Uncommon Beauty

 

It's a dream...just a dream.

Straps hold my naked body to the tree. Someone is tying my hair back. My assailant moves in closer, pushing his randy body against mine, touching my bare ass with his crotch. I shudder at the size of him, at his unwelcome hardness. I pull fiercely on the unyielding straps, but they hold me in place--helpless, hopeless, alone.

I'm trapped in a nightmare that's beyond my control or understanding; one that will reach its own end in its own time. Anyone who has ever fallen in a dream understands how I feel. There's no savior, no fortuitous net, no errant rope to grab, only the knowledge of a sure death.

A dream...I keep repeating the word; willing myself awake.

"Please...don't!" I whisper, feeling his hot breath on my neck.

He snickers meanly and runs his rough hand over my ass. The demented sound tells me all I need to know. I touch the tree with my face in despair and taste the saliva of other girls, many others, on my lips. I can feel their tooth marks in the wood and the lingering heat of their thighs between my legs.

I twist against the bonds. My wrists are strapped above my head, pulled high by a spike nailed into the tree's backside, my ankles are pulled tight as well to another just below my bare feet. The wide leather stretches my body to its limits forcing me to embrace the living wood like a lover. The trunk is just wide enough to fit between my breasts, just wide enough to spread my thighs...bracing both for the lash. I can feel sweat dropping off my exposed nipples, trickling down my ass crack, wending its way through the fine hairs above my clit.

He takes a step back and I panic, tugging on the straps. It's time! I start breathing fast like a live rabbit being gutted. Every muscle in my body is flexed to its limit, my skin is taut. I know this will only further arouse the monster's lust, but I don't care. The only thing that matters now is the pain to come. Desperately, I try to look back, but the straps are too tight to turn my head. Suddenly the air is cut by a terrifying whooshing sound and I freeze. Nothing else makes that sound...only a whip. I remember the woven leather whip on his belt.

The girls lying nearby in the grass cry out then shrink back in fear. Their quivering flesh has already been kissed by the snake. It's a living thing to them now, a vicious painful animal, when it moves, they cower.

My legs and arms begin to shake wildly. He laughs and steps in close, fussily tying my elbows and knees together. He's a perfectionist, an artist. Flapping limbs are not part of his vision; not part of the aesthetic he's created in his demonic mind. He steps back again and satisfied, casually limbers his instrument slicing air with each flick of his wrist.

He's enjoying my fear! Getting off on it; using my trembling body to mentally masturbate. I can literally feel his growing excitement on my skin.

"A dream...it's only a dream," I whisper into the wood.

The first stroke is across my ass and I scream, more in surprise than pain. He laughs--a mindless giggle. Incredibly, the derision stirs anger and I pull fiercely on the straps, even cursing him for the coward he is. My discordant words travel to the men by the fire and they laugh and shout taunts at him.

I feel his retribution in the whip as he lays another line of flame an inch below the first. This time I stifle the scream with my lingering anger, refusing to be a part of his madness. The pain is bad but not unbearable. He lays on another stroke then another then another, each increasing in speed and force and the sure promise of retribution.

In my mind I know this is preparation, a light lashing designed to warm the skin, but I convince myself that it's the main event. The self-delusion smothers my fear until he lays on the first real stroke. I cry out in utter anguish--my anger, my feeble resistance, my convenient self-delusion all forgotten. I hold my breath then bite hard into the tree's skin, drooling, squeezing the tree's smooth bark with my thighs in a bone-crushing grip. The next stroke puts the lash on my unmoving breast, the tip strikes a nipple. For a moment I don't feel anything then my head leans back and a strangled gurgle passes between my lips. I don't have mind enough to formulate a scream. It's as if a white-hot poker is being inserted into my tit.

I've been whipped before, many times, but this agony is different--the dream, unfettered by physical limitations, is multiplying the pain.

I'm still gasping for breath when the snake bites hard at my ass then my thigh then my calf. The right side of my body is on fire. I twist and screech mindlessly like an animal, crying for him to stop. His response is the same insane giggle. He savages my left side the same way as the right then moves to my bare back. He ends this series with four nips at the insides of my thighs.

My brain is molten metal hollowing me out from the inside. I want to faint, to die, to wake, whatever it takes, anything to stop the agony. He begins again, using the same infernal pace and sequence. Time loses its meaning, the only thing that matters is the horrible unbearable pain.

At some point my body intercedes, sending endorphins to flood my nerve endings, anesthetizing them against this ongoing torrent of suffering. It's a powerful drug and immediately I feel myself drifting off, away from the tree. It's as if I am witnessing the atrocity rather than being its victim.

Grudgingly, I acknowledge my torturer's expertise. Each stroke is precisely placed, precisely timed and, for all the suffering he's causing, I know that there will be no lasting effects, no scars to mark the personal cataclysm of his whipping. No evidence of my trauma. I'm valuable to these men, too valuable to damage with punishment.

The realization brings on strange new feelings. I sense the vibration of an oncoming orgasm, like thunder in the distance. Slowly my out-of-body persona begins to return to its home. I can feel the pain again, but its different now...like the rough handling of an out-of-control lover. I respond to it...with my own unsuppressed passion.

It's always the same--the initial terror, the excruciating pain, the rush of blessed endorphin, the tumultuous orgasm. Like everything else in life, there's a balance in this affair--the terror and pain of my torture eventually spawn feelings of pleasure that lead to a final crash of cymbals, a climax that defies description.

I claw wildly at the tree with my hands, rub my clit hard against the smooth wood, and suck on the bark as the orgasm roars over me like a freight train. In those moments I am not human, just a wild animal shuddering in unimagined fear and release. It is a long time before the shaking stops, before I can think again about dreams.

And still I don't wake.