Dominated down under part five
n. We were out one night and some boys, they thought they could mess with us. They didn't know who they were dealing with. Both of us knew karate.”
Deborah took over the story, her eyes on the road ahead as she spoke. "We put them in their place, but also broke their wrists, legs, and ankles. And the cops, they weren't too pleased with us. We had a choice to make: join the defense forces or go to juvey."
"So I chose the navy," Martha Mary said with a look of pride.
And I chose the army,” Deborah Elizabeth added also with a self-satisfied smile.
“Deborah was a mailwoman.”
“And Martha was a cryptographer.”
The women continued, explain that they had served in each branch of the Australian military for seven years.
Martha Mary went on, “In the navy, we learned to handle firearms, just in case we were ever found ourselves in a kill-or-be-killed situation. Non-combat troops can only take a life or use their weapons in self-defense. I was also asked, and agreed to teach our fellow service men and women karate. Let me tell you, that training came in handy when we and the other ladies had to deal with some rowdy sailors."
Deborah Elizabeth, who was driving, nodded in agreement. "And in the army, I got to play with even more toys. I've been trained in close combat, hand-to-hand, and even a bit of interrogation techniques. I've seen things that would make a grown man cry like a baby." She said it with a tone of pride that didn’t scare Balkatj but intrigued him.
Martha Mary ended the story with her retirement from the Australian military as a sergeant major, six months after getting that title, and Deborah had exited the armed forces after achieving the rank of lieutenant colonel, Also after six months with the position.
“But let me tell you, Balkatj, during that time, we had to deal with some serious Neanderthals. Guys who thought we were there for their entertainment, or that we were somehow less capable because we were female. We had to set them straight more times than I care to count," Martha Mary said with a hint of a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
Balkatj nodded, understanding the unspoken message. "Some people only understand one language," he murmured. "Violence or the threat of it."
He remembered the look on the bullies' faces when he'd stepped in to help Xavier. It was a look he'd seen too often in his life: arrogance born from a belief in their own superiority. "You can't reason with them," he said, his voice low and solemn. "They're too stuck in their own world, too convinced of their right to push others around."
Modor and Hara nodded in understanding. They had seen the same thing in the boys at their school, the ones who thought that their skin color or family's wealth made them invincible. They had seen it in the way some of the men in their own community looked at Aborigines like Balkatj and his family; the subtle sneers, the not-so-whispered comments, and the open hostility. They knew that the only way to deal with such people was to show them that they weren't as invincible as they thought.
“You know what’s funny, though?” Balkatj asked.
”I enjoy seeing pride-filled bigot and bullies, shrivel up like grapes in the sun that become raisins or freeze like deer in headlights or run away like scared rabbits when someone points a gun at them or a knife at them or kicks their butts. But also disgust me because it shows that these scumbags aren’t as strong and confident and sure of themselves as they’d like everybody to believe!”
Hara nodded solemnly. "You're right, Balkatj. Sometimes you have to be the bigger person, but sometimes you have to show them that you're not someone to mess with. That's what we've learned."
Modor added, “We also like to kick peoples butts, in more ways than one.”
The aboriginal boy blushed, knowing what the sandy blonde haired girl was insinuating. Soon enough, the car in the people that arrived at the farm, driving down the long driveway to the pink farmhouse. Once everybody was inside the house, Deborah Elizabeth said, “We’re oing out now girls, you have the house to yourself with Balkatj.”
“We'll be back after we've sorted out some business," Martha Mary had said, her eyes serious.
"We're counting on you two to keep him out of trouble."
Martha Mary's words echoed in the farmhouse as Modor and Hara nodded solemnly. Once the moms had left, the air in the room changed. The tension of the courtroom dissipated, replaced by the electric current that always hummed between the three of them. The girls exchanged a look that Balkatj knew all too well – it was the look that signaled the beginning of their playful power games.
With a sudden surge of strength, Modor and Hara each grabbed one of Balkatj's arms and began to drag him upstairs. He didn't struggle; he knew what was coming and felt a mix of trepidation and excitement. They had done this before, but there was something different about today. The stakes were higher, and the lines between play and reality had blurred more than ever.
Once they reached the guest room, they tossed him onto the bed, the jaguar-patterned comforter seemingly watching the unfolding scene with a knowing smile. Balkatj's heart raced as they quickly removed his clothes, their eyes gleaming with a combination of mischief and something darker. He laid there, exposed and vulnerable, his body taut with anticipation.
Hara straddled him, her legs wrapping around his arms, her backside pressing down on his neck, trapping him. Modor mirrored her actions, securing his legs with her own, their limbs entwined in a dance of dominance. The gold and silver hairbrush glinted in Hara's hand, a new tool in their game of power.
“I bought this brush specifically for you," she said with a grin, showing off the brush. ”It'll leave a nice reminder of who's in charge."
Before Balkatj could fully process her words, Hara raised her hand, holding the brush high above her head, and brought it down with a sharp crack on his bare skin. The pain was intense, a sudden burst of white-hot agony that made him yelp like a kicked puppy. The sound of his own voice, so uncharacteristically high-pitched and pained, made the girls laugh even harder. They had never seen him like this before, so vulnerable and at their mercy.
Hara raised the brush again, pausing for a beat before bringing it down hard on the other cheek of his ass. The impact was like a bolt of lightning, searing through his nerves and making his body jerk involuntarily. He tried to squirm free, but Modor's grip on his legs tightened, and she whispered in his ear, "You're not going anywhere, Balkatj."
The room was filled with the sound of their laughter as Hara raised the brush again, counting out the seconds with a sadistic glee. "Five... four... three..." Balkatj tensed, waiting for the next blow, which came swift and painful. "Two... one..." and again, the brush descended, leaving a fresh line of fire on his skin.
He howled like a coyote, his voice echoing through the farmhouse. Each strike of the brush was a punctuation to their laughter, a symphony of pleasure and pain that only they understood. His eyes watered, but he didn't dare ask for mercy. He knew this was their way of reaffirming their bond, of reminding him that even in the face of the outside world's judgement, they had a connection that was unbreakable.
8 minutes and 33 agonizing seconds later, Hara stopped at 100 smack. "Look at you," she said, her voice thick with desire.
Her hand traced over the bruises, her fingertips gliding over the tender flesh as if mapping out a secret treasure. "Your butt looks like a Jackson Pollock painting, Balkatj," she murmured. "So beautiful in its chaos."
He couldn't help but flinch at her touch, the sting from the brush still fresh in his mind. "Is it my turn now?" Modor's voice was a sweet melody that belied the sadism in her eyes. Hara nodded, put the brush down, then both girls took the Amazon rainforest designed pillowcases off the beds pillows.
The two young women hoisted him off the bed with surprising strength, his feet barely brushing the floor as they led him down the stairs. His heart hammered in his chest, the excitement building with every step. They brought him to the coat rack by the front door, the gold hooks gleaming in the soft light. With a flourish, they secured his wrists to the hooks with the pillowcases, the fabric feeling surprisingly rough against his skin.
"Don't go anywhere," Hara said with a wink, her voice dripping with sarcasm. They stepped away, leaving him bound and exposed.
The ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner was the only sound in the room, each second stretching out like a taut wire. His mind raced with what they might have in store for him next. Just when he thought he couldn't take the suspense any longer, the back door creaked open and they reappeared. Modor had something new in her hand: a switch, about three feet long and as thick as a Crayola crayon.
"Do you know why switches hurt more than paddles or brushes, or even hands?" she asked, her tone one of a teacher to a pupil.
Balkatj nodded, his voice tight. "They concentrate the pain into a smaller, deeper area. They sting and bite more than bruise."
Modor's smile was one of admiration. "Very good, Balkatj. You're learning." She held the switch up, twirling it in the air with a deceptive grace. "Ready?"
He took a deep breath, bracing himself for what was to come. This was their dance, their ritual. And as much as he feigned protest, he craved the intensity of their games. The anticipation was a sweet torment, the pain a reminder of their bond.
The first strike of the switch was like a lightning bolt, a sharp, stinging pain that seemed to burrow into his very soul. He gritted his teeth, not wanting to give them the satisfaction of hearing him cry out. But it was hard, oh so hard, to stay silent as the switch rained down on his skin, each lash a fiery brand that seared his flesh and left him trembling.
The room was alive with the snap of the switch and the hiss of his own breath. Hara watched with rapt attention, her eyes alight with excitement as she delivered one blow per second. She also counted each hit. “20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28,” and by the 29 lash, BALKATJ could no longer bite back his screams.
“YYYAAAWWW!” The aboriginal boy roared as loud as a lion.
“Nicely done Modor!” Hara exclaimed, her eyes gleaming with mischief as she watched Balkatj’s body jerk with each strike of the switch. She could feel the energy in the room, the power dynamics shifting and solidifying in their little trio.
Modor, her arm still raised and ready to deliver the next blow, grinned over her shoulder at Hara. "Thanks, but I think we're going to need to get our little warrior here some water after this. He's screaming like he just saw his first sunrise," she quipped, her voice filled with playful pride. Then she brought the switch down and across his ass again, this being the 30th lash. The young dominatrix branded him 30 more times with the switch, diagonally lashing once all the horizontal spots were filled up and covered with welts.
“60!”
The final lash fell with a sickening thwack, and Balkatj's body went limp. His eyes watered uncontrollably as he tried to process the intense pain that had overtaken his body. The room felt like it was spinning, and he was vaguely aware of Modor stepping back, her breathing heavy from the exertion.
Hara, unable to contain her excitement, clapped her hands together. "Damn, Modor, that was incredible!" she exclaimed. "I didn't know you had it in you to be so... intense."
Modor blushed slightly, but her eyes remained steely. She untied the pillowcases from Balkatj's wrists with surprising gentleness, then helped him to his feet. Despite the pain he was in, Balkatj couldn't help but feel a sense of awe at the transformation in Modor. The beach girl he had come to know was gone, replaced by a fierce, commanding presence that both terrified and thrilled him.
Hara rushed to the kitchen, returning with a chilled bottle of water. She popped the cap and handed it to Modor, who held it to Balkatj's parched lips. He drank greedily, the cool liquid soothing his dry throat. His eyes remained locked on the two girls, his mind racing with what they might do next.
Once he had downed the water, the girls helped him to the couch, his legs feeling like jelly beneath him. They both hovered over him, their eyes filled with a mix of affection and something more primal. Modor bent down and rubbed her face back-and-forth five times across his ass, just as her friend Hara had done. she remarked that it felt like a freshly cooked lumpy biscuit.
"Stay put," Modor instructed firmly, her voice leaving no room for argument.
Hara nodded in agreement. "We'll be right back with something for those poor cheeks of yours," she said, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
As they disappeared into the kitchen, Balkatj could hear the clank of pots and pans, the murmur of their voices. He took deep breaths, trying to steady his racing heart and the fire that danced across his backside. The anticipation of what they had planned was almost more intense than the pain.
They returned with a bowl of chilled buttermilk, the smell wafting towards him like a balm. Modor dipped her hand in, her fingers coming out coated in the white liquid. "This will help with the sting," she said, her voice gentle.
With surprising tenderness, she began to smooth the buttermilk over his bruised skin, the coolness offering immediate relief. Hara watched, her eyes wide with curiosity as she took in his reaction.
"It's a family recipe," Modor explained, her hands deftly moving across his flesh. "My grandmother swore by it for sunburns, but it works wonders on this kind of heat too."
The girls took turns applying the buttermilk, their touches soft and caring. Balkatj felt the pain begin to recede, replaced by a warm, tingling sensation that spread through his body. They worked in silence, each lost in their own thoughts, until the job was done.
When they were finished, they stepped back, surveying their handiwork with satisfaction. "Looks like you're not going to be sitting down for a bit," Hara said with a grin. "But don't worry, we've got another game to play that will require you to remain standing.“
Deborah took over the story, her eyes on the road ahead as she spoke. "We put them in their place, but also broke their wrists, legs, and ankles. And the cops, they weren't too pleased with us. We had a choice to make: join the defense forces or go to juvey."
"So I chose the navy," Martha Mary said with a look of pride.
And I chose the army,” Deborah Elizabeth added also with a self-satisfied smile.
“Deborah was a mailwoman.”
“And Martha was a cryptographer.”
The women continued, explain that they had served in each branch of the Australian military for seven years.
Martha Mary went on, “In the navy, we learned to handle firearms, just in case we were ever found ourselves in a kill-or-be-killed situation. Non-combat troops can only take a life or use their weapons in self-defense. I was also asked, and agreed to teach our fellow service men and women karate. Let me tell you, that training came in handy when we and the other ladies had to deal with some rowdy sailors."
Deborah Elizabeth, who was driving, nodded in agreement. "And in the army, I got to play with even more toys. I've been trained in close combat, hand-to-hand, and even a bit of interrogation techniques. I've seen things that would make a grown man cry like a baby." She said it with a tone of pride that didn’t scare Balkatj but intrigued him.
Martha Mary ended the story with her retirement from the Australian military as a sergeant major, six months after getting that title, and Deborah had exited the armed forces after achieving the rank of lieutenant colonel, Also after six months with the position.
“But let me tell you, Balkatj, during that time, we had to deal with some serious Neanderthals. Guys who thought we were there for their entertainment, or that we were somehow less capable because we were female. We had to set them straight more times than I care to count," Martha Mary said with a hint of a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
Balkatj nodded, understanding the unspoken message. "Some people only understand one language," he murmured. "Violence or the threat of it."
He remembered the look on the bullies' faces when he'd stepped in to help Xavier. It was a look he'd seen too often in his life: arrogance born from a belief in their own superiority. "You can't reason with them," he said, his voice low and solemn. "They're too stuck in their own world, too convinced of their right to push others around."
Modor and Hara nodded in understanding. They had seen the same thing in the boys at their school, the ones who thought that their skin color or family's wealth made them invincible. They had seen it in the way some of the men in their own community looked at Aborigines like Balkatj and his family; the subtle sneers, the not-so-whispered comments, and the open hostility. They knew that the only way to deal with such people was to show them that they weren't as invincible as they thought.
“You know what’s funny, though?” Balkatj asked.
”I enjoy seeing pride-filled bigot and bullies, shrivel up like grapes in the sun that become raisins or freeze like deer in headlights or run away like scared rabbits when someone points a gun at them or a knife at them or kicks their butts. But also disgust me because it shows that these scumbags aren’t as strong and confident and sure of themselves as they’d like everybody to believe!”
Hara nodded solemnly. "You're right, Balkatj. Sometimes you have to be the bigger person, but sometimes you have to show them that you're not someone to mess with. That's what we've learned."
Modor added, “We also like to kick peoples butts, in more ways than one.”
The aboriginal boy blushed, knowing what the sandy blonde haired girl was insinuating. Soon enough, the car in the people that arrived at the farm, driving down the long driveway to the pink farmhouse. Once everybody was inside the house, Deborah Elizabeth said, “We’re oing out now girls, you have the house to yourself with Balkatj.”
“We'll be back after we've sorted out some business," Martha Mary had said, her eyes serious.
"We're counting on you two to keep him out of trouble."
Martha Mary's words echoed in the farmhouse as Modor and Hara nodded solemnly. Once the moms had left, the air in the room changed. The tension of the courtroom dissipated, replaced by the electric current that always hummed between the three of them. The girls exchanged a look that Balkatj knew all too well – it was the look that signaled the beginning of their playful power games.
With a sudden surge of strength, Modor and Hara each grabbed one of Balkatj's arms and began to drag him upstairs. He didn't struggle; he knew what was coming and felt a mix of trepidation and excitement. They had done this before, but there was something different about today. The stakes were higher, and the lines between play and reality had blurred more than ever.
Once they reached the guest room, they tossed him onto the bed, the jaguar-patterned comforter seemingly watching the unfolding scene with a knowing smile. Balkatj's heart raced as they quickly removed his clothes, their eyes gleaming with a combination of mischief and something darker. He laid there, exposed and vulnerable, his body taut with anticipation.
Hara straddled him, her legs wrapping around his arms, her backside pressing down on his neck, trapping him. Modor mirrored her actions, securing his legs with her own, their limbs entwined in a dance of dominance. The gold and silver hairbrush glinted in Hara's hand, a new tool in their game of power.
“I bought this brush specifically for you," she said with a grin, showing off the brush. ”It'll leave a nice reminder of who's in charge."
Before Balkatj could fully process her words, Hara raised her hand, holding the brush high above her head, and brought it down with a sharp crack on his bare skin. The pain was intense, a sudden burst of white-hot agony that made him yelp like a kicked puppy. The sound of his own voice, so uncharacteristically high-pitched and pained, made the girls laugh even harder. They had never seen him like this before, so vulnerable and at their mercy.
Hara raised the brush again, pausing for a beat before bringing it down hard on the other cheek of his ass. The impact was like a bolt of lightning, searing through his nerves and making his body jerk involuntarily. He tried to squirm free, but Modor's grip on his legs tightened, and she whispered in his ear, "You're not going anywhere, Balkatj."
The room was filled with the sound of their laughter as Hara raised the brush again, counting out the seconds with a sadistic glee. "Five... four... three..." Balkatj tensed, waiting for the next blow, which came swift and painful. "Two... one..." and again, the brush descended, leaving a fresh line of fire on his skin.
He howled like a coyote, his voice echoing through the farmhouse. Each strike of the brush was a punctuation to their laughter, a symphony of pleasure and pain that only they understood. His eyes watered, but he didn't dare ask for mercy. He knew this was their way of reaffirming their bond, of reminding him that even in the face of the outside world's judgement, they had a connection that was unbreakable.
8 minutes and 33 agonizing seconds later, Hara stopped at 100 smack. "Look at you," she said, her voice thick with desire.
Her hand traced over the bruises, her fingertips gliding over the tender flesh as if mapping out a secret treasure. "Your butt looks like a Jackson Pollock painting, Balkatj," she murmured. "So beautiful in its chaos."
He couldn't help but flinch at her touch, the sting from the brush still fresh in his mind. "Is it my turn now?" Modor's voice was a sweet melody that belied the sadism in her eyes. Hara nodded, put the brush down, then both girls took the Amazon rainforest designed pillowcases off the beds pillows.
The two young women hoisted him off the bed with surprising strength, his feet barely brushing the floor as they led him down the stairs. His heart hammered in his chest, the excitement building with every step. They brought him to the coat rack by the front door, the gold hooks gleaming in the soft light. With a flourish, they secured his wrists to the hooks with the pillowcases, the fabric feeling surprisingly rough against his skin.
"Don't go anywhere," Hara said with a wink, her voice dripping with sarcasm. They stepped away, leaving him bound and exposed.
The ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner was the only sound in the room, each second stretching out like a taut wire. His mind raced with what they might have in store for him next. Just when he thought he couldn't take the suspense any longer, the back door creaked open and they reappeared. Modor had something new in her hand: a switch, about three feet long and as thick as a Crayola crayon.
"Do you know why switches hurt more than paddles or brushes, or even hands?" she asked, her tone one of a teacher to a pupil.
Balkatj nodded, his voice tight. "They concentrate the pain into a smaller, deeper area. They sting and bite more than bruise."
Modor's smile was one of admiration. "Very good, Balkatj. You're learning." She held the switch up, twirling it in the air with a deceptive grace. "Ready?"
He took a deep breath, bracing himself for what was to come. This was their dance, their ritual. And as much as he feigned protest, he craved the intensity of their games. The anticipation was a sweet torment, the pain a reminder of their bond.
The first strike of the switch was like a lightning bolt, a sharp, stinging pain that seemed to burrow into his very soul. He gritted his teeth, not wanting to give them the satisfaction of hearing him cry out. But it was hard, oh so hard, to stay silent as the switch rained down on his skin, each lash a fiery brand that seared his flesh and left him trembling.
The room was alive with the snap of the switch and the hiss of his own breath. Hara watched with rapt attention, her eyes alight with excitement as she delivered one blow per second. She also counted each hit. “20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28,” and by the 29 lash, BALKATJ could no longer bite back his screams.
“YYYAAAWWW!” The aboriginal boy roared as loud as a lion.
“Nicely done Modor!” Hara exclaimed, her eyes gleaming with mischief as she watched Balkatj’s body jerk with each strike of the switch. She could feel the energy in the room, the power dynamics shifting and solidifying in their little trio.
Modor, her arm still raised and ready to deliver the next blow, grinned over her shoulder at Hara. "Thanks, but I think we're going to need to get our little warrior here some water after this. He's screaming like he just saw his first sunrise," she quipped, her voice filled with playful pride. Then she brought the switch down and across his ass again, this being the 30th lash. The young dominatrix branded him 30 more times with the switch, diagonally lashing once all the horizontal spots were filled up and covered with welts.
“60!”
The final lash fell with a sickening thwack, and Balkatj's body went limp. His eyes watered uncontrollably as he tried to process the intense pain that had overtaken his body. The room felt like it was spinning, and he was vaguely aware of Modor stepping back, her breathing heavy from the exertion.
Hara, unable to contain her excitement, clapped her hands together. "Damn, Modor, that was incredible!" she exclaimed. "I didn't know you had it in you to be so... intense."
Modor blushed slightly, but her eyes remained steely. She untied the pillowcases from Balkatj's wrists with surprising gentleness, then helped him to his feet. Despite the pain he was in, Balkatj couldn't help but feel a sense of awe at the transformation in Modor. The beach girl he had come to know was gone, replaced by a fierce, commanding presence that both terrified and thrilled him.
Hara rushed to the kitchen, returning with a chilled bottle of water. She popped the cap and handed it to Modor, who held it to Balkatj's parched lips. He drank greedily, the cool liquid soothing his dry throat. His eyes remained locked on the two girls, his mind racing with what they might do next.
Once he had downed the water, the girls helped him to the couch, his legs feeling like jelly beneath him. They both hovered over him, their eyes filled with a mix of affection and something more primal. Modor bent down and rubbed her face back-and-forth five times across his ass, just as her friend Hara had done. she remarked that it felt like a freshly cooked lumpy biscuit.
"Stay put," Modor instructed firmly, her voice leaving no room for argument.
Hara nodded in agreement. "We'll be right back with something for those poor cheeks of yours," she said, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
As they disappeared into the kitchen, Balkatj could hear the clank of pots and pans, the murmur of their voices. He took deep breaths, trying to steady his racing heart and the fire that danced across his backside. The anticipation of what they had planned was almost more intense than the pain.
They returned with a bowl of chilled buttermilk, the smell wafting towards him like a balm. Modor dipped her hand in, her fingers coming out coated in the white liquid. "This will help with the sting," she said, her voice gentle.
With surprising tenderness, she began to smooth the buttermilk over his bruised skin, the coolness offering immediate relief. Hara watched, her eyes wide with curiosity as she took in his reaction.
"It's a family recipe," Modor explained, her hands deftly moving across his flesh. "My grandmother swore by it for sunburns, but it works wonders on this kind of heat too."
The girls took turns applying the buttermilk, their touches soft and caring. Balkatj felt the pain begin to recede, replaced by a warm, tingling sensation that spread through his body. They worked in silence, each lost in their own thoughts, until the job was done.
When they were finished, they stepped back, surveying their handiwork with satisfaction. "Looks like you're not going to be sitting down for a bit," Hara said with a grin. "But don't worry, we've got another game to play that will require you to remain standing.“
31-35, M