Cruelest Torture: Tickling Slave Man
Mistress Cruauté laughed.
“You look so miserable in the violin pillory.”
She lit a cigarette looked down at her miserable chattel.
“I have lots of games planned for you today. That can wait. I’m going to sit on the couch and enjoy my cigarette.”
She admired the new ankle shackles. Heavy, the slave would be continually reminded that she limited his movements. She liked to make him clean house while only able to take half-steps. Chores took much longer to complete. Work was misery.
“I love the violin pillory. Muscle pain will increase. Your joints will burn. Most men would be in tears by now. I’ve taught you not to weep. Cattle prods are excellent educational aids. Of course, you weep later. Hours under a bullwhip force tears from even the most reluctant male.”
Her cigarette was almost gone.
The slave opened his mouth. Mistress tossed the butt in. He chewed thoroughly before swallowing.
“Garbage swallows garbage.”
Mistress Cruauté lit another cigarette.
“I should grow your hair longer. Something I can yank.”
Instead she yanked an ear lobe. Then sat.
“You listed tickling as one of your hard limits. But your limits stopped mattering the day you signed the TPE contract.”
He looked terrified.
“Don’t worry. I won’t tickle you. Not now. Instead …”
Mistress Cruauté jumped up and on his toes. Ground her heels. He screamed.
“They’re always some new way to hurt a man. A woman just has to use her imagination.”
The slave chewed and swallowed another cigarette. The Domme lit a third. She would only feed him cigarette butts today.
“Normally I don’t chain smoke. But the excess nicotine makes me crueler. Did you know that I could be more sadistic?”
Days of agony and anguish left him wondering how she could make him suffer more than he had.
She grabbed his ankle chain, yanked it up. The slave fell on his back.
Mistress Cruauté likes trample. She stood on his stomach, twisting her heels back and forth.
The pillory pulled on his shoulders. She saw him wince.
“Let me take your mind off that shoulder pain.”
She kicked the side of his stomach. His chest. His thigh. Repeated the kicks on his other side. Five minutes of kicking left him almost insensible.
“I’m hitting my stride. Time to go to downstairs.”
She grabbed the slave’s wrists, pulled him to a door. Helped him stand. The ankle shackles made each step painful. Finally they were in Mistress Cruauté’s playroom.
She removed the violin pillory. Put his wrists in cuffs hanging from the ceiling. Every part of his body was available and vulnerable.
The slave saw Mistress Cruauté choose her heaviest whip. He shuddered. She normally reserved the thick black bullwhip for the final stage.
She dropped the cane. Then kissed his chest, caressed his penis. Confused, he lowered his mental defenses.
The Domme rested her palms on the side of stomach.
Then she started tickling him. Soon he begged her to whip him, kick him. He even begged her to kill him.
Later she did whip and kick him. Mistress Cruauté would never kill such an entertaining plaything.