Faranger’s wrists were shackled and his arms spread out and raised. Like DaVinci’s man in a circle, he thought. This time his ankles were also chained. The moderator’s talk about genitals and buttocks was already making him begin to feel full in just those places, and nothing had yet happened. He was glad his hands were shackled, in case he simply collapsed from fright. The purity of pain! he thought scornfully. Bullshit! What could be more of a psychological game than this business of focusing on something by not touching it. But he was helpless. It worked. He longed for someone to just slap his dick and his ass. Hard!
The first associates to approach him were a young couple. Their whips had dozens of thongs, of slightly different lengths, attached the handle in a conventional fashion. They took turns, each slamming his calves twice in turn. It hurt, certainly, but the moderator was right. Much of the sensation was arousal in his genitals and buttocks.
Next came the man with the heavy whip. As Faranger watched him he felt an exquisite rush of fear mixed with arousal. The man went behind Faranger, just out of his field of vision. He waited for several moments. Faranger tensed in anticipation, digging his fingers into his palms. Finally a blow came, diagonally from shoulder to hip. The tip of the whip snaked down his right side, next to his buttock. But, of course, not touching it. The same thing happened from the other direction much quicker than Faranger expected or could prepare for. His back was already aflame when the whip landed across his shoulder blades, and just below his waist. His whole back throbbed, as did the focal points, which had not yet been touched.
Then two women approached and positioned themselves on either side of him. The blond handler came and gently held Faranger’s penis down as far as was possible. The touch gave him no relief. It only inflamed him. The women took it in turn to lay almost perfectly straight stripes down his torso. The second strike caught in some pubic hairs. “Oh, I’m so sorry!” one of the women said, apparently with sincerity, as she pulled them out to release the whip. Faranger had strength enough to smile to himself through the pain at the irony of it.
The fourth people to take their turn were an older couple, almost elderly. Their whips were short and of the “rake” structure. The blond handler raised Faranger’s scrotum. Faranger gripped the chains holding his wrist manacles. The couple first whipped Faranger’s inner thighs in the front, swinging from above his thighs. But for the second blows, they came at him from behind and marked his inner thighs toward the back. The moderator was right. This was even more painful and erotic than the blows on his torso. It’s almost over. What will happen? Will I come through all this pain?
Finally the avoidance strategy was over. The young woman with the metal cylinder approached him. It was hinged along one side and lined with small knobs. She closed it around his penis and began to draw the two sides together. She carefully watched Faranger’s face and his erection, extracting the most pain possible without causing it to collapse. He gritted his teeth and flung his head back, groaning, suppressing a loud cry. When she removed the device Faranger felt some relief, but still craved completion.
The man with the wooden paddle approached. He paused long enough to engage Faranger’s gaze, his own face expressionless. Fear and anticipation and sexual tension overwhelmed him, cringing and craving at the same time. And then it came, a powerful blow to his buttocks. Semen shot from his body. He cried out in pain and climax, a second time. A third time. There was no fourth blow. Faranger was clearly finished. The man returned to the table and sat down.
Faranger panted for several moments and then gave a long sigh, grateful that the pain was finally sufficient to meet his needs. He could rest now.
REST
And, indeed, rest came quickly. When the handlers arrived, Faranger was hanging by his wrists, so one held him up with an arm around his waist while the other unshackled him. The handlers didn’t put on the arm restraints or the cape, nor did they let him sit down. Instead they brought his arms across their shoulders and made their way directly to a cage in the crescent of the three stations. It was about four feet high and set on a four foot high stand. A circle of lights was switched on around them. The cage was large enough to comfortably accommodate a man lying down on the padded surface, with a small leather pillow, and there was more space between the pillow and the end of the cage. “The door will be locked until morning, so, of course, you’ll have to spend the night here,” said the darker handler. “But it also prevents the spectators from touching you with anything but their hands. The sedative we’ll give you is strong enough that you should be able to get a few hours of good sleep anyway.”
There was a narrow urinal attached to one outside corner, appearing to be made of rose quartz. “Go ahead,” said the blond handler. “The rule against touching yourself is over.”
Faranger took advantage of the opportunity, reflecting on how the word “relieve” could be so especially appropriate in certain circumstances. He was aware that there were people in the surrounding darkness watching him. But it no longer mattered. He and the handler watched the stream swirl down the quartz and then Faranger lifted himself onto the floor of the cage and sat with his legs hanging over the edge. The dark one fetched a glass from a shelf on the end of the cage. “This drink has no stimulant,” he said. “Instead it will relax you and allow you to sleep if you wish.” Faranger drank it down. No bubbles, just a soothing herbal taste.
“Would you like me to contact you after you leave here?” asked the blond. Faranger valued the memory of his violation, but… “No, I think not. But thank you. Thank you for everything.” Both handlers nodded and said, “Goodbye, sir.” “Goodbye”, said Faranger.” He pulled his legs into the cage and lay down on his stomach, exhausted.
The white gowned attendant arrived and climbed in, after setting down her silver tray in the space above the pillow. “There’s some bleeding on your back. This will sting a little, but it will stop the bleeding.” It stung a lot – teeth grinding, but as the sting faded so did the burning pain. It felt wonderful. But even better was when she rubbed lotion into his buttocks with a firm, kind, circular motion. He knew he was badly bruised. She applied ointment from a tube to his anus and then proceeded to rub lotion onto the bruises along his thighs and calves. The ointment was cool and warm at the same time. Her hands were wonderfully gentle. The whipping was almost worth the pleasure of this treatment.
“Could you turn over, please? I’ll do your front.” Now I can see her, he thought. But she was sitting sideways with her head bent. Her hair prevented his getting a good look and he was too tired to make an effort to catch a better glimpse.