward and fill the whole room. The separation between myself and everyone else seemed to dissolve. Each moment was a magic moment.

Finally Mr Z said, “Shall we carry on?” With that, he drew back the whip and let it fly. Swoosh-hiss …thack. It struck me across the stomach, a little above the belly button. I gasped, but did not cry out. Swoosh-hiss …thack, across the ribs. Swooth-hiss …thack, below the belly button. I was gasping, panting with the stinging pain, but I did not cry out. I stood straight, resisting the urge to curl over. I was determined to receive whatever Mr Z could offer up.

He got up a good rhythm, lashing me over and over, from just below the breasts down to the top of my hips. My universe was one only of that whip and that stinging pain. Although I was trying not to cry out, I could not help vocalizing my gasps.

Finally, the stinging lashes stopped. As I opened my eyes, Mr Z stepped forward, pulled out a silk handkerchief, and proceeded to flick it lightly, gently, across my well-whipped ribs and stomach. The tickly lightness of the sensation was relieving. It seemed to flick away some of the lingering sting.

I glanced around the room. All eyes were transfixed on me. Most of the guys had their hands inside their pants, pumping away. One of them was grunting bullishly through an orgasm.

I realized then that despite the travail, my body was glowing. There was an erotic tingling emanating from below. My pussy was moist. Nevertheless, I was feeling a little dizzy, perhaps from hyperventilating. Mr Z motioned for Mick and Steve to support me by the arms.

“Jenny,” said Mr Z, “you are an extraordinarily brave and steadfast girl. But this is not right for you to have to stand through this whole thing. Let’s find a better way.”

They lead me to some gymnastic parallel bars. After untying my wrists, they had me face outward, back to the bar, and then kneel on a floor mat and extend my arms straight out to the sides. Then they lowered the bar to match the height of my arms, and used rope to thoroughly bind my arms to it. After examining this arrangement, Mr Z decided that I needed something very solid behind my backside to eliminate the limited freedom I still had to slant my torso forward by pivoting my butt back. They tipped over onto its side one of those padded gymnastic ‘horses’ and placed it behind me. With knees apart on the floor mat, I was now kneeling erect, with backside against the vertically-placed gymnastic horse, and arms tied crucified against the parallel bar.

Such a secure arrangement was, I realized, going to make things a lot better for me. I was well supported. But most importantly, I wouldn’t have to constantly battle the urge to hunch forward to protect my front. I no longer had that freedom of movement. In this position, I need do nothing except experience the whip. …And there was one last thing that appealed to me: there was no question about the austere nobility of a crucified position, kneeling or not.
Looking up at Mick, I gave him a little smile. I felt pretty confident. Nevertheless, in this position, my chest was stretched out, as exposed as ever it could be. Although Mr Z had spared my breasts up to now, he had clearly revealed himself to be breast-infatuated, and I suspected that they were in for a good whipping.

Mr Z stepped back and gazed upon me with this expression of enrapture on his face. After admiring my crucified form for several minutes, he drew back the whip and snapped it forth, swoosh-hiss …thack, across the upper hips. “Ohh,” I vocalized my gasp. Swoosh-hiss …thack, “Mgh,” across the belly button. Swoosh-hiss …thack, “Ahh,” above the belly button. Swoosh-hiss …thack, “Uh!” across the ribs.

Unlike before, I did not try to suppress my vocalization. I realized that all effort, toward any end, was extraneous. On the other hand, at this point, my voicing was subdued, uttered to myself alone. Not for the purpose of communicating to anyone what I was feeling. Not for any purpose whatever. It was simply the natural expression of the sensation of the whip stinging my naked flesh.

Swoosh-hiss …thack. “Ohh.” Swoosh-hiss …thack. “Ah!” The whip strokes were gradually making their way up my ribs.

Swoosh-hiss …thack. “Ooohh!” Now voiced louder, as the whip stroke landed on the lower part of my breasts. Swoosh-hiss …thack, “Ahhh!” Then again, …and again to the softness of the breasts.

Swoosh-hiss …thack, “OOOHH! Oh god!” It was right across the nipples! Swoosh-hiss …thack, “OH!…OH!…OHH!” Swoosh-hiss …thack, “AHHHH! My nipples!” …And then again, “OHHHHH…OH!”

After those four lightning strokes, the next few, thankfully, landed further up on my chest. But then it was a couple of hard ones back on the nipples again, before moving on to the softness below. Although the stinging lashes continued wandering about to every part of my breasts, always so quickly they seemed to find their way back to my nipples, which felt like glowing embers.

As the stinging whip strokes to my breasts continued, I felt Mick’s hand on my cheek, turning my head toward him. I felt his lips pressing against mine. It was a miraculous sensation.

Then from low on the other side, I felt Steve’s hand lift my skirt, spread my pussy lips, and start rubbing my clit! …And then, reaching from I don’t know where, were Rod’s fingers, slipping into my now very wet tunnel!

It was a riotous plethora of sensation. Mick’s moist lips pressing lusciously into mine. The stinging whip fanning a pulsating fire in my nipples. And the pushing, prodding fingers arousing relentlessly growing waves of erotic energy from my pussy. The four points from which these sensations radiated paralleled the form of the rest of my body, crucified against its restraints.

An irrepressible orgasmic power was growing from the region of my womanhood. Building… building…until nothing could hold it back. It burst forth as a tidal wave! Then swelled beyond! I was a pulsing energy wave expanding across the universe.