The Torture and the Beating
folder
Erotica › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
3,630
Reviews:
4
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Erotica › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
3,630
Reviews:
4
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
The Torture and the Beating
Before reading!!! T
he first chapter is nothing much, only hints at some things, but there will be more later! Please R&R if you would like! Reviews are VERY appreciated! These characters are original creations.
“You have a fondness for tying me up,”remarked the captive, breaking the eerie silence in the cave. “And you,” smirked the captor, “have a fondness for leaving me no choice.” The rope tightened, the bed creaked under shifting weight. Candles lit the room a whisper, an almost nothing atmosphere, as if too much silence or sound would plunge the captor and his captive into pitch. There was an unnatural romance about this dusty lair. Water from the cave’s roof fell against the captive, she flinched, the captor noticed, but made no move to touch or help her. A candle blew out in the thick silence and was immediately lit again. The captor took special care in wetting the burnt match, scaring away any faint spark or flame that might grow to consume their cavern. The bed on which the captive was tied was hard and loud, its voice booming with every shift of her body. Even when there was no movement to cause it pains it took it upon itself to utter high yelps, perhaps to remind those of its presence-its ancient presence-in that romantic cobwebbery of candles and wetness, flesh and bed.
The captor checked his ropes once more, tightened them and felt a stirring pity when his captive’s face winced under pressure. He turned to his black bag, unzipped it slowly (its sound rang throughout the cave), and pulled from it a leather whip: his weapon of choice. The whip was simple in structure, shorter than most common whips for close-distance lashings, but designed for the utmost pain; a true torture device, and as beautiful as it was malicious. Hair, whether from animal or human, none could tell or ask, laced around the whip’s handle, softening its grip, and aiding in soaking up the sweat of its master to prevent slipping or rashes. The hair glowed pale against its black tail and handle, and stood as the only object vibrant, save the captor and captive, in the lair. The captor slid on a pair of black gloves, grasped the whip and turned back to his captive.
She had turned her head towards him and now stared into his brown eyes with her blue.
Not for the first time the captor faltered. Being young and fairly new to his training, the captor had found he was prone to fits of pity, emotional attachment, lust in some cases, and each pang of feeling left him less dominate and menacing, less brutal. As he lifted his whip in the air he realized that this girl had been his captive for more than a year now, had been the pursuit of his life, and while each had grown accustomed to their pattern: the chase, the catch, the torture and the beating, the inevitable second chase, he realized now the shift between them: how less frequent and lengthy their conversations had become, how there were no more empty promises of freedom, no more bargains, quid pro quo’s, now everything was strait to the point. There was no need for them to dance around topics or make small talk.
He loved her, that much was true, and he was certain she loved him in return. With his free hand he lifted the clothing off her back, watched her wonderful face contort into a wince; preparation, he mused, and was glad she wasn’t going to try courageousness, and let his whip caress her back. After three loving strokes she was crying, shouting: there was never any need for heroism now, no lies. She cried out in nonsense, yells that were something primal and enraged. His whip opened old scars, she bled fresh, new marks were cut into her back. Whenever she died, he reflected, her back would barely be recognizable as something human. He knew he had deformed her for life, and he was truly sorry. His whip threatened to blow out every candle in the cavern; indeed he had already succeeded in killing two, but he would not waver or lose intensity. He could whip her in total darkness, he had before, and took more pleasure in it, for in darkness he could not see her red body, her terror and pain.
There were but two candles now, dancing provocatively to his rhythmatic thrashings: the animal in him loved this best. He equated the smell of her blood and sweat, the soft lighting of the dying flames, and her high groans and whimpers with the sex he had desired with her, yearned for, but had long since realized he would never have. The last candle was left. He took it in his hand and, through gritted teeth, poured whatever wax had melted, in no particular pattern across her back. Some wax dribbled into her wounds, and was met with harsh intakes of breath, relaxing exhales, soft sobs. Once he was afraid the candle might wet itself with wax and extinguish. He did not like the thought of groping around in the darkness now that he had done with the whipping. Thankfully the candle burned on, he placed it gently on a nearby table and re-lit one of its brothers. From his dark bag he brought forth an unmarked ointment and fresh cloth to administer her wounds. He took care not to touch her too harshly, for there was no need to cause her further pain, she would not resist him, and she had grown past hating him. She sighed as his trusted hands pushed the cloth gently into her back, the cold stung and relieved her all at once. She closed her eyes when he finished, and both knew that she wasn’t going to sleep. He stayed by her side at the bed and held her hand while she calmed her breathing and swallowed to wet her dry throat. He noticed her thirst and swiftly brought a mug of water for her. She thanked him by drinking. After some minutes he broke their silence: “Now,” he spoke quietly, “will you please tell me the name of the location I have been asking you about for this past year?” She shook her head, and, with the utmost respect and care, choked out a soft, “no.” She positioned her head to sleep.
He held no animosity towards her resistance, nor did she sense any annoyance. She lazily watched him pack his black bag, taking special care of his beautiful whip, which he cleaned thoroughly before packing. How she wished she could touch his whip. How she desired its long beauty. So many times before it had touched her body, but she had never been able to really feel it, fondle it in her hands, grasp its beauty. One day, she decided, she would touch it.
He untied her hands and feet, the rope around her body loosened and slipped away. It dove into the bag. He turned before leaving, blew out one of the last candles. “I will not be returning tonight, but I trust you will have no trouble and ample time to get out before I begin the chase. As there is no need to watch you I will to my home and begin the tracking in two days. I bid you farewell, for now. Know that next time we meet, you will disclose the information that I need, and...anything else I ask of you. I will not be so kind, nor will I ever be so kind to again. Expect nothing less than fury from me. At any rate, a pleasant evening, and the best of luck. ‘Til we meet again.”
He blew out the last candle and left.
he first chapter is nothing much, only hints at some things, but there will be more later! Please R&R if you would like! Reviews are VERY appreciated! These characters are original creations.
“You have a fondness for tying me up,”remarked the captive, breaking the eerie silence in the cave. “And you,” smirked the captor, “have a fondness for leaving me no choice.” The rope tightened, the bed creaked under shifting weight. Candles lit the room a whisper, an almost nothing atmosphere, as if too much silence or sound would plunge the captor and his captive into pitch. There was an unnatural romance about this dusty lair. Water from the cave’s roof fell against the captive, she flinched, the captor noticed, but made no move to touch or help her. A candle blew out in the thick silence and was immediately lit again. The captor took special care in wetting the burnt match, scaring away any faint spark or flame that might grow to consume their cavern. The bed on which the captive was tied was hard and loud, its voice booming with every shift of her body. Even when there was no movement to cause it pains it took it upon itself to utter high yelps, perhaps to remind those of its presence-its ancient presence-in that romantic cobwebbery of candles and wetness, flesh and bed.
The captor checked his ropes once more, tightened them and felt a stirring pity when his captive’s face winced under pressure. He turned to his black bag, unzipped it slowly (its sound rang throughout the cave), and pulled from it a leather whip: his weapon of choice. The whip was simple in structure, shorter than most common whips for close-distance lashings, but designed for the utmost pain; a true torture device, and as beautiful as it was malicious. Hair, whether from animal or human, none could tell or ask, laced around the whip’s handle, softening its grip, and aiding in soaking up the sweat of its master to prevent slipping or rashes. The hair glowed pale against its black tail and handle, and stood as the only object vibrant, save the captor and captive, in the lair. The captor slid on a pair of black gloves, grasped the whip and turned back to his captive.
She had turned her head towards him and now stared into his brown eyes with her blue.
Not for the first time the captor faltered. Being young and fairly new to his training, the captor had found he was prone to fits of pity, emotional attachment, lust in some cases, and each pang of feeling left him less dominate and menacing, less brutal. As he lifted his whip in the air he realized that this girl had been his captive for more than a year now, had been the pursuit of his life, and while each had grown accustomed to their pattern: the chase, the catch, the torture and the beating, the inevitable second chase, he realized now the shift between them: how less frequent and lengthy their conversations had become, how there were no more empty promises of freedom, no more bargains, quid pro quo’s, now everything was strait to the point. There was no need for them to dance around topics or make small talk.
He loved her, that much was true, and he was certain she loved him in return. With his free hand he lifted the clothing off her back, watched her wonderful face contort into a wince; preparation, he mused, and was glad she wasn’t going to try courageousness, and let his whip caress her back. After three loving strokes she was crying, shouting: there was never any need for heroism now, no lies. She cried out in nonsense, yells that were something primal and enraged. His whip opened old scars, she bled fresh, new marks were cut into her back. Whenever she died, he reflected, her back would barely be recognizable as something human. He knew he had deformed her for life, and he was truly sorry. His whip threatened to blow out every candle in the cavern; indeed he had already succeeded in killing two, but he would not waver or lose intensity. He could whip her in total darkness, he had before, and took more pleasure in it, for in darkness he could not see her red body, her terror and pain.
There were but two candles now, dancing provocatively to his rhythmatic thrashings: the animal in him loved this best. He equated the smell of her blood and sweat, the soft lighting of the dying flames, and her high groans and whimpers with the sex he had desired with her, yearned for, but had long since realized he would never have. The last candle was left. He took it in his hand and, through gritted teeth, poured whatever wax had melted, in no particular pattern across her back. Some wax dribbled into her wounds, and was met with harsh intakes of breath, relaxing exhales, soft sobs. Once he was afraid the candle might wet itself with wax and extinguish. He did not like the thought of groping around in the darkness now that he had done with the whipping. Thankfully the candle burned on, he placed it gently on a nearby table and re-lit one of its brothers. From his dark bag he brought forth an unmarked ointment and fresh cloth to administer her wounds. He took care not to touch her too harshly, for there was no need to cause her further pain, she would not resist him, and she had grown past hating him. She sighed as his trusted hands pushed the cloth gently into her back, the cold stung and relieved her all at once. She closed her eyes when he finished, and both knew that she wasn’t going to sleep. He stayed by her side at the bed and held her hand while she calmed her breathing and swallowed to wet her dry throat. He noticed her thirst and swiftly brought a mug of water for her. She thanked him by drinking. After some minutes he broke their silence: “Now,” he spoke quietly, “will you please tell me the name of the location I have been asking you about for this past year?” She shook her head, and, with the utmost respect and care, choked out a soft, “no.” She positioned her head to sleep.
He held no animosity towards her resistance, nor did she sense any annoyance. She lazily watched him pack his black bag, taking special care of his beautiful whip, which he cleaned thoroughly before packing. How she wished she could touch his whip. How she desired its long beauty. So many times before it had touched her body, but she had never been able to really feel it, fondle it in her hands, grasp its beauty. One day, she decided, she would touch it.
He untied her hands and feet, the rope around her body loosened and slipped away. It dove into the bag. He turned before leaving, blew out one of the last candles. “I will not be returning tonight, but I trust you will have no trouble and ample time to get out before I begin the chase. As there is no need to watch you I will to my home and begin the tracking in two days. I bid you farewell, for now. Know that next time we meet, you will disclose the information that I need, and...anything else I ask of you. I will not be so kind, nor will I ever be so kind to again. Expect nothing less than fury from me. At any rate, a pleasant evening, and the best of luck. ‘Til we meet again.”
He blew out the last candle and left.