The real life, Zoe nightshade part two
Wiŋyanpata took the bottle with trembling hands. He wasn't thirsty, but the command in her voice was irresistible. He twisted the cap and took a swig, the cold water washing down his throat and filling his stomach with a strange, heavy sensation. It was only after he had finished half of the bottle that he felt the room start to spin. His legs grew wobbly, and the floor tilted like the deck of a ship in a storm.
"Zon," he managed to murmur, his vision blurring. "I don't feel..."
Her grip tightened around his waist, and before he could finish his sentence, his legs gave out beneath him. Wiŋyanpata collapsed into her arms, the room spinning as he lost consciousness. Zon's smile grew wider, and she whispered something in a language he couldn't understand. It was a mix of Dutch and something else, something ancient and primal.
/
Wiŋyanpata's eyes fluttered open to the sight of the dark green marble steps leading up to the rest of the house. The basement door was mahogany oiled with dark-brown danish oil. He took a moment to adjust to his surroundings before the reality of his situation dawned on him. He was lying on a yellowish-orange oiled table in Zon's basement, his arms and legs stretched out, and his ankles and wrists strapped down to the table, secured with plastic buckles attached to Velcro straps screwed in with golden screws. The Anglo-Lakota Sioux Man looked around and saw that the walls were made of concrete blocks that were cemented togtherand painted gold. The carpet had a shiny silver color.
He felt a cool breeze brushing against his exposed genitals and realized that his penis and testicles were indeed hanging through a hole in the table. The hole was about 6 inches wide and 6 inches long, and was also lined with black electrical tape to prevent discomfort.
"Do you like it?" a voice purred from behind him. Wiŋyanpata craned his neck, trying to look over his shoulder, only to find Zon standing there, her arms folded, looking down at him with the intensity of a lion sizing up an antelope.
“I made this torture table, myself, honey. You can’t see it, but the four legs that hold it up are made of black fiberglass and are hollow.”
Zon’s voice was as smooth as honey, dripping with a sinister sweetness that sent chills down Wiŋyanpata’s spine. He swallowed hard, his heart pounding in his chest like a drum at a war dance. The game had taken a turn, and he wasn’t sure how much of it was still just that—a game.
“Remember, Wiŋyanpata, I won’t do anything you don’t want to do,” she assured him in a serious tone of voice, though her eyes still glinted with excitement.
“Do you want to keep playing?”
The Anglo-American Indian man was honestly scared of his mind, but he was also extremely excited. It was the excitement that went out over the fear and he said, “Hell Yes!”
The Dutch-Arabic American woman’s eyes filled with glee at his continued cooperation.
“Good, now we can have some real fun,” she said, her tone switching back to the sweetness it had been earlier. She leaned over him, her pink leather outfit creaking slightly, and whispered the safe word into his ear: “Velociraptor.”
He nodded, a bit nervously, feeling the gravity of the situation sink in.
“Velociraptor,” he murmured, committing it to memory.
Zon’s smile was cold and calculating as she leaned back.
“Well, well, well, looks like my little spy is awake!” she exclaimed, her voice dripping with faux sweetness.
Wiŋyanpata groaned, the sting from her earlier smacks still echoing on his skin. He tried to play along, saying, “I’m not a spy! You’ve got the wrong guy lady!”
Zon’s smile disappeared like a shooting star, and she leaned in close, her eyes burning with a fierce intensity.
“Don’t lie to me, Lucifer Wolverine. I know you’re with the US Navy. Dutch hackers cracked their intel database. Now, tell me why you’re really here, or I’ll make sure you regret every lie you’ve ever told! And call me miss Sunshine Pasture from now on.”
Wiŋyanpata’s heart pounded against his ribs, his breath coming in short gasps. He felt the heat from her breath on his neck as she whispered, “What I don’t know is what an American spy would be doing in the Netherlands since both of our countries are allies. If you know, what’s good for you, you’ll explain it to me!”
She pressed her left hand firmly into his lower back, while her right hand hovered above his vulnerable, exposed skin. He felt the anticipation build with every second she didn’t make contact. “Please, miss Sunshine Pasture, I’m not a spy!” he pleaded, his voice cracking.
Then, the first slap came, resonating through the cool basement like a gunshot. Wiŋyanpata’s body jerked in response, a high-pitched yelp escaping his lips. Zon couldn’t help but laugh at the loud noise he made. It sounded so childish yet it was filled with raw emotion and agony. However, once her giggle fit was over, she got back into character and frowned, saying, "I thought I told you not to lie to me! You’re going to tell me what your purpose of being here is, or I’m going to beat that cute little butt of yours so bad that it will be as dark and as swollen as a plum! It might even fall off!”
“I swear to you, I’m not…!” He was cut off as she delivered another powerful slap to his ass, using a different hand and hitting a different cheek than the ones she had before. Zon continued spanking Wiŋyanpata, her smacks coming once a second, all the muscle power in her body focused towards whichever hand she was using.
Wiŋyanpata’s body writhed and bucked, his voice a symphony of pain and pleasure. He didn’t bother to hold back his screams or tears; she’d only hit harder to force them out of him. And so, with each strike, he let out a raw, primal sound, his voice echoing off the cold, golden walls of the basement. After the twenty-fifth hit, he was begging her to stop, saying that his butt was on fire, his voice hoarse and broken. But she was relentless, each word punctuated by one of her strikes.
“You SPANK! Know SPANK! What SPANK! You SPANK! Have SPANK! To SPANK! Say SPANK! To SPANK! Get SPANK! Me SPANK! To SPANK! Stop SPANK! Tell SPANK! Me SPANK!
Why SPANK! You’re SPANK! In SPANK! The SPANK! Netherlands SPANK!”
Wiŋyanpata felt as though he was being branded, the pain searing through his soul. He squirmed and bucked, trying to escape the onslaught, but the straps held him firmly in place, a silent witness to his torment. His cheeks burned hotter than a summer prairie fire, and his eyes watered like a spring thaw. He had never felt anything quite like this before, a mix of agony and a strange, twisted pleasure that seemed to be unraveling his very essence.
After two agonizing minutes and 120 spanks, Zon finally stopped punishing him.
"You're a stubborn one, aren't you? Looks like we're going to have to kick it up a notch," she said, her voice cold and authoritative.
"I’ll be right back, I’m going to my playroom," Zon said, turning away from Wiŋyanpata with a sly smile. He watched her hips sway as she climbed the marble stairs, each step echoing in the quiet basement. Her leather leotard was a stark contrast against the gleaming gold of the walls, and the sound of her footsteps grew faint as she moved away.
Three minutes later, she reemerged, holding a paddle that was the color of rich caramel. It was about two feet long, with twelve perfectly round holes spaced evenly along its surface. Wiŋyanpata's eyes widened as she approached him, the paddle seemingly floating in her hand like a weapon of ancient torture. He gulped, which pleased Zon immensely.
"Do you know why paddles with holes hurt more than the solid ones?" she asked, her eyes gleaming with excitement.
Wiŋyanpata nodded, his voice strained. "Yes, miss Sunshine Pasture," he managed to say through gritted teeth. "The holes reduce air resistance, making the swing faster and the impact more intense. They also reduce the size of the paddle, making the sting sharper and more focused when it hits the buttocks."
“Check out the big brain on Lucifer!” Zon said in a very condescending tone of voice.
“ Now, are you ready to tell mommy the truth about why you’re here in her country?”
Wiŋyanpata’s mind raced as the words sank in. He knew that saying no would only make it worse, and the thought of enduring more of her punishment made his stomach churn. “Please, I’m not a spy! I swear on my mother‘s grave!” he begged, his voice trembling with fear.
“Still lying to me, huh?!” Zon’s eyes narrowed, the sadistic glee on her face growing more intense.
“Well, then, I guess we’ll just have to see how much more you can take before you change your tune, won’t we?”
Zon walked behind him and stood on his left side. She raised the paddle high into the air while gripping its handle with both hands, and then brought it down with a tremendous smack on his unprotected ass, The paddle was large enough to hit both of his butt cheeks. Wiŋyanpata screamed bloody murder, the sensation feeling as though a sledgehammer was smashing into his butt.
"Tell me why you’re here, or I’ll turn your cheeks into Swiss cheese," she whispered sweetly into his ear, her smile never leaving her face. The Dutch Arabic woman then leaned back up, backed away, and started to rub the paddle onto his roasted rump. The slow movements of the wood soothing his poor butt cheeks. After five seconds of rubbing, she raised the paddle again, and brought it down with a crack so loud he thought the table would break.
The pain was like a bolt of lightning, a sharp contrast to the gentle caress of the wood. He couldn’t hold back his scream, and his body bucked against the straps. The pattern continued, a punishing rhythm that seemed to sync with his racing heart—spank, rub, spank, rub, each hit more painful than the last. Despite his protests and pleas, Zon was relentless, her eyes shining with a dark delight. After 50 smacks, she moved to the right side of him, her breathing slightly heavier than before.
With the same precision and cruel efficiency, she delivered another set of 50 hits, again rubbing his sore ass in five second intervals.
The pain grew to be almost unbearable, but Wiŋyanpata didn't dare to utter the safe word. His pride and the thrill of the game kept him silent, his eyes squeezed shut, his body shaking with each blow.
After the hundredth smack, Zon stepped directly behind him and put her hands, One of them still holding the paddle, on her hips. She admired her handiwork.
Wiŋyanpata’s butt was a deep shade of pink, almost purple, the skin hot and sensitive to the touch. She could see the outline of the paddle imprinted onto his skin, a map of pain that she had drawn with precision and care. Zon’s gaze lingered on the beautiful sight before her, and she felt a strange sense of accomplishment. Here was a man, strong and stoic, brought low by nothing more than her hand and a wooden paddle. And yet, she knew that he could have stopped this at any time with a single word. That he hadn’t used the safe word filled her with a thrill she hadn’t expected.
With a dramatic flair, she sailed back up the marble stairs, the sound of her footsteps echoing through the basement. Wiŋyanpata could feel the anticipation building in his chest, his heart thumping like a drum at a powwow. What new torment would she bring? Would it be something that would finally break him? Or would it push him over the edge into a new realm of pleasure?
Three minutes passed, and she descended the stairs, this time with a new tool of persuasion. In her right hand was a whip that looked like something out of a dominatrix’s dreams. The foot-long handle was black and gleamed like polished obsidian, while the leather tails were a stark crimson, each one at least two feet long. He couldn’t tell if it was a martinet or a flogger.
"Since you're still being disobedient and not spilling the beans as to why you’re in the Netherlands, I’m going to have to whip you into shape!” she said, her smile more predatory than ever before.
Wiŋyanpata’s eyes grew wide as Zon approached, the martinet trailing behind her like a serpent stalking its prey. She lightly dragged the leather tails over his neck and shoulders. The sensation was surprisingly pleasant, sending a shiver down his spine that was equal parts fear and excitement. Zon moved onto the other part of his body, dragging the leather thongs across the top of his hands and fingers, elbows and elbow pits, arms, armpits, back, butt, thighs, calves, feet toes, and last, but certainly not least, his genitals.
“This is my favorite tool, Wiŋyanpata. It leaves such delicate marks, but oh, the pain it brings is exquisite!” she murmured, her eyes glinting with a mix of hunger and satisfaction as she watched his body react to the gentle caress of the whip.
“ I can even hit your penis and testicles without doing any serious damage.”
Wiŋyanpata’s eyes widened in horror at her words, his breath catching in his throat. Before he could even think about complying with her demands and inventing a reason for being in the Netherlands, as part of their game, she raised the martinet and brought it down swiftly on the back of his right hand. The leather thongs bit into his skin, leaving a fiery trail of pain in their wake. He jerked against the straps, his body’s involuntary reaction to the sudden agony.
Zon’s smile grew even wider, and she moved to his left hand, repeating the process. Wiŋyanpata’s wrists strained against the velcro restraints as he tried to pull away from the punishing blows. She didn’t stop there, though. The whip danced down his arms, leaving a crimson path across his skin. Each hit grew more precise, each one aimed at a different spot, building a crescendo of pain that made his entire body tense.
Her strokes grew more deliberate as she reached his elbow pits, and Wiŋyanpata's screams grew more desperate. She took a moment to appreciate his reaction before moving the whip up to his wrists and lashing down his forearms, followed by the larger part of his arms, and after that his shoulders. Then she attacked the nape of his neck and he squealed like a pig, his body jolting and wriggling on the table. The whip's crimson leather tails left a series of stinging lines across his skin, each one a testament to her skill.
With a dramatic flourish, she brought the martinet down on his back, the sound of leather meeting flesh echoing through the basement. Wiŋyanpata's body arched off the table, his screams reaching a pitch that seemed to shake the very foundations of the house. She moved with the grace of a dancer, the whip a torturous extension of her will. After lashing the small of his back, she paused, enjoying the way his muscles tensed in anticipation of the next blow.
The moment the crimson tails made contact with his already tenderized buttocks, Wiŋyanpata's screams took on the sound of a cow being slaughtered. It was a sound that seemed to fill the room, a testament to the intensity of the pain she delivered. The whip's leather tails dug into his skin like knives, leaving him feeling as though he was being impaled. His body writhed in agony, his mind a whirlwind of pain and panic. Despite his cries for mercy, she continued, her movements methodical and precise. Each hit more punishing than the last, she painted a canvas of suffering across his backside, leaving no inch untouched by the fiery kiss of the whip. 30 seconds and thirty brutal lashes later, Zon finally showed his keister some mercy.
Moving down his legs, she targeted his knee pits with the same sadistic glee. The sensation was unlike anything Wiŋyanpata had ever felt. It was as if a white-hot branding iron had been pressed against the most sensitive parts of his body. He bucked and squirmed, the pain searing through him like wildfire. Zon watched his reaction with a mix of fascination and arousal, the power of her dominance over him a potent aphrodisiac.
Finally, she reached his feet, and the moment the leather kissed his heels, it was as if a live electrical wire had been thrust into his very soul. He howled in agony, his body convulsing violently. The pain was unbearable, a white-hot knife slicing through his nerve endings.
With a twisted sense of glee, she watched as the whip danced over the sensitive flesh of his heels, soles, and toes. Wiŋyanpata’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he bit down so hard on his lower lip that he could taste the coppery tang of his own blood. He had never felt anything so intense, so all-consuming. It was as if the very essence of pain had taken on a physical form and was now using his body as its plaything.
Zon squatted down and looked at her captive’s private parts. She brought her whip arm forward and and rubbed the fiberglass handle against his Frank and beans for about seven seconds, watching his body tense and his breath quicken. He was begging her with his eyes, but she knew he wasn’t going to say the safe word. Wiŋyanpata’s eyes were filled with a mix of dread and arousal that made her wet.
With a flick of her wrist, she brought the crimson leather tails of the martinet up and around in a backhand motion, smacking him directly on his scrotum. The leather thongs curled around the top of his penis, with his balls protecting the sensitive underside of it. The impact was so intense that Wiŋyanpata’s vision went white, and he saw stars explode in the darkness behind his eyelids. He felt as though a supernova had gone off inside his body, and the resulting shockwave had lit up every nerve ending with a fiery agony. His body spasmed against the restraints, and he couldn’t hold back a bloodcurdling scream.
Zon chuckled at his reaction, her eyes gleaming with a dark, twisted pleasure. Then she brought the whip up again this time in the front hand motion preparing to deliver another brutal blow to the organ that made him a man. Wiŋyanpata, despite the horrible pain he was still in, saw what she was about to do.
“Please don’t hit me there again! I’ll tell you the truth, I swear!”
Wiŋyanpata’s voice was desperate, and Zon couldn’t help but smirk at his sudden willingness to cooperate. She had known her multi-tailed whip would be the key to “persuading” him—it was her favorite toy, after all.
"Good boy," she cooed, patting his bruised cheek with a gentle hand. " Now, tell me everything you know."
Wiŋyanpata took a deep breath, his imagination racing. "Okay, okay! So, I was sent to... to eliminate this Dutch businessman," he began, his voice shaking slightly. "He's been feeding the CIA intel, and they want him out of the picture before he can spill any secrets to the media."
Zon's eyes lit up, and she leaned in closer. "And why, pray tell, would they send someone like you to do such a thing?"
Wiŋyanpata swallowed hard, feeling the stickiness of his own blood in his mouth. "Because... because he's demanding to be installed as king of the Netherlands, otherwise he’ll blow the whistle on covert CIA ops in Europe. They think if I take him out, it'll send a message."
Her smile grew even wider, and she leaned in to whisper in his ear.
"Very good! As a reward for your honesty, I’m going to inflict great pleasure on you just like I’ve inflicted great pain.”
Wiŋyanpata’s eyes widened, knowing exactly what her words meant.
“But Miss Sunshine Pasture, what if the other guards or prisoners hear us? Surely they’ll come to investigate!” he asked, staying in character, his voice still shaking from the torment she had just subjected him to.
Zon leaned in closer, her smile growing even more wicked. “Don’t you worry about them, sugar. This is a safe house, all to myself. I haven’t gotten any calls about more spies or prisoners, arriving here for a while. We’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other up close in personal”
Her words we
"Zon," he managed to murmur, his vision blurring. "I don't feel..."
Her grip tightened around his waist, and before he could finish his sentence, his legs gave out beneath him. Wiŋyanpata collapsed into her arms, the room spinning as he lost consciousness. Zon's smile grew wider, and she whispered something in a language he couldn't understand. It was a mix of Dutch and something else, something ancient and primal.
/
Wiŋyanpata's eyes fluttered open to the sight of the dark green marble steps leading up to the rest of the house. The basement door was mahogany oiled with dark-brown danish oil. He took a moment to adjust to his surroundings before the reality of his situation dawned on him. He was lying on a yellowish-orange oiled table in Zon's basement, his arms and legs stretched out, and his ankles and wrists strapped down to the table, secured with plastic buckles attached to Velcro straps screwed in with golden screws. The Anglo-Lakota Sioux Man looked around and saw that the walls were made of concrete blocks that were cemented togtherand painted gold. The carpet had a shiny silver color.
He felt a cool breeze brushing against his exposed genitals and realized that his penis and testicles were indeed hanging through a hole in the table. The hole was about 6 inches wide and 6 inches long, and was also lined with black electrical tape to prevent discomfort.
"Do you like it?" a voice purred from behind him. Wiŋyanpata craned his neck, trying to look over his shoulder, only to find Zon standing there, her arms folded, looking down at him with the intensity of a lion sizing up an antelope.
“I made this torture table, myself, honey. You can’t see it, but the four legs that hold it up are made of black fiberglass and are hollow.”
Zon’s voice was as smooth as honey, dripping with a sinister sweetness that sent chills down Wiŋyanpata’s spine. He swallowed hard, his heart pounding in his chest like a drum at a war dance. The game had taken a turn, and he wasn’t sure how much of it was still just that—a game.
“Remember, Wiŋyanpata, I won’t do anything you don’t want to do,” she assured him in a serious tone of voice, though her eyes still glinted with excitement.
“Do you want to keep playing?”
The Anglo-American Indian man was honestly scared of his mind, but he was also extremely excited. It was the excitement that went out over the fear and he said, “Hell Yes!”
The Dutch-Arabic American woman’s eyes filled with glee at his continued cooperation.
“Good, now we can have some real fun,” she said, her tone switching back to the sweetness it had been earlier. She leaned over him, her pink leather outfit creaking slightly, and whispered the safe word into his ear: “Velociraptor.”
He nodded, a bit nervously, feeling the gravity of the situation sink in.
“Velociraptor,” he murmured, committing it to memory.
Zon’s smile was cold and calculating as she leaned back.
“Well, well, well, looks like my little spy is awake!” she exclaimed, her voice dripping with faux sweetness.
Wiŋyanpata groaned, the sting from her earlier smacks still echoing on his skin. He tried to play along, saying, “I’m not a spy! You’ve got the wrong guy lady!”
Zon’s smile disappeared like a shooting star, and she leaned in close, her eyes burning with a fierce intensity.
“Don’t lie to me, Lucifer Wolverine. I know you’re with the US Navy. Dutch hackers cracked their intel database. Now, tell me why you’re really here, or I’ll make sure you regret every lie you’ve ever told! And call me miss Sunshine Pasture from now on.”
Wiŋyanpata’s heart pounded against his ribs, his breath coming in short gasps. He felt the heat from her breath on his neck as she whispered, “What I don’t know is what an American spy would be doing in the Netherlands since both of our countries are allies. If you know, what’s good for you, you’ll explain it to me!”
She pressed her left hand firmly into his lower back, while her right hand hovered above his vulnerable, exposed skin. He felt the anticipation build with every second she didn’t make contact. “Please, miss Sunshine Pasture, I’m not a spy!” he pleaded, his voice cracking.
Then, the first slap came, resonating through the cool basement like a gunshot. Wiŋyanpata’s body jerked in response, a high-pitched yelp escaping his lips. Zon couldn’t help but laugh at the loud noise he made. It sounded so childish yet it was filled with raw emotion and agony. However, once her giggle fit was over, she got back into character and frowned, saying, "I thought I told you not to lie to me! You’re going to tell me what your purpose of being here is, or I’m going to beat that cute little butt of yours so bad that it will be as dark and as swollen as a plum! It might even fall off!”
“I swear to you, I’m not…!” He was cut off as she delivered another powerful slap to his ass, using a different hand and hitting a different cheek than the ones she had before. Zon continued spanking Wiŋyanpata, her smacks coming once a second, all the muscle power in her body focused towards whichever hand she was using.
Wiŋyanpata’s body writhed and bucked, his voice a symphony of pain and pleasure. He didn’t bother to hold back his screams or tears; she’d only hit harder to force them out of him. And so, with each strike, he let out a raw, primal sound, his voice echoing off the cold, golden walls of the basement. After the twenty-fifth hit, he was begging her to stop, saying that his butt was on fire, his voice hoarse and broken. But she was relentless, each word punctuated by one of her strikes.
“You SPANK! Know SPANK! What SPANK! You SPANK! Have SPANK! To SPANK! Say SPANK! To SPANK! Get SPANK! Me SPANK! To SPANK! Stop SPANK! Tell SPANK! Me SPANK!
Why SPANK! You’re SPANK! In SPANK! The SPANK! Netherlands SPANK!”
Wiŋyanpata felt as though he was being branded, the pain searing through his soul. He squirmed and bucked, trying to escape the onslaught, but the straps held him firmly in place, a silent witness to his torment. His cheeks burned hotter than a summer prairie fire, and his eyes watered like a spring thaw. He had never felt anything quite like this before, a mix of agony and a strange, twisted pleasure that seemed to be unraveling his very essence.
After two agonizing minutes and 120 spanks, Zon finally stopped punishing him.
"You're a stubborn one, aren't you? Looks like we're going to have to kick it up a notch," she said, her voice cold and authoritative.
"I’ll be right back, I’m going to my playroom," Zon said, turning away from Wiŋyanpata with a sly smile. He watched her hips sway as she climbed the marble stairs, each step echoing in the quiet basement. Her leather leotard was a stark contrast against the gleaming gold of the walls, and the sound of her footsteps grew faint as she moved away.
Three minutes later, she reemerged, holding a paddle that was the color of rich caramel. It was about two feet long, with twelve perfectly round holes spaced evenly along its surface. Wiŋyanpata's eyes widened as she approached him, the paddle seemingly floating in her hand like a weapon of ancient torture. He gulped, which pleased Zon immensely.
"Do you know why paddles with holes hurt more than the solid ones?" she asked, her eyes gleaming with excitement.
Wiŋyanpata nodded, his voice strained. "Yes, miss Sunshine Pasture," he managed to say through gritted teeth. "The holes reduce air resistance, making the swing faster and the impact more intense. They also reduce the size of the paddle, making the sting sharper and more focused when it hits the buttocks."
“Check out the big brain on Lucifer!” Zon said in a very condescending tone of voice.
“ Now, are you ready to tell mommy the truth about why you’re here in her country?”
Wiŋyanpata’s mind raced as the words sank in. He knew that saying no would only make it worse, and the thought of enduring more of her punishment made his stomach churn. “Please, I’m not a spy! I swear on my mother‘s grave!” he begged, his voice trembling with fear.
“Still lying to me, huh?!” Zon’s eyes narrowed, the sadistic glee on her face growing more intense.
“Well, then, I guess we’ll just have to see how much more you can take before you change your tune, won’t we?”
Zon walked behind him and stood on his left side. She raised the paddle high into the air while gripping its handle with both hands, and then brought it down with a tremendous smack on his unprotected ass, The paddle was large enough to hit both of his butt cheeks. Wiŋyanpata screamed bloody murder, the sensation feeling as though a sledgehammer was smashing into his butt.
"Tell me why you’re here, or I’ll turn your cheeks into Swiss cheese," she whispered sweetly into his ear, her smile never leaving her face. The Dutch Arabic woman then leaned back up, backed away, and started to rub the paddle onto his roasted rump. The slow movements of the wood soothing his poor butt cheeks. After five seconds of rubbing, she raised the paddle again, and brought it down with a crack so loud he thought the table would break.
The pain was like a bolt of lightning, a sharp contrast to the gentle caress of the wood. He couldn’t hold back his scream, and his body bucked against the straps. The pattern continued, a punishing rhythm that seemed to sync with his racing heart—spank, rub, spank, rub, each hit more painful than the last. Despite his protests and pleas, Zon was relentless, her eyes shining with a dark delight. After 50 smacks, she moved to the right side of him, her breathing slightly heavier than before.
With the same precision and cruel efficiency, she delivered another set of 50 hits, again rubbing his sore ass in five second intervals.
The pain grew to be almost unbearable, but Wiŋyanpata didn't dare to utter the safe word. His pride and the thrill of the game kept him silent, his eyes squeezed shut, his body shaking with each blow.
After the hundredth smack, Zon stepped directly behind him and put her hands, One of them still holding the paddle, on her hips. She admired her handiwork.
Wiŋyanpata’s butt was a deep shade of pink, almost purple, the skin hot and sensitive to the touch. She could see the outline of the paddle imprinted onto his skin, a map of pain that she had drawn with precision and care. Zon’s gaze lingered on the beautiful sight before her, and she felt a strange sense of accomplishment. Here was a man, strong and stoic, brought low by nothing more than her hand and a wooden paddle. And yet, she knew that he could have stopped this at any time with a single word. That he hadn’t used the safe word filled her with a thrill she hadn’t expected.
With a dramatic flair, she sailed back up the marble stairs, the sound of her footsteps echoing through the basement. Wiŋyanpata could feel the anticipation building in his chest, his heart thumping like a drum at a powwow. What new torment would she bring? Would it be something that would finally break him? Or would it push him over the edge into a new realm of pleasure?
Three minutes passed, and she descended the stairs, this time with a new tool of persuasion. In her right hand was a whip that looked like something out of a dominatrix’s dreams. The foot-long handle was black and gleamed like polished obsidian, while the leather tails were a stark crimson, each one at least two feet long. He couldn’t tell if it was a martinet or a flogger.
"Since you're still being disobedient and not spilling the beans as to why you’re in the Netherlands, I’m going to have to whip you into shape!” she said, her smile more predatory than ever before.
Wiŋyanpata’s eyes grew wide as Zon approached, the martinet trailing behind her like a serpent stalking its prey. She lightly dragged the leather tails over his neck and shoulders. The sensation was surprisingly pleasant, sending a shiver down his spine that was equal parts fear and excitement. Zon moved onto the other part of his body, dragging the leather thongs across the top of his hands and fingers, elbows and elbow pits, arms, armpits, back, butt, thighs, calves, feet toes, and last, but certainly not least, his genitals.
“This is my favorite tool, Wiŋyanpata. It leaves such delicate marks, but oh, the pain it brings is exquisite!” she murmured, her eyes glinting with a mix of hunger and satisfaction as she watched his body react to the gentle caress of the whip.
“ I can even hit your penis and testicles without doing any serious damage.”
Wiŋyanpata’s eyes widened in horror at her words, his breath catching in his throat. Before he could even think about complying with her demands and inventing a reason for being in the Netherlands, as part of their game, she raised the martinet and brought it down swiftly on the back of his right hand. The leather thongs bit into his skin, leaving a fiery trail of pain in their wake. He jerked against the straps, his body’s involuntary reaction to the sudden agony.
Zon’s smile grew even wider, and she moved to his left hand, repeating the process. Wiŋyanpata’s wrists strained against the velcro restraints as he tried to pull away from the punishing blows. She didn’t stop there, though. The whip danced down his arms, leaving a crimson path across his skin. Each hit grew more precise, each one aimed at a different spot, building a crescendo of pain that made his entire body tense.
Her strokes grew more deliberate as she reached his elbow pits, and Wiŋyanpata's screams grew more desperate. She took a moment to appreciate his reaction before moving the whip up to his wrists and lashing down his forearms, followed by the larger part of his arms, and after that his shoulders. Then she attacked the nape of his neck and he squealed like a pig, his body jolting and wriggling on the table. The whip's crimson leather tails left a series of stinging lines across his skin, each one a testament to her skill.
With a dramatic flourish, she brought the martinet down on his back, the sound of leather meeting flesh echoing through the basement. Wiŋyanpata's body arched off the table, his screams reaching a pitch that seemed to shake the very foundations of the house. She moved with the grace of a dancer, the whip a torturous extension of her will. After lashing the small of his back, she paused, enjoying the way his muscles tensed in anticipation of the next blow.
The moment the crimson tails made contact with his already tenderized buttocks, Wiŋyanpata's screams took on the sound of a cow being slaughtered. It was a sound that seemed to fill the room, a testament to the intensity of the pain she delivered. The whip's leather tails dug into his skin like knives, leaving him feeling as though he was being impaled. His body writhed in agony, his mind a whirlwind of pain and panic. Despite his cries for mercy, she continued, her movements methodical and precise. Each hit more punishing than the last, she painted a canvas of suffering across his backside, leaving no inch untouched by the fiery kiss of the whip. 30 seconds and thirty brutal lashes later, Zon finally showed his keister some mercy.
Moving down his legs, she targeted his knee pits with the same sadistic glee. The sensation was unlike anything Wiŋyanpata had ever felt. It was as if a white-hot branding iron had been pressed against the most sensitive parts of his body. He bucked and squirmed, the pain searing through him like wildfire. Zon watched his reaction with a mix of fascination and arousal, the power of her dominance over him a potent aphrodisiac.
Finally, she reached his feet, and the moment the leather kissed his heels, it was as if a live electrical wire had been thrust into his very soul. He howled in agony, his body convulsing violently. The pain was unbearable, a white-hot knife slicing through his nerve endings.
With a twisted sense of glee, she watched as the whip danced over the sensitive flesh of his heels, soles, and toes. Wiŋyanpata’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he bit down so hard on his lower lip that he could taste the coppery tang of his own blood. He had never felt anything so intense, so all-consuming. It was as if the very essence of pain had taken on a physical form and was now using his body as its plaything.
Zon squatted down and looked at her captive’s private parts. She brought her whip arm forward and and rubbed the fiberglass handle against his Frank and beans for about seven seconds, watching his body tense and his breath quicken. He was begging her with his eyes, but she knew he wasn’t going to say the safe word. Wiŋyanpata’s eyes were filled with a mix of dread and arousal that made her wet.
With a flick of her wrist, she brought the crimson leather tails of the martinet up and around in a backhand motion, smacking him directly on his scrotum. The leather thongs curled around the top of his penis, with his balls protecting the sensitive underside of it. The impact was so intense that Wiŋyanpata’s vision went white, and he saw stars explode in the darkness behind his eyelids. He felt as though a supernova had gone off inside his body, and the resulting shockwave had lit up every nerve ending with a fiery agony. His body spasmed against the restraints, and he couldn’t hold back a bloodcurdling scream.
Zon chuckled at his reaction, her eyes gleaming with a dark, twisted pleasure. Then she brought the whip up again this time in the front hand motion preparing to deliver another brutal blow to the organ that made him a man. Wiŋyanpata, despite the horrible pain he was still in, saw what she was about to do.
“Please don’t hit me there again! I’ll tell you the truth, I swear!”
Wiŋyanpata’s voice was desperate, and Zon couldn’t help but smirk at his sudden willingness to cooperate. She had known her multi-tailed whip would be the key to “persuading” him—it was her favorite toy, after all.
"Good boy," she cooed, patting his bruised cheek with a gentle hand. " Now, tell me everything you know."
Wiŋyanpata took a deep breath, his imagination racing. "Okay, okay! So, I was sent to... to eliminate this Dutch businessman," he began, his voice shaking slightly. "He's been feeding the CIA intel, and they want him out of the picture before he can spill any secrets to the media."
Zon's eyes lit up, and she leaned in closer. "And why, pray tell, would they send someone like you to do such a thing?"
Wiŋyanpata swallowed hard, feeling the stickiness of his own blood in his mouth. "Because... because he's demanding to be installed as king of the Netherlands, otherwise he’ll blow the whistle on covert CIA ops in Europe. They think if I take him out, it'll send a message."
Her smile grew even wider, and she leaned in to whisper in his ear.
"Very good! As a reward for your honesty, I’m going to inflict great pleasure on you just like I’ve inflicted great pain.”
Wiŋyanpata’s eyes widened, knowing exactly what her words meant.
“But Miss Sunshine Pasture, what if the other guards or prisoners hear us? Surely they’ll come to investigate!” he asked, staying in character, his voice still shaking from the torment she had just subjected him to.
Zon leaned in closer, her smile growing even more wicked. “Don’t you worry about them, sugar. This is a safe house, all to myself. I haven’t gotten any calls about more spies or prisoners, arriving here for a while. We’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other up close in personal”
Her words we
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