Quality Time

     The submissive Kim sat quietly on the floor, her back up against the sofa. She was wearing a white canvas straitjacket. Her hands and arms were useless, sheathed in their oversized sleeves which forced them to wrap around her thin waist, hugging herself tightly. Then they were buckled together behind her. Four more roller buckles ran along the center of her back, effectively and comfortably securing her in the kinky garment. Two cinch straps ran parallel from the bottom of the jacket framing her crotch and connecting on the back side to prevent her from shrugging the restraint off. Fastened in as she was, there was no escape. She couldn’t even see any of the buckles let alone reach them.
 
      Alone with her thoughts and feelings, she was both excited and anxious about this afternoon’s playtime. Usually Marc would discuss the general themes for their sessions with her to give her an idea of what was in store. If she was uncomfortable with any aspect, then they would negotiate, achieving the ultimate goal of consensual BDSM. But this sitting was different. There was no discussion. Kim had even asked last night before they went to bed for a hint or clue about what he had in mind. He refused to answer and just smiled.  
 
      Marc finally came in from elsewhere in the apartment. He turned the lights off so only natural sunlight lit the room. Kim saw that he was no longer wearing his watch. He walked over to the clock on the wall, unplugged it, and removed it. Next, Thibodaux turned the clock on the table over, face down. All of this he did without a word. The message was clear – today time does not matter. Kim was to have no idea when the punishment would commence, how long it would endure, and what time it would mercifully end.
 
         Marc then focused on finishing her restraints.  Kim’s lissome legs were spread painfully wide by a thin metal spreader bar which was secured to her by two leather cuffs buckled around her ankles. Her hips ached. In the center of the spreader bar, Marc placed a cushion from the couch. He then sat upon the pillow, pinning his sexy captive to the floor with his body weight. Kim wiggled her ankles to make sure that the cuffs were not too tight, cutting of her circulation. She had the feeling that she was going to be in them a long, long time.
 
     Next, Marc took out a fresh roll of heavy duty silver duct tape. Kim did not recognize it, so Marc must have brought it. He then began tearing off ten inch strips of tape, a dozen to be exact. Carefully, he applied strip after strip of tape over her lips and face. With each application, Kim felt like she was losing more and more control. This continued until the girl’s mouth was sealed shut. The captive tried to move her lips, it was impossible. Kim’s face felt a strange, tingling, and itchy warmness. There would be no scratching her itch right now. Maybe ever.
 
     “Here’s how this going to go” Marc said. “Until I say so, you will be kept in your straitjacket. No exceptions. Additionally, you will remain gagged unless you are pleasuring me with your mouth or eating and drinking. Do you understand?”
 
     “Mmmmph, mmmph.” was all she was able to reply. The captive was erotically astonished. Now wide eyed, Kim then shook her head affirmative. The gagging was completely effective, she could not speak at all.  Although she was becoming more and more afraid, the severity of this bondage was titillating. Kim started to feel all warm and misty below. Her face got flush, turning red.
 
     Just then Marc showed her a broad tip magic marker. It was a black sharpie. Kim looked at it, puzzled. He removed the pen’s top. The smell of the ink was potent. Reaching forward, he slowly and carefully wrote “k” in the middle of her forehead in dark permanent ink. She looked up, cross-eyed helplessly watching him write on her face. The lower case letter was large and perfectly centered on her brow. Marc chuckled to himself, pleased with his work. Although she couldn’t see it, the captive knew exactly what he had written. Kim felt humiliated, branded like a calf. She had the urge to wipe it away, but her hands were encased. Her fingers scratched at the canvas fabric that sheathed them, like she was trying to claw her way out. Marc could hear the noise and laughed out loud.
 
     “Just to be clear, let me remind you of your predicament. You are naked, gagged, and buckled into a straitjacket. You can’t get loose, no one is coming to rescue you, and I certainly am not letting you go.” Kim briefly tested her bonds, he was so right. “You don’t need to talk - your body will tell me everything I need to know. Over the next couple of days I am going to do many different things to you. Some of them you will enjoy, most you will not.” With that introduction, Thibodaux became silent. Those were to be the last words he would speak. His eyes were glued to hers. She was trapped in his stare. Suddenly she felt very, very, very small. Whereas Marc seemed to fill the entire room, blot out everything else.
 
     Calm, focused, and confident. These were some of the feelings that Marc was experiencing. In his mind, he had the blueprint for the morning’s conferment. As he sat naked, seated between Kim’s forcibly spread legs, his cock was semi flaccid. “Quality Time”, as he called it, wasn’t about reaching an orgasm for either of them. No, this was about satisfying another kind of lust, his sadism and her masochism. So, there would be no pleasure for now, only pain.
 
     Marc then produced an old wooden hair brush. The handle was ornate with detailed carving and had bristles of real horse hair. Kim eyed the brush with an element of dread. She fidgeted around in her bonds. Her breathing became more shallow and rapid. Reaching forward, Marc then slowly and sadistically dragged the brush, bristles down, across her tender pudendum. A thousand pin pricks occurred all at once, the sensation magnified a thousand-fold by the sensitivity of her hooded clit. Kim’s reaction was pronounced and immediate. She tried to squirm away but was held fast in place. A diabolical smile came across her playmate’s face. Time to begin, Marc decided.
 
      Switching hands, he then came down forcefully with the brush, bristles facing up, on the inside of k’s right thigh. “SLAP”, was the sound that it made, loud and crisp. The sting was white hot, radiating outwards. Kim jolted and leaned slightly forward as if to push him away, but her hands were pinned. The captive became still, bracing herself physically and emotionally. Then came three more quick, hard blows in succession. Her skin burned, as if on fire.
 
     Stopping for a moment, Marc reached for his glass and took a sip of champagne. He then carefully studied his victim. Forced to sit silently, her eyes were moist with welled up tears. Kim relaxed her body for a moment, sensing a lull in the conferring. Every muscle in her body felt tired from tensing.
 
     Quietly, Marc took stock of his feelings right now. Blood surged through his veins. Deep breaths filled his lungs. His head was swimming with endorphins, like a runner’s high. Having Kim totally helpless like this was intoxicating. He felt godlike and omnipotent. He studied her duct taped face, looking into her dewy eyes. She met his stare unwaveringly, despite her fright. Kim was breathing very quickly through her runny nose. Rivulets of snot were running down the duct tape, gathering at her chin. Her hair was a mess, disheveled and sweaty. Mark raised the hairbrush again for another strike, she tensed in preparation.  
 
     Action, reaction he mused. He then recalled her poem that he had read while she was showering after their first night together. It was so true. During this play they both were completely in moment. No daydreaming or creeping thoughts about anything else. Nothing else mattered for they were fully present in the here and now. How did she describe it, perfect Zen-like symmetry?  
 
     Out of nowhere came this faint tingle, strange that Kim could pick it out among the swarm of harsh sensations ravaging her body. She was going to have to pee, and pee soon. For a moment she was more concerned about that than the symphony of slaps and stings between her legs. Now it all made sense, the three large glasses of water that Marc insisted she drink. He told her he wanted her to stay hydrated, liar!  She briefly looked down at the oversized bath towel she was sitting on. You bastard! she repeated to herself again and again. Now added to her never ending suffering was an ever worsening ache from having to hold it. It was like all of the other times in her life when she had to hold it had been cruelly saved up and added to together to produce this extreme sensation.
 
     The brush fell harshly on her now pink and sensitive inner thigh, “SLAP”. With that a muffled moan resonated in her nasal passage. Was it pleasure, was it pain? Could it be both, he wondered. Her helplessness was sexy, catalytic. It brought out the worst sadistic thoughts in his head. Still he was in control, not full of wild rage. He was enjoying hurting her and she was enjoying being hurt. Their needs were geometrical conjugates of each other. It satisfied something deep inside of both of them. Something that was always there, just deeply buried. Their dark, delicious secret.  At this moment he was not conflicted about these wicked feelings, they were genuine, his true inner self. Marc felt complete, a feeling he wanted to savor forever.
 
     The skilled dominant continued to slap her reddened flesh. He did not keep count of the blows and had no idea how long he had been attending to her right thigh. But then he had the sense that it was time to stop ignoring her other soft vulnerable flesh. He surveyed Kim’s right thigh, it was bright red from the bend of her knee all the way up to just shy of her crotch. Had he really done all of that damage? That’s gonna be black and blue he noted. It would be a lingering reminder of him for several days. All he would have was the blissful sadistic memory, one that would bring him joy for the rest of his life.
 
     Marc turned his attention to her left thigh. He began by dragging the brush’s bristles along her the inside of her leg towards her pussy. Kim responded strongly, ultrasensitive to the pain. When he reached her nicely trimmed patch of brown fur, Marc brushed the pubic hairs softly. Unexpectedly, Kim began to sob heavily. Her body shook uncontrollably. Marc felt nothing but deep satisfaction. SLAP, SLAP, SLAP the brush came down with a vengeance. Her left thigh pinked. She stopped quaking, but her tears flowed nonstop. They splashed on the clean white canvas of her straitjacket like a soft spring rain.
 
     Then there was another pause for champagne. He sipped it slowly, savoring its sweetness. Marc reflected on how their respective experiences during this conferring were complementary. She was restrained, he was free. She was gagged, he could speak. She was experiencing pain, he was enjoying pleasure. She was thirsty, he was savoring sparkling wine. Its good to be the dominant, he reveled. Back to the work at hand.
The torturer then focused on her pussy lips. This time he did more than torment them briefly. Now he lingered there for what seemed like forever to Kim. The sharp bristles were drug back and forth, back and forth, and back and forth over her lèvres. She tried to close her legs, impossible. Kim squealed with agony. This reminded her that he could and would do things much more harsh than merely slap her thighs. She wriggled in her bonds, desperate to stand up, get away, anything. It was futile. “Ummmmmhh, ummmmmhh!”, her groan was deafening but unintelligible, though Marc understood her completely. Her body was telling him all that he needed to know and right now he knew that she was getting what she wanted, no what she needed. Kim’s soul was getting its due, its own touch of grace. Her suffering was pure, simple, religious.  
 
     Turning the brush around, he then smartly paddled her tenderized labia with it. His blows were quick and precise. Kim shrieked a muffled protest. Her toes shot straight out, straining. A waterfall of tears fell. Marc took in all of the sights, sounds, smells of her sensual ordeal. Kim had bedewed herself again, her pussy was oozing its fragrant nectar from her cassolette and dampening the towel. Her sexual musk filled his nostrils. He took a deep, satisfying breath like coming up from underwater. He responded to her potent pheromones. His cock had swelled to full hardness. Marc had a passing thought about yielding to his lustful urges, but resisted. This was “Quality Time” he reminded himself. That was more important than his desire to get off.
 
     The paddling of her boîte de parfum continued for eons, until he felt it was time to change things up, not due to Kim’s use of a safe signal. Throughout this prolonged torment she never shook her right foot – her signal to stop. She just danced about frantically, twisting back and forth in her secured and inescapable seat. At times Kim almost lifted him off of the floor.
 
     Her need to pee steadily intensified and culminated in a sharp pain at the tip of her urethra. It eclipsed the sting of the brush. Kim looked at Marc with hate in her eyes. He was unaffected, Thibodaux just kept beating her thigh deftly. Then she lowered her eyes in shame. A faint trickle of yellow came out from between her legs. It steadily increased until it spewed forth like a small Venetian fountain. The white towel began to wet and stain with a brownish yellow color. At one point her flow was so hard that it shot out beyond the towel and directly onto the light beige carpet. Now Kim was ashamed and angry. During all of this she hadn’t noticed that the blows had temporarily ceased. Marc was staring down, watching her piss herself. The strong tart smell of urine filled the air. Forced to breathe through her nose, she could not avoid smelling it. For a moment it took her back to the Slap and Tickle and her imprisonment in the metal washtub. Kim started to feel frantic, thought about using her safe signal. But the panic faded and she was back in the moment.
 
     Finally the golden flow was over. Kim then realized that she was now forced to sit on the piss soaked towel, like a toddler forced to wear a very, very wet diaper. She did not dwell on this very long however. Marc’s hand raised and then fell quickly. The conferment was resuming. It awakened her from her thoughts and refocused her on the spanking. The uncomfortable warm dampness was now the least of her worries.
The three phase ritual then repeated, right thigh, left thigh, pussy. Over and over, over and over, over and over, seemingly without end. The intensity of each successive punishment was increasing exponentially. This was not because Marc was hitting harder, it was due to the sensitization of her skin by the previous slapping. At times Kim felt like her skin was being torn away from her body. Her face was bright red, bathed in sweat. Inside her restrictive jacket she was soaking wet and itchy, a million little itches all at once. Her throat ached from all of the gagged screaming she had done. She thirsted, like she had been in the desert for days. Forgetting both her place and her gag, she almost begged for water. But her parchedness would remain unquenched. In all of her many years as a submissive, she had never experienced such a perfect, blissfully painful experience. Her agony was exquisite. She wanted it to end and to never end, both at the same time.
 
     Marc took another break from his ministrations. He just sat and looked into Kim’s eyes, they were bloodshot from all of the straining that she was doing. The silver duct tape was still in place, despite her many attempts to break free of it. More mucus flowed from her nose, down to her chin, and then onto the canvas restraint. Kim coughed a wet, flem filled cough. Marc surveyed his handwork. Her skin was bright red from her right knee to her left knee and everywhere in between. In certain places some bruising was starting to show. It was a mix of purple and blue.  
Then he resumed his duties. Right thigh, left thigh, pussy. Right thigh, left thigh, pussy. On and on, over and over. Marc could tell Kim was exhausted, her struggling was weaker but not any less desperate. Just to mix things up, he leaned forward and slapped her on the face, WHACK! It woke her from her almost trace like state. She had made the mistake of telling him that she really hated to be hit in the face. It was never off limits, Kim just really detested it. He hit her again with his open hand, hard on the cheek. She grunted deep in her nasal passage. Marc hit her other cheek a few times, smartly. Kim shook her head no hysterically. He struck again and again. She breathed in and out quickly.  
 
     His focus returned to her legs and her pussy.
 
     This remained the pattern of the day. Marc would confer, she would receive. They were both fully engrossed in this wicked play. Now and then the dominant would stop. But it always came back to the same wicked sequence, right thigh, left thigh, pussy. Eventually the champagne bottle became empty. Marc turned the bottle upside down in the ice bucket. But this did not signal the end. The play went on long after that.
 
     Then it at some point it happened, the tribulation ended. It surprised them both. Kim began to quake again along with more even deeper sobbing. It was a flooding of relief, cathartic. Marc watched her for a long while, studying her clinically. Then he shifted off of the cushion and moved in close to his slave. Wrapping his arms around her, he pulled her in close to his chest and hugged her. She melted into his embrace. He felt her tears dampen his chest hairs. Marc turned his head slightly, and rested it against hers. Then the two of them rocked together, tenderly.  Kim felt a wave of warmth, it lifted her up and carried her. All she felt was safe and loved.
 
     After a pleasant forever, Marc kissed her on the forehead and got up. He climbed onto the couch and sat behind Kim, his legs on either side of her shoulders. With the menacing brush in hand he began gently brushing her hair. Kim stopped crying. The grooming went on for a while. As he brushed, Marc looked up and out of the living room window. The setting sun could be seen shinning in the backyard of the apartment complex. It was twilight. Their playtime had lasted from midday into the evening! Marc resisted the urge to turn over the clock and see what time it actually was. He just continued adoringly grooming his captive love. Kim’s eyes were closed as she savored the pleasurable sensations. Her breathing was deep and rhythmic. The masochist was floating in subspace, suspended above herself, aloft. Her entire body was tingling, radiating warmth, peaceful contentment.
 
     As Kim witnessed today, Marc had finally come into his own as a sexual dominant. She had taught him everything that she knew, and that was a lot. But now he was advancing beyond her ken, well on his way to becoming a true disciple of Donatien. For the moment she was in awe, or maybe it was just the endorphins working their magic. Right now Kim didn’t really care which for her bliss touched her very soul. Her only sadness, this moment wouldn’t last forever. She would have to come back down to earth eventually. But for now she was immersed in pure masochistic ecstasy. Marc beamed proudly, for he knew it was he who had adroitly given his lover this perfect gift. He continued to stroke her tresses until the room got dark.