Pain Pig

I don't know why I go there. I thought that as I got older maybe my thoughts...my needs...would fade, but instead they've ripened, matured.

She's young: not above 22. Maybe not even that. A full head shorter than me; a pale icy blonde, looking at me now through the half open door with that curious expression she wears: supercilious, but predatory. And me? I'm...well, 'old enough to be her mother' might fit the bill, and still leave a little to guesswork. And I'm not blonde.

Inside, the house reflects her: light; pale colours and honeyed wood. I'm the only object out of place, standing while she looks me up and down, waiting for her to dictate where we go from here..

"Nice dress."

The touch of distain in her voice is mirrored in the curl of her nostril. The dress is cheap, floral man made material, slightly stained at the armpits.

"So you couldn't stay away? Had to come back yet again? Just a little pain pig, wetting your musty knickers at the thought of a beating? Is that why you've come here then, for that is it?

The barbed rhetoric rakes my cheeks to a crimson flush.

She's prowling round me, looking at my shabby appearance. The artificial fibre of my dress is sweaty on this warm afternoon and a stale smell clings to it. She wrinkles her nose. "God, you stink: don't you ever wash?"

She turns to me suddenly and snaps "Get your bloody clothes off, now!"

Her expression is still contemptuous as she watches me fumble with the zip of my dress. I look for somewhere to put it down but she pulls it out of my hand and throws it on the floor.

My underwear is even less attractive than the dress, old and shapeless, going grey. I deposit it on the floor with the dress: she comes over and ostentatiously wipes her shoes on my clothes. I bend to undo the laces on my footwear, but she stops me.

"Leave them on! I'm not having your feet stinking up my house."

I am wearing an old grubby pair of faded, worn sneakers and she is right: they do smell.

"Just stand there! And put your hands on your head!"

She circles me, slowly, staring. I can hear the little snorts of derision as she looks my naked body up and down. I do my best to pull in my stomach, tighten my buttocks, but the muscles are slack, out of condition. She puts an end to that pretence by pinching a fold of loose flesh about my middle and twisting it viciously.

"Don't try and hold your flabby stomach in you pathetic wreck, you can't disguise it."

She continues her slow walk around me and I feel her fingering my hair. It's overdue for a wash, lank and sweaty after my walk here in the hot afternoon sun.

" I don't know how you can bear to be seen with a rat's nest like this on your head. You ought to shave the whole greasy mess off."

She flicks at my breast with an immaculately painted fingernail."Sagging a bit now, aren't they?" She flicks the other one. "Sad, tired and past it. Just like the rest of you."

She stops directly in front of me and grasps my face in her hand, her nails digging into my cheeks. "But I can still get something out of you, can't I?"

I am forced to look down into her face, inches away from my own, staring at me intently.

"You're going to do some things for me, aren't you? Like scream, and yell, and cry. But first, let's see if that tired old body of yours has still got a vestige of life in it."

She releases her grip on my face only to slap me across the cheek. "Get your hands in the air and jog, you old bag," she screams. "I want to see those saggy tits bouncing."

The movement is mercilessly revealing; every accretion of tired flesh jigging loosely; thickening thighs ripple and stretch marks shine. If I could blank my mind and keep a steady rhythm I could keep it up for some time, but she's having none of that. She's poking and pinching, taking me off my balance and jeering at me when I stumble.

"Get those knees higher you lazy cow! "

I yelp at a stinging slap she lands on my thigh, leaving a clear red imprint of her hand: I lift my knees higher, and higher still as she slaps me again. My muscles protest at the added strain and my coordination begins to go. As my movements become less and less controlled I stagger too close too a delicately carved side table.

She screams at me to stand still and slaps my face again. "Watch where you're blundering about."

I stand still, breathing heavily. A sheen of sweat covers my nakedness and I can smell my own thickening body smell oozing from my unshaven armpits.

"Too much for you is it?" She pinches my nipples and twists them hard. "Perhaps if I caned these you'd liven up your dance a bit. Pathetic. Two minutes of exercise and you're falling apart. We'll just have to see if there's something else you can do for me: see if you can hurt and cry."

She forces me to my knees with an unrelenting pull on my breasts and then pushes me to the floor. "On your hands and knees and crawl back to the other room for your beating then, pig." She pokes me with the toe of her shoe and I crawl back into the hall and through into next room.

"Kiss my shoes!"

I bow my head further and press my lips to her feet, leaving a small damp kiss mark on each gleaming pointed toe. She bends down to grasp a handful of my hair and wipe the marks off.

The rear room is large, cool, airy: she is cool and relaxed as she strolls over to a wrought iron stand in the corner and picks out a thin cane. She looks back at me, fingering the tip of the cane.

"Do you want me to beat you, get you howling?"

She flicks the cane through the air a couple of times, enjoying the feel.

"I love the sound of a cane, that hiss it makes: that whipping sound just before it strikes. But do you know what I like most of all?" She bends forward so that her face is only inches from mine. "I love hearing you scream when it hits you."

She looks at me coolly and I felt the tip of the cane probing between my legs. It slides slowly up and down between the lips of my sex and I feel it become slick with my secretions.

"You're dripping already, you slut. Can't wait for it, can you?"

The cane presses hard into me, and I can't stop myself from pressing back.

"Let me hear you ask for it: let me hear you beg to be beaten you disgusting little pervert."

I mumble some sort of request: my mouth is dry and I can feel my heart pounding away. She takes a handful of my hair, yanks my head up to look at her and slaps my face hard.

"Don't bloody mumble you revolting little shit. When I tell you to beg for something I want to hear every word and I want to hear it like you mean it." She slaps me again on the other cheek. "Now do it properly!"

I can feel the blood pounding in my ears while I abase myself at her feet and beg her, please, to beat me, hurt me, make me cry.

She pushes me away with her foot. "All right then, pain pig, get yourself across that table."

'That table' is a narrow end table, a little higher than a coffee table. I lay myself across it, grasping the legs, ready to receive my caning, but it seems that I am not laid out to her satisfaction. She grasps my breasts and pulls me forward so that my upper body is clear of the table. In that position my knees can't reach the floor and I sprawl awkwardly, head down, buttocks up with my legs splayed out to support the ungainly position.

"That's a bit better." She encourages me to raise my backside a bit further by grasping a handful of my pubic hair and pulling me up higher.

I hear the brief click of her heel on the polished floor as she takes a brief two step run up and lays the cane into me with all her weight behind it. The impact and the fierce burn drive a deep gasped exclamation out of me.

"That's right, piggy, grunt before you squeal." The words are spat out as she lashes me again.

She lays into me and I'm hissing between my clenched teeth, holding to myself the sounds of my pains. Keeping inside myself, detaching.

I must be criss-crossed with weals, but all I can feel is a widespread burn overlaying the dull ache, deep down. Then I feel her nails digging in me, twisting my bruised and swollen flesh.

"Still space for some well deserved marks here." Her nails are poking at the top of my thigh. "Nice and tender there, where you fat arse droops down, isn't it? Now hold still."

She has the cane in her hand again; holding it against my skin, measuring stroke precisely. She draws the first cry from me as the cane whips into the soft fold of my flesh.

"That's got it out of you now, hasn't it? Come on, piggy, squeal for me." She cuts me again in the same spot and then again on the other side. These do not blend together: I seem to feel each burning stripe separately and distinctly. My sound is of a whimper than a scream, but I can't control it, any that I can stop the involuntary twitching of the deep muscles jumping at the call of the brutalised nerves in my skin.

Even when she stops my gulping sobs continue for a few moments. But not for long.

"Open your mouth" She puts the round handle of a small whip in my mouth. The handle is rubber, shaped and textured like a penis. "You know all about that, don't you? About the feel of your fanny whip?"

The rubber tastes sour and I have to suck on it to stop my saliva running out.

"That's right," - I can hear the contemptuous edge in her voice again - "I suppose that's something you are good at, being on your knees with a prick in your mouth."

There's the rattle of the cane dropping back into its place. I watch in silence as she picks up another implement.

"Now hold your arse cheeks apart." She's holding a narrow, thick rubber strap. She slaps it on another low table which jumps under the impact and the sound of the blow echoes off the walls.

"Ever had groove strap used on you, pig? Of course you have, haven't you, and I bet you just love it, the chance to wave your dirty little arse in the air."

How low can I go, thrusting my backside in the air, pulling aside the spare rolls of flesh just to give her a good target to hurt me.

And hurt she does, slapping the rubber strap hard into the crack. It stings and it aches at the same time: I long to let go, let the bruised depths retreat into their accustomed darkness. But at my slight easing of the spread of my legs she brings the strap down hard across my knuckles. "Did I say you could let go, you slut?"

Recklessly I dig my nails into my own flesh and thrust the target at her: here I am, hurt me, it says. And she laughs while she strikes.

"Feels good to you...dirty...filthy...little pig..."

I'm howling, animal-like, my teeth clamped on the foul handle, mouth set in a rictus of pain. I feel almost insensate to the continued strapping, apart from small voice inside reminding me I'll pay dearly later. But I don't care.

She stops abruptly. Pain highs are not part of her pleasure. "Stand up," she hisses.

I rise awkwardly to my feet. My rear seems like a burning burden, attached to but not of me. My gait is ungainly from the forcing of my cramped muscles to straighten.

She throws the strap to the floor and rummages in a drawer for something. "Get over there!" she snaps at me, indicating the open area of floor near the french doors.

She's found what she was looking for: two intricate little chromed steel clamps dangling on the end of short chains. She grasps my right breast and rolls the nipple between finger, bringing it painfully erect. Erect, fit to be clamped in the shining jaws of her little toys. First one then the other, and she stands, one chain held lightly between forefinger and thumb in each hand, sharp nails tapping against steel, tugging to see they're secure. My breasts stretch and fall back.

"You know these, don't you?" She's smiling thinly at me again...tug..tug.."The harder you pull on them, the tighter they grip. Nice and secure. Now you pull on them."

She drops the ends of the chains and watches while I pick them up and pull, slowly, painfully stretching out my breasts. The clamps bite harder and harder. She takes the whip from my mouth and dries the handle on my hair. "Now you keep those saggy tits of yours pulled right out or I'll whip them till you do."

She's walking back towards the stand holding her canes and other toys. "Spread your legs and squat!"

I know which position she means. The knowledge has been forced on me in the past. I drop into the obscenely revealing pose, toes turned painfully far out, my sex thrust forward; my posture made further grotesque by the spread of my arms in a bizarre gesture like a welcome, but pulling on the chains clamped to my stretched and distorted breasts.

"Which is it to be, thighs or fanny?" She's running the thin leather tails of the little whip between her fingers. She lashes the inside of my thigh: it stings viciously and leaves an angry red fantail of marks. "Bloody well answer me."

"Thighs please, Madam, my thighs.." I can't face the other, not yet.

She laughs again. "Very well, but not with that little thing."

...The riding whip is a full four feet long, pencil thin, tipped with a stiffened plait that zips in the air with the sound of a mosquito coming in to gorge itself. Wantonly applied it can draw blood, but her strokes are far from careless. She's its mistress, using it to inflict the precise, drawn out and controlled pain she loves.

I scream as it cuts down the inside of my thigh, leaving an angry red stripe that raises up into a swollen weal instantly. The time for pretence is past: I can't help myself, crying out at each stroke, feeling the hot tears welling up and running down my cheeks.

My pulling on my aching breasts slackens for a moment and the whip slashes in, down and up, a double cut so fast that only the twin lines give it away momentarily before they blend together in the rapidly discolouring swelling. "Keep those tits stretched out until I say you can stop."

No yelling at me now: she's pleased, in control, getting her deepest kicks. She savours each stroke, carving an intricate pattern of welts on my skin. My crying serves only to excite her, becoming more enlivened with each choking sob she draws out of me. She heaves me upright, out of the squat, by my hair moments before my aching muscles would have given way of their own accord. She pulls me across the room, to the low table and forces me down on to it, on my back. I can see the excitement in her eyes, even through the blur of my tears when she kneels down close beside me.

"I just want you to know how much I'm enjoying this. I think it's really funny seeing you lying there crying, and we've nowhere near finished yet." She's standing up again. "And now I'm going to hurt you some more."

The small whip is in her hands again: she lashes at my legs to make me open them and the pain of the thin tails cutting across the existing bruises has me crying out again. The real whipping is worse though: straight between my legs, the cutting, stinging pain spreading up my mound on up to the navel. The lips of my sex shrink into themselves and retreat tight up. I cry and scream as she keeps the curling, spreading strokes cruelly and precisely on target.

"I'm sick of your noise". She throws a small package down to me. "Gag yourself."

In the package is a black rubber inflatable gag: I struggle to sit up so I can do the buckle up behind my head. I'm still crying while it's secured in position, but that doesn't stop her grabbing the inflator and pumping it up until it fills my mouth, distorting my face. My tears leave shining trails over the rubber clamped over my face and my crying forces out bubbles of saliva, which are trapped and collect in a sticky pool against my skin.

She forces me back down on to the table, her hand clamped on my face painfully grasping my swollen, inflated cheeks. Her eyes are bright with excitement when she leans over me, first twisting and pulling my breasts then slapping my face: light flicking slaps, goading me, daring me to resist her.

Her face is inches from mine, looking into my eyes: I can feel her hand pushing between my legs, pinching at the welts and bruises, trying to force it me. My tears and muffled cries only encourage her on. I can't help twisting with the pain of her probing, but her body weight is pinning me to the table. Finally she straddles me and presses my face hard against her, rubbing and kneading.

She stand back abruptly and pulls me roughly off the table and pushes me face down on the floor, grunting an instruction not to move. I hear her throw herself on to a chair. I lay on the cold wood for twenty, thirty minutes. It slowly numbs my flesh where it presses to the floor: I wish I could turn and dull the ache that spreads all across my rear.

At last I hear a movement and feel the pointed toe of her shoe poking me.

"Get up and crawl back to your clothes." The superior sneer is back in her voice.

I feel like I am limping even as I crawl slowly on hands and knees back into the other room. Each movement of my thighs causes sharp stabbing pains from the stretch of the bruises.

"Put your stinking rags back on and get out." She watches while I slowly dress, finally unbuckling the gag, releasing the trapped saliva which I hastily wipe on the sleeve of my dress. She curtly instructs me to dry the gag in the same fashion. I can't face pulling my knickers over my swollen thighs so I stuff them in my pocket.

I limp slowly towards the door and I can smell her scent clinging to my face: damp sticky patches of saliva cling to my dress.

"Wait!" She strolls casually over to me. "Bend over!"

She lifts my dress and feels me. "Still dripping like an old leaky tap I see." ...wipes her fingers on my dress, adding to the odours it gives off. She slaps my bruised behind hard. "Dirty..dirty...squalid..little.. pig." Spanking and pinching.

"Now what do you say to me, piggy."

"Thank you, Madam," I say, curtseying as best I can through the pain.

When I move to leave she throws a carrier bag tied up with string to me. "That's for next time."

I walk out in to the summer sunshine. She doesn't doubt that I'll be back. Neither do I.

- - - - - - - - -

Pain Pig - Epilogue

Each lurch and bump of the bus sends sharp stabs from my cuts and bruises, but all they do is add to the electric buzz suffusing me. We grind into the city centre and I feel eyes on me.

A city type, briefcase, smart lightweight suit, sitting opposite is looking me over. Why's he slumming it on a bus? Couldn't get a taxi and decided to take an opportunistic look at how the other half travel?

I can see the slight curl of his lip as he takes in my dirty and dishevelled appearance. His gaze travels downward and I spread my legs wide revealing the red stripes and purpling bruises all the way up my thighs to my naked crotch. I see him start and stare wide eyed at my trophies.

It's my turn to look superior now, staring him down as he hurries off the bus, too weak to contemplate even the sight of my strengths.

I hug my bag of old charity shop clothes and contemplate the future in the waves of euphoria enfolding me.

- - - - -

RRW

 

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