By slavebladeboi

I turned off the ignition and walked the bike backwards down his driveway. I was already hot inside the leathers, the lining of which was beginning to stick to my skin. Kicking the sidestand into position, I swung my leg over and stood. The front door was closed, but he always left it unlocked when I was due to make an appearance. I undid the helmet strap and pulled my new Shoei up and off, this one was white with blue and yellow lightning flashes, making sure not to drop it like I did once before with an older one. So much for not being nervous.

Gloves off, keys in pocket, best foot forward.

Once inside the hallway I stripped off. Not as easy as you may think. I like my leathers good and tight, which adds to the “cling factor” when I’m naked and sweaty beneath them. After taking off my boots and having a one-man wrestling match with my one piece I folded the leathers as much as I could and placed my helmet and gloves on top. Deep breath and on into the next room.

He generally laid out everything we were going to use in a session, clothes if any, restraints, paddles, whips, the electro box, tit clamps and butt plugs, you name it. This gave me a good idea as to what to expect although he often changed his mind halfway and either grabbed an item that he suddenly thought of or decided to call the session short and perhaps simply fucked my face or arse. This time I saw the heavy wrist suspension cuffs, the spreader bar and cuffs, an inflatable plug I disliked (I say disliked as it was a size I always struggled to insert, although when in position the feeling changed to quite a lot of pleasure) some weighted tit clover clamps and a row of impact toys. Toys! Not quite the right term for them, I think. On one side of these items were a pair of through zip rubber boxers, a wide leather collar and a leather hood. The hood had a gag and blindfold which were not yet attached.

I started to get dressed. There was no lube of any description to be seen so I gave the plug a good suck and covered it with as much spit as I could and started to ram it slowly into my hole. It took several minutes of straining, breathing heavily and some deep throaty noises before it settled behind my sphincter. That brought the temperature up several degrees. Next came the boxers, pulling them up a bit at a time, the rubber grabbing my damp skin, especially my cock and the inflator tube of the plug, until they were just right. Some final fiddling made my package bulge in the right place and would show him how pleased I was to see him again, hopefully. I threaded the tube out of the shorts and zipped them closed.  Same with the hood, good and snug, then the collar over the top. He’d lock it on if he wanted. He generally always saw to the restraints himself when he finally decided to enter the room, making sure nothing would slip out, including me that is. I was taught to get to this point then go down on all fours and wait. He knew when I arrived, my 1000cc wasn’t known for its silent exhaust, and sometimes left me alone for a while, getting more nervous by the minute as I wondered how hard the day was going to be. So that’s where I now was, forehead touching the floor, arms bent at the correct angle, legs apart, thighs perpendicular and my back at as near 45 degrees as I could make it. Sweat was already pooling in my rubber shorts, in the small of my back and round my eyes.

Fifteen minutes doesn’t sound long, does it? But it was in the high eighties in that room and although I was only in a pair of boxers and a leather hood, keeping still in that position was torture itself. I had no idea if he could see me or whether he had crept into the room at all, my eyes were firmly shut, about a quarter of an inch from the floorboards. The first thing I knew of his presence was his boot on my back, pressing me down even further.

“Wrist!” He gave the command, and I raised my right arm as far as I could, not very far in fact. He grabbed it and held it tight whilst wrapping a leather restraint round it and doing up one of the straps. The other two were tightened and buckled before he dropped it and repeated the show with my other wrist. These were then clipped together behind my back with a padlock. In that position I was unable to get up totally unaided, he must have seen that, as, when he ordered “Up” I felt him haul on my collar and pulled me enough to allow me to stand.

“Nice” he said looking straight into my eyes. He was totally in black leather complete with an executioner’s leather hood. “You think it’s hot now? Wait till I’ve finished with you, you’ll be more than hot!” I supressed a laugh at that, thinking of myself as “hot” and it must have showed somehow as the next thing I heard was “And you won’t think that’ll be funny.”

Shit.

As the spreader bar was now attached, I was awkwardly walked through the door, slightly sideways, and into the next area which we use as a dungeon. Quite a nice space, the walls and floor are draped with padded black rubber sheeting, apart from the gaps where attachment points are cemented at various intervals and a couple of beams cross the ceiling, under one of which I’m now standing. Arms up, chain from beam locked to restraints, chain pulled until I’m stretched to stay on my toes. The spreader is locked each side to a chain the width of the room. It won’t budge. I know, I cemented the eye bolts into the walls myself.

“Let the fun begin,” he says from behind me.

“Yes, Boss. Thank you, Boss.”

He has my interests at heart, so he says, which means he won’t harm me, although the path to get to the stop before harm begins is long and painful. Plus I tend to open my sarcastic pie hole at various points in the punishment and only one of us thinks that’s either entertaining or a good idea.

He pumps up the butt plug as far as it will go. I suddenly feel full, and horny.

I feel his hands, he’s put on some black rubber gauntlets, gently tracing patterns over my back, up and down my spine and round my shoulders. It’s both erotic and slightly unnerving. I love the feeling I get from it, I want to twist and bend under the spell, but can’t move more than a few inches in any direction and I make the soft breathy noises you make when you’re enjoying that sort of pleasure. My sweaty back allows the rubber to glide smoothly, his hands reach round under my arms, and I feel his fingers seeking my nipples.

“Yes, Boss. Please, Boss.” I’m breathing in gulps now. My tits are so sensitive and hotwired to my cock, I so just want him to squeeze them gently between those rubber fingers. “Mmmmmmm” is about the only noise I can make now, panting, no more words, just sounds.

Then he stops. It goes quiet, and I mean no sound at all. No movement. I’m relaxed. Mistake. Then that sudden silky sort of “whoosh” as the flogger breaks through the air, a split second and you only just grasp what’s happening before the stinging hot thud of the leather tails strike you over the left shoulder blade. The fire subsides as he waits. A second? A minute? All time stops as you concentrate on listening for that next flailing stroke. He always says he waits for the pain to sink in before delivering the next; more for your money he says. He roars at me as he brings his arm down hard and I yell as I’m thrust forward, pulling against the chains, the restraints remaining as close fitting as ever. He repeats, again and again. Faster now, I yell, gulp some air then yell again. That flogger is not called a heavy stinger for nothing.

“Still find it funny?”

“No, Boss. Sorry, Boss. Really I…”

He’s not listening. More of the same across my arse and thighs. God that’s worse. The tails can flick round and dig in deep, I’m praying for my balls at this point. Then nothing. Some fiddling behind me.

“Open” and I get the gag pushed into my mouth, buckled tight, drooling almost immediately.

He walks round in front of me, those clover clamps in his hands. I know what’s happening. He used to clamp them onto the smallest piece of tit flesh he could without them falling off. That burned holes in my chest, the pain slowly dying down to a dull roar, as he put it. Then he found that if he put them on a decent bit of tit flesh he could use the leather paddle and strike them, like he was knocking in a nail. Jeeeeeeezus! If you’ve experienced that then you’ll know what I’m going on about. The more I yell and try to tell him he’s a fucking bastard cunt through the gag the more he goes at it, faster and faster. I’m tearing up and yelling apologies, screaming blue bloody murder, spraying spit and drool from my mouth, but he carries on.

“Who’s laughing now then, boi?”

I can’t pull back any further. I try and curve my body away from that fucking paddle, but it’s obviously no use. My balance is crap with my ankles stretched apart and he grabs the D ring on the front of the collar and holds me. The hammering continues. My chest feels like someone is thrusting fish hooks into it then pulling them out again. Over and over. He lets go, relaxes, breathes deeply and just yanks the clamps off me in one swift move. Agony doesn’t do it. I’m now sobbing. He walks round behind me, and, as gently as before, he works my muscles with his gloved hands, tenderly manipulating, rolling and massaging my shoulders which felt like I was pulling them out of their sockets less than a minute ago.

“I need a break,” he says as he closes the door behind him. I mumble “Thank you, Boss” into the gag, but he’s already gone.

Metal would like to thank the author, slavebladeboi, for this story.