A Merciless Flogging

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: General Erotica  |  House: BDSM

Drifting. Drifting. Drifting.

Me. Now. Today. This morning.

Erect. Semi-erect.

"Sounds like Oscar Pistorius has just tried to kill himself. He’s been seen with bandages over both his hands. Reckon he’s attempted to slit his wrists," my missus says, who has just opened the door to the lounge.

She’s walked out now and is along the hallway.

Not erect at all now.

Yeah, pain. Intense pain. Can you really remember it? Can you re-live it in your mind? Can you?

You see, I don’t think you can. I think you can remember things you have seen; things you have smelt, things you have heard. I think, no know, that you can kind of recall the fear of pain, the dread, your reactions to it.....


It all kind of came back to me a few days ago when I’d been trawling through the spanking videos of a site I subscribe to and I’d been shocked to see a video of a naked man secured to a wooden frame being birched full force across the buttocks and screaming and struggling vainly against the leather straps holding him. I’d been shocked because it was… me. And I’d never known that the worst beating of my life had been filmed and was on the internet now for everyone to see, to savour, to maybe masturbate over.

But when I’d looked again I could see it wasn’t me. 

But it brought back memories. Horrific memories perhaps and re-evaluations of the kind of person I thought I was and sought in a vain way to be.

I’m not going to go into a long winded tale or the details of how I ended up in the situation I did, but basically I answered an ad for a master seeking a sub or a masochist – be careful what you wish for!

The trip up there had involved a longish train journey with two changes on the way and I had arrived at the station at about six o’clock. At the station I had been met by ‘him’ and then driven to his house which was in the country and reasonably remote. 

He was a man in his late fifties, tall, slim and quite well spoken; educated too. He was also extremely polite and charming. There was no doubt in addition that he was pretty well off.  

That evening he’d cooked me a dinner and he had been the perfect host. Afterwards he’d asked me questions about my life, my job, my interests and my family. He’d told me a few things about his life but probably more significant was what he didn’t tell me – things that could identify him. He was a nice guy in many ways and he also made me laugh – I warmed to him; at the time.

Just before ten he suggested that we turn in as he thought that it would be best for me if I was fully rested for what he had planned for me.

My room was lovely, en-suite, and my bed, with freshly changed sheets, wonderfully comfortably. On the bedside table was a glass jug containing iced water.

Once I’d tucked myself in I had fallen asleep quite swiftly.....


I had been woken by him coming into my room, placing a tray of scrambled eggs, bacon and toast along with a cup of coffee onto the bedside table and then pulling the curtains across to let the light in. The time was about seven and I did indeed feel rested and alert. I also felt a kind of rising anticipation and fear – I knew what was in store for me. Or thought I knew what was in store for me.

As I had yawned and stretched in bed he had placed the tray across the bed and said with a smile: "The last meal of a condemned man."

I had chuckled at that. Nervously.

He had then added: "I haven’t made you a lot of food as it’s not good to be beaten with a full stomach. Enjoy it and then get showered. Afterwards you can then watch T.V. for a bit so as to allow your food to go down. I’ll come for you in due course. But in the meantime, relax as best you can."

I wasn’t sure I would be able to relax but nevertheless I luxuriated in the shower after shaving not just my face but under my arms and pubic area too – it looks better, neater and I feel more hygienic. 

Once I’d dried myself I had slipped into a dressing gown he had provided and after flicking through the channels on the television had settled into watching a documentary about Hitler’s campaign in Russia. 

Just before the programme had ended he had knocked gently on the bedroom door before letting himself in. "It’s time now," he had said. "Go to the toilet and then remove your dressing gown."

When I’d done that I’d felt a chill run through me.

He then ushered me downstairs – I was completely naked - and out through a back door into his long garden. As I had gone outside I had shivered because the temperature was clearly below zero and I could see my breath condensing as I breathed out. 

We walked along a stone path which had a thick coating of frost on in places to what resembled a kind of log cabin at the bottom of his garden. I had wondered if he had had any neighbours but I could see no other buildings close by – the location was remoter than I thought; obviously intentionally so.

Once inside the cabin, which wasn’t much less colder than outside he guided me to a solid wooden frame – probably hand-made – which consisted of a ‘step’ to place my folded knees on, a leather padded platform for my torso and various strategically leather straps to secure my limbs with.

For a moment I inwardly panicked – I was extremely scared – but managed to calm myself down. I remembered that we had talked about safe-words and rationalised that if he had killed someone in the past he would most likely have been in jail by now.

Once I had been strapped down quite firmly – I could hardly move – he bent down and whispered in my ear: "Comfortable?"

I had responded: "Yes, thank you."

He then disappeared for a few moments before returning.

I have to say at this point that I know he came back with the implement but I’m not sure whether he filmed it or not.

Just before he commenced he walked in front of me with the birch and waved it in my face. "This is what I’m going to beat you with in case you’re wondering. The twigs have been placed in boiling water to make them more whippy and also to sterilise them. I really think you’re going to appreciate this. By the way, I’m not going to use safe-words, as I’ll be the judge of when you’ve had enough."

At the time alarm bells should have rung but because he’d been ‘so civilised’ up until this point I had trusted him implicitly.

Seconds later I had briefly heard a ‘whoosh’ before a burning and lacerating pain had seared across my exposed buttocks. I think I had taken the first stroke in silence but I had jerked against the restraints. It was absolute agony.

He then administered stroke after stroke at regular intervals and it was sheer hell. After a couple I was screaming and probably after about ten I was begging for mercy. But he never responded.

I wondered if indeed I would die and bitterly regretted ever agreeing to this – he was clearly a psychopath and an out of control sadist.

My buttocks felt like they were being shredded and I was sure I could feel blood running down the backs of my thighs.

I begged him for mercy and then I prayed to God to release me from this hell – but there is no God.

I don’t know how many lashes I took but there was a moment when my senses swam and I experienced a brief sensation of falling and everything went white for a second.

When I came to it was to the agony of my rectum feeling that it was being split wide open – he was buggering me. Something that I hadn’t agreed to.

And then it was over.

He undid my straps and helped me to my feet. I could hardly walk but nevertheless he got me back in the house.

Totally shocked, dazed, he had got me to lie down on the bed. He had then tended my backside by applying some sort of stinging antiseptic to it whilst all the time acting caringly and sympathetically towards me as if I was a victim of an unprovoked and vicious assault. 

"Okay, just try to lie on your front, I know it’s been a shock for you, but in the end you’ll see it as one of the most wonderful experiences you’ll ever have. Trust me."

I was speechless.

After about an hour I felt a lot better though of course my buttocks and anus were still very tender to say the least.

As he drove me to the station he explained that he didn’t want to see me again because he sought out constantly new people. He also thanked me profusely and told me that he because he hadn’t been ‘absolutely straight’ with me he had slipped ‘a little something into my wallet’. That was presumably hush money.

Whilst on the train on the way back which I had spent mostly standing I had gone into the toilet and checked the contents of my wallet – there were two thousand pounds in there.

Suffice to say I never said anything to anybody about what had happened – until now. I also questioned for a good few months whether I was indeed a ‘true masochist’.

So that’s the tale. Maybe a cautionary one. I don’t know.

Submitted: July 28, 2020

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