Mistress Owner’s Punishment Rack
Cold, hunger, pain fused in misery. Twelve hours ago, Domme Selma locked him in the rack. He had displeased her.
She knew the inferior gender needed frequent discipline. Pain improves male behavior. Nothing makes a man more beautiful than welts and tears.
The punishment rack arrived only a week past. Domme Selma had eagerly awaited putting her slave to the rack.
Smiling she adjusted the controls. Slowly tightening, stretching his body. Then releasing tension. She continued for a half hour. More might ruin him.
His muscles and joint ached. The agony was new and appalling. He desperately wanted out of his body.
Mistress Owner adjusted the rack. It held him snugly. He could barely move.
He grimaced. Domme Selma asked why.
“Your slave’s nose itches, Mistress.”
Surprising him, she scratched it. Then left. She returned holding a tiny container.
“Thank you, stupid slave, for reminding me.”
Opening the top, she sprinkled powder over his chest and stomach. It was as if she were salting a meal.
Everywhere the powder fell he began to itch. He grew frantic. Repeatedly, he yelled, his words gibberish. Then he screamed:
“Please have mercy.”
For a few seconds, his itching was forgotten. He had uttered forbidden words. He again offended Mistress Owner. He had yet to be fully punished for his prior crime.
He resumed shouting nonsense words. Domme Selma left. She shut the door to block his shrieks.
The itching abated about two hours later. Pain left him groggy, exhausted.
Domme Selma returned.
“You stupid, pathetic male. Your punishment was almost over. You’ll learn to keep silent.”
Cane in hand, she whipped his arms, legs, chest and belly. Swift blows cut his skin. Seeing he was about to faint, she stopped.
Opening a bag of clamps, she covered his body. Carefully she put the clamps where her cane made the worst cuts. She left for brunch.
Humming a tune, she removed the clamps. His red ragged flesh pleased her.
She put tight straps across his upper body. He could not wriggle. She shut the central air vents, blocking warmth. It was winter. The room would cool.
She left for barely a minute. Returning with a large metal tub. She put it on his chest. Then another tub. This on his stomach.
The ice-filled tubs induced freezing pain.
Domme Selma went to bed.
Next morning about half the ice had melted. She removed the tubs.
“Stupid male, have you learned your lesson?”
He could barely nod.
She undid the bonds.
He tried to rise. After much struggle, he sat up. He stood only fall to the floor. Walking was impossible.
Domme Selma enjoyed his futile attempts. She grew bored and left.
The slave lay there. Hungry, aching, overcome with anguish. Later he would crawl to a food bowl.
In a week misery and anguish would be transmuted into deeper worship of Mistress Owner.
Originally posted 2017-03-04 06:29:11.