Beating Feet

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Beating Feet (b&d, pain)

story may be copied or posted, without changes or

omissions, for non-commercial purposes only (meaning no

charges, no profits, which rules out a lot of deadhead

pseudo free sites). Please keep the author tag attached

along with this notice, and let me know where you've

sent it or if you like it: albert.vines@yahoo.com

Disclaimer: This story contains graphic descriptions of

sex. It is definitely NOT for anyone under 21 or who is

offended by such material. This story is fiction and

any resemblance to anyone living or dead is un-

intentional. I welcome comments and suggestions from

readers : albert.vines@yahoo.com

Beating Feet – The first time

The first time I beat Lydia’s feet was a complete disaster.

I still feel embarrassed when I think of it.

I had in mind a pose I’d seen in a photo and thought I’d recreate it.

Big mistake.

Lydia was on the floor, on her belly, naked, hog-tied and hooded.

We had a teak coffee table in the room, heavy and square, and I

moved it so that one of the legs stood alongside her knee.

I tied her ankle to the top of the table-leg & I tied the bottom of it

to her leg just below the knee.

Then I separated her ankles and secured her other leg in exactly

the same way to the adjacent corner of the table.

Secure. Or so I thought. I’d underestimated everything.

I took up the skinny cane and started lightly tapping (or so I

thought) the sole of her right foot. The effect was instant and

startling. Lydia threw her body around, twisting and squirming so

violently that the coffee table tipped on its side. Her weight on the

leg of the table then tipped it towards her and it began to fall on

top of her. I grabbed the top of it and twisted it back into a stable

position. Lydia was safe but the scene was a disaster.

I untied her as fast as possible, got her out of the hood and held

her tight as she sobbed and sobbed. Her distress was as much

to do with letting me down as it was from the pain, although

clearly this was considerable.

I made her as comfortable as I could and smoothed some pain-relief

gel over the sole of her foot.

Two things needed to change. We agreed that I’d tell her next

time I planned on punishing her feet. And I had to find a secure

way to hold her while I did.

The following weekend I bought heavy timber and a stainless-steel

bar one inch in diameter. The timber was assembled into a ‘T’ form

that lay flat on the floor of our spare bedroom.

The cross piece at the top of the ‘T’ was three feet wide, half the

length of the stem of the ‘T’. At each end of the cross piece I’d

attached an upright which stood the same height as the coffee table.

At least I’d got that bit right first time around.

A hole had been drilled through the top of each upright and the

steel bar driven through both to connect them together.

I showed it to Lydia and saw her shiver. It took some persuasion on

my part but I finally got her to lie down on it and try it for size.

She lay face-down on the stem piece with her knees on the cross-

piece and I tried to get them out to the uprights without physical

injury. No way. The cross piece would have to be shortened.

A day later, adjustment made, we tried again. The distance between

the uprights was now right & Lydia allowed me to hold her wrists

together and pull them back towards the bar. Her body arched

away from the floor beautifully. I made a mark on the stem where

a belt would fit around her waist and marked the position where I

thought some nipple clamps might usefully attach. I also figured

it’d be best to brace each of the uprights down to the opposite end

of the cross-piece. The whole apparatus was given a dark varnish

and I was ready to try again.

Lydia knew I wanted to try it there & then but she persuaded me,

sensibly as it turned out, that we should wait until we had a free

weekend, in which she could recover. I needed no further

encouragement and immediately freed-up the following weekend!

Beating Feet – The second time

The following week seemed to take forever but finally Friday night

came around. We had a couple of stiff drinks before dinner and

afterwards showered and shaved – both of us. Lydia went first and

by the time I got out of the shower she was ready, dressed only in

a heavyweight corset and collar.

I led her to the dreaded frame and she lay meekly along the floor,

feet hooked over the steel bar. I used thick vinyl ankle cuffs,

tightened just past the point of ‘snug’ to hold her feet in place, then

roped her, just above each knee, to the bottom of the uprights.

The belt that passed through the stem of the ‘T’ at her waist level

was largely redundant but I cinched her down with it and brought

her wrists together in the small of her back with more vinyl cuffs.

I tied a long length of narrow rope to her wrist cuffs and led it back

to the bar, around it & back to the cuffs, through the D-ring and back

to the bar. As I pulled the rope taught her shoulders came back, her

chest lifted off the floor and she grunted under the tension. Her

breasts were now lifted away from the floor and swayed as she tried

to move away from the discomfort she clearly felt.

My God she’s beautiful.

We’d talked beforehand about the hood and she’d persuaded me

that she’d take a full, punishing beating, without the use of a safe-

word, if I’d let her off wearing the hood. I really, badly, wanted her to

wear the hood, it’s easily the sexiest thing a woman can do for you,

to wear a full-face hood like that, but more than I wanted the hood,

much more, I wanted to punish her feet. I relented on the hood but

insisted on a bit-gag instead, a thick one, and I made sure it counted.

I made it so tight in her mouth that her eyes bulged. Then I strapped

it back to the bar and Lydia was arched backwards from the shoulder

and the neck. As I caressed her throat around her collar she glared

at me, knowing that I’d taken advantage but loving me because she

always knew I would.

I took some time over oiling her body and set-up the PC screen so

that she could see the digital photos I took as I worked. The strain

began to show and by the time I was ready there were groans from

behind the bit.

I took up position and stroked her soles with my cane, a thin, almost

delicated length of supple bamboo. The stroking went on, each time

the bamboo moved across her sole I lifted it before laying it down

again, gradually increasing the tempo and with it, inevitably, the stike.

Groans turned to grunts and these to stifled sobs. I desperately

wanted to beat her, but I held back. After what felt like an age, but

was probably only five minutes or so, I took a break and moved across

to the other foot. Her right sole was bright red and it took no more time

to match it on the left. As Lydia started to cry out behind the bit I

stopped beating her feet and poured myself another whiskey.

Lydia had moved into sub-space and her focus was now completely

Internal. I needed to keep her there. As I sipped I beat her buttocks

lightly, not raising real marks but warming her, and harder than I’d

beaten on her feet. Her breasts swayed on the edge of my vision

and my cane pays a visit to the top-sides of both of them in my tour

of her sweet spots.

A final sip of my whiskey and I returned to her feet. One sharp

stinger on each sole let her know I meant to hurt her hard. She

moaned in her throat, not yet screaming but not far away. I was gently

striking parts of her soles but this was interwoven with short, sharp

bursts of slashing pain from an occasional harder strike. These harder

strikes numbered only three or four on each foot but they counted for

much more. Lydia screeched a full-throated scream with each strike.

Her screams were separated, held apart, by huge, gasping sobs and

I stood to admire my work. Lydia was perspiring through the sheen of

body oil. I took a longer break this time, waiting for the sobbing to

subside. Lydia had eschewed the use of a safeword and I had more

pain to inflict yet.

Another shot of whiskey splashed the inside of the glass. A sip

warmed my throat as sobs sounded up from the floor. The bamboo

in my hand quivered as I slashed a buttock, raising a scream and

splitting the end of the cane to the first joint. I lashed a tatoo of little

slices into the back of each thigh. Lydia’s screams blended with the

sound of my percussive rhythm as she lost control and her throat

turned her screams back to moans. She was out of sub-space now,

far beyond it and fearing for my sellf-control. Could I hold myself in

check or would I injure her beyond anything I’d ever done in the past?

I couldn’t do that, but neither could I let her know that I couldn’t do

that, so I returned to her straining breasts and sliced into the

underside of each fleshy pear-shaped tit, raising wheals. Then I went

back to her feet and with a single slash to each sole I drove her into

un-consciousness. As her perception faded and the her body slumped

in its bonds my cock took control of me and I splashed my cum across

her back and blushing red buttocks.

That was the second and last time I beat her feet.

I’ll never be able to repeat that height of ectasy for me and that depth

of submission for Lydia. It was a week before she could walk unaided.

The whipping of her thighs made it impossible to sit. We lay together

night and day as her body mended, recounting the experience. I would

make her wet with my account of the event. Digital pictures scrolled

across the screen as we brought each other to repeated orgasms. I fed

her and washed her and smoothed creams and gels into her abundant

flesh. We lay there sated afterwards and talked of other things we dream

about; the pain and the pleasures. We both know that the ‘T’ frame will

be back in play, just to get that beautiful curve of her breastbone and the

pendulous breasts. I think we both also know that one day we’ll try to

recapture the feelings from beating feet.

Albert & Lydia

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