I was called and dragged upstairs. I did not have my say and just followed them, the cute young dyke, the tall soft butch and the femme fatale, all three of them united under the same dark intention. I was led to the luxurious Victorian room, the one I had admired when we had visited the house earlier that evening, one of the so many inspiring rooms in that house that looked like my most wicked dreams. I was brought there and just left standing, abandoned waiting as they prepared for what they had coming for me, as, one scary utensil at a time, they set up the table for the bacchanal they had in mind with me as the main dish. One of them gave me a sweet and hungry kiss, looking at me like a piece of meat ready to be tenderized. I was undressed by the femme fatale and other hands, my cute little dress was taken off me, and so was my petticoat and bra. I remained in the middle of the room, half naked, thinking that the open-bottom girdle I had selected just to feel coquine that evening maybe was not such a good idea now that I was wearing only with striped stockings and patent leather boots.

I was feeling like the indecently undressed woman in Monet’s Déjeuner sur l’herbe with three alluring dykes playing the gentlemen’s parts. We were not in a dining room or at a picnic, though, but in a flower-patterned bedroom with gracious furniture all around, and yet I was not pushed on the bed to be fucked, but made to stand with my arms up in the air. I had contemplated those hooks earlier and, as I always do when I see that kind of hardware, I had wondered what it would feel like to be hanging from them, and now my wrists were being cuffed and my hands were raised above my head and chained to them. And I stayed there, not hanging, really, but not exactly free, all stretched up with nowhere to go or to hide, with no way to protect myself. Vulnerable. And the image of a piece of meat popped up in my mind again.

They looked at each other, they nodded at each other, they kissed each other, the three of them partners in a crime, guests at a feast in which I would be the bleeding flesh. All the implements that had been displayed on the bed could be used at any moment, but they began with their bare hands. Soon, they were toying with me, brushing my skin with their proprietary hands, pinching my arms as if they were testing my resistance, nagging my sides with the tip of their fingers. They probed me as if I had been an innate object and yet a sentient one, for they had a satisfied look on their face when my body responded, when they heard quiet moans in my throat. I was kissed again, and now that I was bound, the kiss felt possessive and definite, almost like a stamp on my mouth—and my destiny was sealed. And so were my lips between which a bite was inserted, before being securely buckled behind my head.

A skinny flogger was used on my flesh and I winced as its stingy leashes pinched my skin. The slim lengths of leather began their journey on my back, burning my epidermis like tiny tongues of fire, but soon they had been all around: on my bottom, where they bit that tender part between the cheeks and the legs, on the back and front of my thighs where they almost felt like ice on my warm skin, and on my breasts, that they hatched in red, then between my legs, where they sliced into my pussy.

The six hands were back for the next course, more vicious. They replaced the leashes on my back and bottom, leaving larger red sensations on my skin and beyond. They were everywhere, searching for sensitive spots, invading. Some of them even made their way to my mouth, parting my lips, sensing my teeth beyond the rubber of the gag. Fingers were pinching me all over, but especially in that tender space under the arm and from the armpits down. And they were not only pinching, all those thirty fingers, but digging in the flesh, penetrating me deep and making me squeal, then generating other sensations and drawing me deeper in that state of physical acceptance that I seek.

A weightier flogger hit my skin. It followed the path that had been traced by the smaller and landed heavily on my upper back, pushing me down toward the ground, my arms pulling on the cuffs. With each blow I felt more deeply penetrated by the leather and I heard myself moan although I think I had been from the first minute I had been brought up here. And as I was being flogged from behind, one of my torturers came in front of me, preventing me from being pushed further, but also biting and pinching the tender flesh of my arms, of my breasts, or maybe biting it too. The flogger moved to my ass and kept on falling heavily on my flesh.

It is hard to recall all the implements that were used on me, and in which order, as I was hanging loosely from the ceiling, but I remember stings and thuds and probes and punches, and kisses that turned into bites and caressing hands that turned into tight fingers squeezing my flesh. I also remember other people being around, some of them kissing and moaning and fucking and screaming, but a lot of them just watching my surrender between the three bodies that were handling me. One of my torturers came to me and whispered in my ear: “Have you noticed the mirror? Have you seen what you look like.” And I could see myself just as I was seen: a helpless, consenting prey with her skin reddened and already studded with a few darker spots.

And then came the stick. I had spotted it among the other instruments, then avoided thinking about it. I knew that stick as it had bitten into my skin more than once before. I knew it and craved it and feared it because, in the past, it had meant a more profound surrender. Not the superficial consent of the mind, the one that I grant in my fantasy and when I feel definite power over me. Not the one of the body that I gradually give as I am being painted in pain and pleasure combined. No, the one that I do not dare call of the soul, but yet that plunges me back in my deepest, ancient self. The one that makes my body melt and my head lighten.

The stick hit my back, and I screamed. It hit my ass and the back of my thigh and I yelled again. It fell heavily on the front of my upper legs, once, twice, and my screams were guttural cries, and with my eyes I begged my torturers to stop then not to stop. My hands were freed and I was made to slide along the body of a grinning femme fatale until I was on my knees, then lower, on all fours. The bite was taken off my mouth, but I was not left free for long. I was sat on, and the stick fell on my ass again. And now, I could not even walk a few steps away. I was pinned there, on the floor, submitted to the cruel piece of raw wood that seemed resolute to dive through my core submission, down to my marrow.

I was in pain. The deepest pain I had experienced that evening. The pinching and stinging and punching had been all but hors-d’oeuvres as compared to the suffering drawn by the stick for the benefit of my torturers. I now screamed animal screams, trying to walk away from the pain, failing because two strong legs were mercilessly holding me, and somehow grateful that I could not escape, that I was made to experience the pain to its very end, to their end and not mine. I remained there, my arms and knees grounded in the carpet, the pain resonating through my whole body, until my only resort was to collapse, both in tears and to the floor. I found myself weeping under the last blows on my now lying still body.

I still had to kiss their feet, one by one, each of them, carefully, gratefully. And as I was licking the tip of the last boot, I felt something liquid falling on my back. They were pouring water all over me, but it could as well have been piss, as they had made me theirs.

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