A Brush With Fire

"It's your choice."

She sounds indifferent. She is indifferent and I really do have a choice, even if it is one of those ‘choices' that make themselves.

She is going to punish me tomorrow night: there's no getting out of that, although I tried, but she's given me a choice of how. I can have the instruments - cane, tawse, paddle, whatever she chooses and uses, or I can have a simple hand spanking, and maybe a touch of the hairbrush. Plus, of course, the nettles. That's right, stinging nettles, fresh and in season.

The thing is, we've been invited up to a friend's villa next week and I dearly would love to go there without a lot of bruises and tramlines stopping me stripping off by the pool, so much as I hate the thought I'm probably going to opt for the nettles. Opt. Wrong word. I'm going to ask her if she would punish me with the nettles, please.

I ask her that evening. I try to keep my options open, but she's having none of that.

"I'm allowing you a choice, darling, and that's quite enough, so you make your mind up now. Do you want a thoroughly good whipping or do you want the nettles? Because if you mess me about I'll give you both."

We go out that evening to gather the wretched things. She loves that part of it, making me cut my own birches, pick my own riding crop, that sort of thing. She blends into the country setting beautifully, waxed jacket, green wellies. I don't. She's dressed me in a bright blue PVC mac and matching boots, so I look like a gawky townee, out of place in this rural domain. But it's just one of those little markers she surrounds us with. The ones that say ‘*I* know the score, *I'm* in charge': a little touch of femdom humiliation Anyway she likes that mac; she has me buttoned up and belted tight and every so often she pauses to hug or touch me, her favourite little plaything.

"These look like nice ones, what do you think?" She's brushing her foot against a thick clump of nettles emerging from a ditch. It is not a rhetorical question.

I have to point out that the nettles are rather leggy and elongated from growing in the shade of the ditch. That shape is good for some things, but not what she is set on now.

"Yes, you're so right, let's see if we can find some better ones. I want to make this really special for you."

A bit further on we come to another patch by a hedgerow where they are growing in damp patch in full sun, thick and luxuriant, fed by run off from the raised field over the hedge.

"Do you like these ones better?" She is smiling at me now. She knows these are just what she needs, and I have to say, yes, these are just right. I put on a pair of thick rubber gloves and begin cutting them, laying them in a basket lined with a damp cloth.

"Be sure to cut plenty, darling, they look so good. " She runs her (gloved) finger through the thick, dark leaves. "You were right, these are so much better than the others, they've got lots more leaves." She is getting excited at the thought. "The stings are really full at this time of year, aren't they? These are going to sting like mad, they're wonderful."

She kisses me long and hard and rubs me gently but somehow I don't feel as excited as her. We walk back across the fields arm in arm, I with my basket of pain and her musing on details. "Should I tie you down, do you think, or make you stand there and take it?"

We deposit the deadly load in the car and she insists on popping into a nearby pub for a quick drink. As expected she chats and jokes with the regulars, enjoying her drink and their attention, while I'm cast as her dorky friend, an impression underlined by her insistence on buttoning my mac right up to the storm collar before we go in. That and the glass of lemonade with a straw in it she orders for me.

"They thought you were a bit odd, darling," she giggles, as we leave. "That'll be a good place to take you again when a little public showing off is in order. Mind you, if they knew how odd we really were, they'd run a mile."

Back home she watches as I rinse the nettles in cold water and place them in buckets of water in the garage to stay fresh. A thick smell of vegetation permeates the air.

Before she leaves the next morning she reminds me "Don't forget to make up the nettles, darling, I'm really looking forward to tonight. I'll tell you what, I'll pop home for a few minutes just after lunchtime to see how you're getting on."

I spend the morning preparing the nettles in four bunches of varying sorts, made up in the usual way so they'll stay fresh without needing to stay in the buckets. I'm beginning to wish I'd foregone my thoughts of lazing by the pool and accepted the whipping, but it's too late now.

She calls by just after 2, and the bunches are arranged neatly in the kitchen, with just a few odd strands still unused. As she kisses me goodbye again she whispers in my ear "would you like me to slip a few down your panties now, darling? Keep you hopping until I get back?"

She's joking, I think. At any rate I demur and she doesn't press the point.

Later that day we're sitting curled up on the sofa, watching the early evening news while rubs me gently with her fingers and I start to go soft and moist. "Just let me know when you'd like to play with your nettles, darling, " she murmurs as she nibbles my ear lobe gently. Do I ask early and maybe end up with an extra long session, or do I wait and risk her becoming less relaxed than she appears to be right now. I go for early and about ten minutes later dry mouthed I ask, "May I go and get the nettles now?"

She smiles. "I bet you'd like the hairbrush too, wouldn't you?"

A few minutes more and I am standing before her wearing only my new bikini bottom as she carefully marks its outline on me with an eyebrow pencil. Another minute and the bikini has gone as well and I'm naked over her lap. She spanks me slow and hard, each slap caressed in as the sound echos around. She pauses every few strokes to pinch me here and there as the fancy takes her. Her hand unaided gets uncomfortable eventually but never really that painful. It is more of an enhanced but spiky caress we share. The hairbrush just hurts like hell and I'm moaning after just a few strokes.

"There now, " she whispers to me, "every stroke well inside your bikini: that'll be our little secret won't it? And perhaps we'll have a little more in a while, but I want all your senses alert for the next part, darling."

She puts the soft leather cuffs on me and swops me for the hanging basket on a ceiling hook. I'm not hanging, although the hook and hoist would take the weight, just comfortablu stretched up with a little freedom of movement. I can feel the sweat beginning to prickle at my skin as I watch her put on a thick rubber apron and elbow length gloves and I wait for her to begin. The rubber feels cool against my skin as she holds and kisses me.

She picks up a bunch of half a dozen long stemmed nettles bound tightly together so that the tips fluff out, rather like a feather duster. Holding them well away from me she approaches and crooks a finger under my chin. "Where would you like me to begin, darling?"

She moves behind me and I feel her fingers tracing down my spine. "On your back?"...her hand cups my aching buttock.."Over all these decorations?" .....runs down my legs.."Or perhaps down here?. I'll start wherever you like, darling, which appeals to you?"

Oh, the back, start at the back, what does it matter...which comes out as "Please, please would you begin with my back."

And she does just that: she gently brushes and strokes the tip of her green wand down my spine from neck to buttock crease. I moan as a mane of fire sprouts thickly down my back. I tense and start to lift myself clear of the floor, but she is wise to that. Her head appears over my shoulder and she whispers intimately to me

"Relax, precious, you have to relax to take in the pain. I'll have to give you a small reminder, won't I?" Two solid swats from the hairbrush land precisely on the area already heavily visited.

The nettles resume their razor tipped caresses, stroking at the back of my thighs and down my calves as I tremble with the effort of standing still. When she emerges into my line of vision I can see her excitement showing. She places the nettles to one side. "I think these are about used up, don't you? I'll get you some fresh ones."

She returns with a shorter, bushier bunch and perches on the arm of a chair, smiling at me and swishing them gently to and fro. "Are you enjoying it, darling? You made such a good job of these bouquets you must have been really looking forward to it."

She contemplates me for a few moments longer before rising. "Time for some more pain, darling. Spread your legs."

My legs feel welded together as she stands before me holding the nettles in a state of high anticipation. I reluctantly begin moving them apart.

"If you don't give me a good spread," she smiles, "I'll hang you upside down and spread you."

She is amused at my haste to open my legs for her and at my writhing as she strokes the nettles up and down the inside of my thighs. She loves to administer her attentions face to face, feed vicariously on my pain. Up and down, inside and out, she works over my legs methodically until I feel as if I am standing in a bath of fire. She stands close, so close I can feel her breath on my face. She looks into my eyes, holds them, as she reaches up and gently, oh so gently swishes at the soft skin on the underside of my upstretched arms. It is agonising, but the pain in my eyes only feeds her.

She holds my chin and I stare at her, blurred through a veil of of tears. Dabbing the tears dry she is gentleness itself, "Don't worry, darling, when it all gets too much I'll gag you and you can scream all you want. But we're not there yet, are we?"

A fresh bunch again, short, bushy and thick, engorged with poison. Again she stands in front of me, looking at me, willing me to read her thoughts. My stomach muscles contract involuntarily and her tight lipped smile signals that she has indeed transmitted her intent, a moment before she thrusts the bunch hard against me. As I jerk on the end of the chain she follows me with the nettles, so my writhing only serves to increase the swishing of the stings across my skin.

Again she dries my tears, but for her purpose. She wipes the sweat from my brow, smoothes down my hair, stands beside me holding me gently and picks up the nettles once more. She kisses gently at my neck, tasting the salty rivulets of sweat. "Breasts, now, darling," she murmurs, "time to do your lovely titties."

Cheek to cheek we look down at the lush green nettles she is waving gently, inches from me. "How do you think it's going to feel when these are caressing you? Can you feel them in your mind already, biting at those tender little mounds? Soft flesh is the worst, isn't it, as the stings go deepest. First one, then the other. Pain on pain, precious."

She backs off slightly, still standing to one side with her arm around me. "Look at me, darling, I want to see every tiny little bit of pain in your eyes."

I turn to look at her and the pain comes as she hugs me and stirs the nettles around and around, flicks them back and forth, thrusts them upwards while I cry and moan. I am lost in the maze of fire which is consuming me but she has more yet. I feel her warm rubber clad fingers prising my mouth open between sobs. "Time for the gag, darling, open nice and wide for me."

She holds my mouth open and pushes in the rubber ball. It is the gag with the full head harness and she fiddles around with the buckles and straps while my crying turns to a spittle laden snuffling. The adjustments are unecessary: nothing has changed since the last time she used it, but she wants me to feel it, heighten my awareness that *she* is putting a gag on *me*.

She is waiting for me to focus on the strip of duct tape she is holding. No, not that, please. But yes, she sticks a sanitary towel to it, leaving strips of adhesive free top and bottom to stick it solidly in place. "Nice and wide for me again, darling, " she laughs.

I open my legs again, but first she goes all around me, covering the unstung areas on my back, sides and arms until my skin is simmering all over. Now she has the final bunch of nettles and is approaching for that final burst of pain. It comes as she thrusts the bunch hard up between my legs, grinding all around while I howl into the gag. Her very final touch is to draw them slowly between my buttock cheeks, which sets me screaming afresh before she releases the chain and I slump to the floor.

Even in my curled up sobbing heap I can sense the silence and stillness. I look up and see she is standing there holding the hairbrush. "Not finished quite yet, darling. Get yourself over the arm of the chair please."

I stare dumbly at her.

Get yourself over the arm of the chair, please," she repeats in a harder tone, "unless you want to spend all night locked into that gag."

I drape myself over the arm of the chair and feel the hairbrush stroking my bruised backside. "Don't be afraid to scream and cry, darling, I want to hear that."

She gets what she wants and we stagger off to bed. When I pick up the discarded hairbrush the next morning, the handle is still sticky.

Epilogue

She massaged me gently with soothing cream which dulled a little of the burning. I resisted the tempatation to scratch and in 24 hours the ugly raised weals had subsided to sharp red spots that burned when I brushed them to hard. After two days most traces had gone but unexpected sharp stinging sensations erupted here and there form time to time as my overstimulated nerve endings settled down. After three days aonly a little skin sensitivity here and there remained and I was in a fit state for my week of lounging by the pool.

If only it had worked out that way.

RRW

 

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