The wicked look in his eyes and the wolfish grin on his face announced that he’d been up
to no good.
“Come and see what I made.”
Those words had, from long before we got married, an evil connotation. ‘What I made’
always meant some new bondage device, some new instrument of torture, whose tender mercies
my soft and sensitive flesh would soon experience. I followed him to the workshop with
bated breath.
As soon as I saw it my bowels turned to water. I squeezed as hard as I could to avoid
shitting myself in terror right then and there. My hands flew to my breasts, holding them
through the fabric of my blouse and bra; my thighs crossed as my bladder tried to empty
itself in panic.
“You’ve built it at last,” I said, my voice no more than a whisper.
The two by four dangled from two stout ropes at each end. The ropes were not attached to
simple eyebolts drilled into the wood; no, they were attached to bolts drilled through the
wood and firmly held, on the other side by stout, heavy duty nuts. Both ropes went up and
over a pulley on each side before going around a third one at their center. This third
pulley was attached by a thick bolt to a stout chain that wound itself around a drum
powered by a remote controlled electric motor. But this was not the sight that turned my
bowels to water and my innards to ice.
It was what hung from each end of the stout beam that caused my terror. Six large meat
hooks dangled attached to a steel ball on each end, in such a way that they pulled closed
when traction was applied to the ball. The device was called a Spider. A device meant to
be used on a woman’s breasts.
My breasts.
The hooks dangled from the beam, swinging slowly, ominously, on the light breeze of the
air conditioner. Begging the question.
“Will you do it?” David asked.
My bowels continued to churn inside my belly and it was all I could do to hold on to
their contents. I shook in place, mute in my panic. The onus was on me, as it always was,
to accept or decline. The question was academic in any case; I never declined. I had
wondered before, why did he bother to ask when he knew the answer already. I did not
wonder this time. Up to now, all his torture devices were designed to inflict brutal, or
exquisite pain on my breasts, or sometimes, on other parts of my anatomy; but they never
caused lasting damage. This was different.
The spider was likely to rip my breasts to shreds; beyond repair perhaps.
I watched the spider swing in the breeze; the air smelled like wood, pine, fir, or cedar
perhaps. Every time I caught a whiff of fresh cut lumber, it always brought David to mind.
Perhaps from working around wood so much, part of its smell penetrated and became his, or
perhaps just because his cologne had a lot of cedar in it. He stood silently beside me,
maybe as awed as I was at the sight of his creation. Wondering, I’m certain, whether it
would ever be used, or if we had, finally, reached our limits.
I felt overdressed. My bowels still gripped in a fist of ice, I removed my blouse and my
bra. My ample 38C breasts spilled on my chest and moved towards the dangling hooks. I
followed them blindly, submitting to their own desires, my will, irrelevant. The spider
attracted them and the nipples stood erect, proud nuggets of flesh on their ample pink
areolas. I still had not answered David’s question.
The hooks dangled just at the right height. The cold shining steel touched the creamy
white skin of my breasts and I shuddered with fear, or perhaps with the spasms that
erupted from deep in my loins. The tip of one of the hooks caught briefly on my nipple and
the stabbing pain that resulted crashed into my chest. My knees gave way and I slid on to
the floor, whimpering under the grip of a powerful climax. My hands reached for my denim
covered pussy, rubbing it while my thighs closed over the searching hands. That’s all it
took. I rolled on my belly and squealing and whimpering, blind to everything else, brought
myself off, under the menacing spider.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
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