Finally the handlers reappeared. They gave him the glass of rejuvenating drink, bound his arms and then left him on display for several more moments before covering him with the cape. The now familiar feel of the handler’s knuckles moving over his genitals and torso was mildly stimulating, but also strangely comforting.
PUNISHMENT
As they walked toward the next station Faranger reflected that it might be a good thing that punishment was saved for last. He was getting mentally exhausted by the unremitting psychological torment, the humiliation. He thought he might feel somehow cleaned out if he faced pure physical pain. He found himself perhaps actually craving it. He stood up straighter and picked up his pace.
When they arrived at the last round table in the last pool of light, a refined looking man in a suit stood up. “Ah, welcome, Mr. Faranger.” Now, gentleman,” he said, addressing the handlers. Please disrobe him and I’ll explain what we’re about here. You can also unbind his arms.” They did as requested. This time, though, the blond caressed his genitals every so fleetingly when he reached the bottom and the men exchanged the faintest of smiles. They then gave his arms a swift one stroke rub down and left Faranger standing before the moderator and the table of associates behind him.
“We are the most scientific and practiced of the groups in The Association. We’ve studied whipping strategies, and we know what works and doesn’t. The goal is to bring you to orgasm without resorting to any other method than pain. We’re always successful.”
He picked up a pointer, like a teacher might use to indicate markings on a blackboard. Instead he indicated places on Faranger’s body. “The overall strategy is to avoid your genitals and buttocks until the very last. This focuses your attention. You’ll find you’re craving pain in those very regions. We’re highly skilled at wielding the whips and we’ll land very close, but never touching those areas. Indeed, when we aim here,” he touched Faranger in his pubic hair, “we’ll have one of your helpers hold your erection out of the way. By that time you’ll definitely have an erection, guaranteed. And here,” he touched the joint where Faranger’s thigh met his torso, “they’ll hold your scrotum out of the way. So, this will be the sequence. I expect you’re already feeling a warm tingling in those areas. Yes?”
“We’ll start with the least erogenous area, your calves.” He tapped Faranger’s calves with his pointer. “Next we’ll lash your back. In each area there will only be four strikes, sometimes by one person, sometimes divided between two.
The heaviest whip will be used on your back. Mr. Aiello is able to guide the whip down here, he stroked Faranger’s hip, but not touch your buttocks.” Faranger cringed inwardly as the stroke of the pointer down his back created vivid images of whip strokes, but he also experienced an erotic spasm in his lower abdomen, which he was sure was apparent to the onlookers.
“Then we move to your abdomen.” He let the pointer drift down the center. “You might think that would be the penultimate erogenous zone, but really, it’s here.” He stroked Faranger’s inner thighs from torso to knee. “You’ll see.
Next, we’ll torture your penis. We won’t use an actual whip. Instead we’ll use an instrument just for that purpose.” He pointed at Faranger’s penis, but didn’t touch it. “By that time you will need this badly. You will be grateful for the pain.
Finally, we’ll use this instrument to whip your buttocks so hard that you will ejaculate. Guaranteed. Works every time.” He picked up an object from the table. It was a piece of thin board, about 8 inches wide and two feet long with a handle at one end. On one side of it another, even thinner, board was affixed with hinges. The moderator slammed the board onto the table making a terrific sound that was followed almost simultaneously by the sound of the second board slamming home. “We don’t like to call this a paddle, too juvenile. This is an instrument of torture, pure and simple, particularly in the hands of Mr. Mangu over there.” He pointed to a large man whose muscles were clearly defined under the jersey under his sport coat. “This will certainly leave you seriously bruised, but, as we promise in our marketing, no permanent injury.”
By this time Faranger was not sure at all that the punishment station was a good idea. But there was nothing for it but to hang in there.
“Now, just a word about the injuries our whips inflict.” He picked up a whip with dozens of leather thongs, each tipped with a very small stainless steel ball. “These little balls will bruise you. Sometimes they draw blood, but usually not, except for your back. That whip is a standard bull whip. The clever thing about our weapons and our training is that we can leave you with lines of bruises straight up and down your body. Quite amazing, really. So, for instance, you’ll have a line from here to here.” He drew his pointer from Faranger’s chest to his pubic hair, just to the left of his left nipple. “And one from here to here.” He traced a line from Faranger’s throat, just to the left of his breast bone down to a point just above and to the left of his penis. “And two more lines on the other side. We’re very proud of our technique.” He smiled in a self satisfied way.
“The design is very important too. You see the thongs are spread out along a cross bar, sort of like a garden rake, but look. There’s just a very slight difference in the length. The outer thongs are longer than the middle ones. This is so they make a straight line when they’re flung out.” He smiled again with satisfaction.
“OK. Would you get the whips and things over there on that table, and distribute them to the associates?”
Faranger was on the verge of feeling faint with fear, but went to the table that was indicated. All of the instruments except the wooden one were in a single pile. He picked it up and went back to the moderator’s side. “Just pick out something. The right person will ask for it.” Faranger grasped what looked like a whip for a horse. A brawny man to his right leaned over and took it. Next was a shorter whip with dozens of thongs. It was the one the moderator had used in his talk. A middle aged woman reached for it. She was part of the couple who had been ahead of him at the registration desk. “There’s another one in there. They come as a set.” Faranger found it and handed it to her partner. He handed a similar pair to another couple, a metal contraption that looked like a large hair curler to a young woman” Then he picked up the infamous wooden instrument and handed it to Mangu. Each time he handed over an instrument he had looked the recipient in the eye, but this time, instead of feeling subjugation, he had the sense that he was a client handing out equipment for people to perform a service. And, as a matter of fact, that was exactly what the situation was.
“Fine, fine.” Said the moderator. Now we need to tie you in place. Please step over here.” He indicated a space lit up by a small spotlight. There were ankle bracelets chained to the floor about 3 feet apart, and wrist bracelets hanging from a bar attached to an arm attached to a heavy pedestal. The arm was long enough so that there was no impediment to accessing Faranger from any angle.