“Shsh, you manage, just breathe, slow in, slow out, breathe it away like you breathe the pain away.”

Well, touching the rim of her ear while whispering to her probably was a bad idea, as well as using the word ‘pain’.

“Oh God, oh God, …” The keening sound at the back of her throat, coming and going, was the best sign that she was loosing this battle.

“Oh no, no, nooooo …” She started flailing, her head turning left, then right, eyes cringed close, mouth open and drooling, her back even bending lower then before, presenting herself like a bitch in heat, and then it started:

“Pft, drp …” The first squirt shot right between my legs into the rumpled sheets, drops hitting the side of my knees.

“Arghh …” There was resignation and despair in the grunt which followed the recognition of her defeat. Then she suddenly lifted her head looking straight into the mirror, into my eyes, an expression of serenity changing to one of concentration within seconds, and stated with surprising clarity: “God I hate this!”

“Pft, drp, pft, drp …”

My balls felt the bulging of her pussy, my cock the rhythmic clenching of her ass, my ears heard her piercing scream muffled by the pillow and my nose was assaulted by the heady mixture of sweat, pussy and ass. As much as my eyes wanted to just observe the spectacle of her break down, my animal brain decided for action. When I tried to pull out to thrust back in, her asshole kept clinging to my dick, nearly ripping it off.

A groan later and the next wave started with her pussy and ass suddenly opening themselves like someone had pulled a string inside. My cock jumped out, the brownish tinge proof that the length of her ass fucking surpassed the effect of her enema. The two open holes, glistening pink, framed in white and yellow slime, invited me back in. I bottomed out not a moment too early as the following cramp closed her pussy with an audible ‘clap’, her asshole milking me incessantly.

“Jesus, girl …”

My shout seemed to trigger another scream from her side, her head lifted, her eyes burning, slowly glazing over, not wanting to loose the sight of my ecstasy.

She had lost the bet. She had lost the will to resist the needs of her own body. Her arms and legs collapsed, her asshole suddenly slack, asking to be used for my own pleasure: Every thrust a grunt, every pull a sigh, her face relaxed, a resigned half smile playing around her lips.

“Hurt me, baby.” My grunt was answer enough as I started to hammer into her. First her asshole became slicker, then drier. By that time she had started to scream again, her head pressed into the pillow, her arms held wide, her fists clinging to the sheets. I was lying on top of her, my elbows taking some of my weight, my hands clinging to her shoulders upside down and pushing her into me, the Y chain connecting her clit and nipple rings burning between my fingers as it was stretched way beyond the comfort zone. It was the smell of her sweaty hair that drove me over the edge.

I woke when she started cleaning my limp dick with a cold wash rag, solemnly, kissing it finally like you would kiss a child good night. She looked up, her hazelnut eyes deep pools of love, a hint of fear corresponding to the black and violet spots, which only showed in these moments of longing: A look I knew too well, a longing for redemption, for pain, for closure that I never understood and nevertheless always fulfilled.

I must have slept quite a bit as she had found time to lay out the instruments of her punishment, she had chosen herself for the very likely case that she lost her bet not to orgasm for at least two months. She was two days short of winning.

The late afternoon sun accentuated the red glimmer in her brown blackish hair, testament to her Irish ancestry, which she preferred to forget in favour of her Cheyenne forefathers, responsible for her brown skin and slanted eyes. The sun played over her naked body, reflected by the mirrors covering one side of her sleeping room and separated by a bar, which she used to keep in shape the lithe body of a former dancer, hairless and smooth except for the red angry welts the cane had left on her backside. She had asked me to use it on her the same way she had asked me now: with her irresistible, longing eyes.

They once had pierced through the smoke filled noisy darkness of a packed bar, where no one gave a shit that smoking was forbidden, where the whole town congregated Friday evening, where two recent arrivals found company if only by staring at each other.

The look she sent me now through the mirror, while folding up her freshly washed hair into a bun, reminded me of our second meeting: she just stood in front of me there in our small town clinic, her hand holding a girl, who had hurt her knees in a fall. It turned out that she worked next door as an elementary school teacher. I forgot to ask her name, so lost was I in her eyes. Only later I found out that it was Marlene. It seemed her soldier father had a thing for Marlene Dietrich.

“Cling.” The sound of her chain as she threaded it around the metal bar and closed it again on her clit ring brought me back from my reverie, the instrument of torture in my hand clearing out my mind. She had handcrafted it herself: seven braided deer leather strips ending in a knot containing a fish hook. Wherever these knots would land, a piece of flesh would be ripped from her body.

When she had finished its construction, she had asked me to use it on her once as a test. I chose her beautiful backside. Her shriek was earth shattering and she hopped around the living room for two minutes sobbing and holding her backside, blood trickling between her fingers. Then she threw me to the ground, tucked out my penis and sucked it for more then an hour, bringing me to the brink and back again and again. At the end she took me into her throat for two minutes, her nose in my pubic hair, barely able to breath, her gagging reflex shaking her every ten seconds, her ass muscles convulsing in sympathy. This drew my attention to her bloody ass cheek and I came when I stroked over the holes the cat o’seven had torn into her skin and she started shrieking into my crotch.

Mhm, I so loved her smile of happiness and mischief, when she fed herself the rest of my sperm and said naughtily: “I think I peed myself.” Crawling on all fours backwards she approached her face to the little puddle, sniffed it and then started to lap like a little kitten. She looked up and when she saw that my cock was raising its head again, she laughed and wiggled her finger: “No, no, no …”

I chased her through the house and the nearby woods, tackled her to the ground and when she presented her asshole I just tore into her with only my spit for lubrification, while she kept chanting: “Don’t make me come, don’t make me come …” When she turned her head and kissed me, I could still faintly taste the pee on her tongue and I came within seconds. Only later I could take care of her wounds, her whimpering even more endearing as she repeated: “I so love you, Brian, thank you for not letting me come …”

And now she wanted me to hit her five times with this monstrosity as punishment for not having won her bet.

“I’m ready.” Her voice sounded firm and meek at the same time. She stood her feet apart, her hands folded behind her head, her Y chain taut, pulling out her clit and nipples.

I was always amazed by that chain. She never told me, what material it was made off. She said it was a gift from her uncle, the same ‘uncle’ who let her live in this mountain hut as she called it. I’d rather say it was a kind of palace, five bedrooms, one big entrance hall, but definitely on the mountain, as it took one hour’s drive over a rugged road to come up here: Hence no worries about anyone hearing her scream.

And scream she did, when she first received the chain and asked me to test its potential by hanging her from one of the rafters, another one of her stupid bets. This one she won by the way, as it took ten seconds of excruciating pain before she gave in. Her clit and nipples felt dead after that for quite some time, which gave her the crazy idea of going without orgasm during ever greater lengths of time.

What was the prize I won, you might ask? Well, strangely enough, if she wins or looses, betting with her always means that I have to do painful things to her: This time it meant fucking her in the ass three times a day seven days a week, and I don’t know, what hurt more after that week, her ass or my cock.

I had lifted my arm. She looked straight at me through the mirror. There was challenge and fear at the same time. When the barbed knots hit her back, red mist bloomed from the impact zones. Her mouth opened, her forehead creased, her eyes filled with tears.

“Oh God, oh God, oh God … .”

Then she snorted, then she started crying: Her arms pressed against the side of her face, her bloody back bend, her legs shaking.

I would have preferred to get it over with, but she had insisted that I had to clean out the skin and flesh from the hooks to make sure that each time they would inflict maximum damage.

By the time I had finished, she was still sobbing, but she had straightened out again, her tear stained face lifted up and looking back at me. I so wanted to kiss her tears away, but already when she lost her first bet she had asked me only to console her afterwards as otherwise her resolve would fade.

It was during our first date. It had taken me a third ‘chance’ meeting at ‘The Appalachian’, three whiskeys and fifteen minutes of staring at each other, to bring up the courage to ask her out. While I still tried to slur a witty ‘pick up’ phrase, she just said, “Wednesday, 7.30 at ‘Brommel’s’.” and left. It should have warned me that she always gets what she wants. And that she was neither talkative nor predictable. Nevertheless it left me speechless, when right there over mashed potatoes and roast - ‘Brommel’s’ was the only ‘real’ restaurant in town – she told me that she knew I had troubles picking her up because she reminded me too much of the Afghan women I had to deal with - seldom but still - as a medic: their eyes filling with tears and despair at the news of a husband torn apart by a roadside bomb, of a daughter caught in the crossfire and never to walk again, of a sister raped and left for dead. And that she was attracted to me because as a former soldier I reminded her of her father, to whom she hadn’t talked in the last ten years. And then she jumped me – literally – right next to the restaurant entrance clinging to my waist with the deadly grip of her well trained legs, tearing at my hair, which had grown considerably since I lost my buzz cut, kissing me with a passion that left me breathless and painfully hard.

“I bet you don’t dare to fuck me at the back of your pick up in the parking lot.”

She lost that bet and she had me pierce her lips and nose, the start of many bets and piercings.

Although I tried to hit her on the other side of her back the seven strains of the whip were uncontrollable and due to her small frame some of the holes were so close together that they started to form gashes, which would need stitches. This time she screamed really loud and then bellowed several times before she started wailing, her whole body shaking.

Why did I do this to her? There was another bet that she had lost: I wouldn’t be able to teach her how to assfuck and come from it within a week. It only took three days and as her punishment she wanted me to pierce her nipples and clit. I refused, it was too risky, she might loose her ability to breastfeed, she might loose her feeling in her clit. She kicked me out and didn’t speak with me for more than a month. We practically had broken up and I was miserable. Then she reappeared, in tears, in the middle of a consultation with a patient.

“Are you man enough to hold me?”

She had gone to the next city to have the piercings done and her colleague saw them, when she changed for gymnastics with the kids. She reported her to the school board and they kicked her out as a bad influence to the children, not the least because they had used the occasion to find out that she had worked as a lap dancer for her ‘uncle’, who incidentally was really her uncle and owned the licence for these kind of establishments in one of the reservation casino towns.

“I only always wanted to dance … and after my accident …”

She had broken her ankle due to a bad fall during ballet rehearsals and although the choreographer was her lover he dropt her as soon as it was clear that she would never dance professionally again.

“I never touched the guys … or girls … I only danced.”

And I knew how she danced: It was breathtaking, artistic and slutty, acrobatic and sexy, animalistic and shy all at the same time. It felt like taking three Viagras in one go, everything stood to attention, even your ears.

“I did it to finance my teacher’s training. I figured that as I really liked to show the kids how to enjoy their bodies as a dancer, I might be able to teach them something else as well. And I’m a good teacher. But they don’t want me. They want a good girl. So I have to become a good girl: In my way. And only you can help me achieving that.”

It was one of the longer speeches she ever held in my presence. We were sitting on the porch, looking over the wooded mountains after she had stopped crying. She suddenly knelt in front of me holding my hands: “Help me!”

She knew how to tickle my helper syndrome, but really it was her eyes as she looked up at me.

The same tear and terror filled eyes, which looked at me through the mirror following the arc of my arm. I had decided to hurry up as I had found a big chunk of flesh clinging to one of the hooks indicating that she must have a deep wound on her back, which I couldn’t locate due to the blood, which continued dripping down over her cramped buttocks to splatter to the hardwood floor.

I managed to hit her lower back this time, fairly close to the fresh cane marks and the old whip marks, which still could be seen more than a month after our first attempt. I dreaded to think how long her back would take to heal.

“Brian … Brian … Brian …” She shrieked my name. It was the first time she did this. It was disconcerting and endearing, like a mantra of adulation, of invocation, of encouragement. Her fingers had crawled into her bun, destroying it. Her crunched up face dripped tears and snot. She was standing on tiptoe, her asscheeks tucked in like she wanted to hide her tail and … she was peeing? No, this was the rhythmic squirting of someone coming.

It always amazed me that she fought her own sexuality through pain but at the same time it actually heightened it. Her back was ripped to shreds and she had an orgasm. There was an odd stillness before she started whimpering and bobbing, pulling the Y chain ever tighter as if she wanted to fight the pain on her back with the pain of a torn off clit and nipples.

She looked up again.

“You’re beautiful.” Just a whisper.

Well, I still had my soldier’s body, now glistening with sweat. And my cock stood proudly erect, something I found disturbing as I was torturing the person I was sure I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. But beautiful?

My confused look elicited even in this extreme situation one of her lopsided grins.

“Thank you.” Her voice was hoarse from screaming. She used both hands to wipe her face, every movement of her arms must have been agony.

I had started to clean the floor around her. I was worried she might slip as she had moved her feet close to the wall hanging all her weight on the Y chain. The smell of her pussy was even stronger then the smell of her blood, when I was kneeling next to her, shocked by the way her clit was stretched nearly out of her body, her pulled up inner lips closing her pussy completely. I looked into Marlene’s eyes. She took a rattling breath, her lips quivering.

“My pussy now. Two times.”

She saw my hesitation, her eyes filled with tears.

“Brian, you promised, please.”

I didn’t want to do this, but I didn’t want to loose her again either. Only now I saw that she had prepared a towel as gag next to the medical paraphernalia, she had lain out and which I had brought along some time ago to deal with all the effects of her craziness. Her breathing increased considerably when she accepted the gag. She opened her legs even further. I swung the whip several times to get a feel for its reaction, when I swung it upward, and then I simply did it.

“Cling.” Shit, one of the hooks had hit the chain, but it came free the same way like the others, with this strange tearing feeling and it shook me to the core. I had just torn apart my love’s pussy.

Her shrieking wouldn’t stop. How could one scream without taking a breath in between? Her elbows were pressed into her side, all ten fingers stretched to their maximum, she was standing on her inner soles, her knees closed, all her weight hanging on her clit and nipples. Slowly her shrieking changed to wailing, to sobbing, to crying, to whimpering, while she curved in to become a bloody ball of misery hanging on the bar with her arms, her feet on tip toe. I so hoped she would ask me to stop.

“Brian, please help me, you have to be strong for me now.” She had lost her gag, but still she was barely audible. I hoped I could pretend not hearing it, but she kept repeating: “Brian, please be strong for me.”

I knew she didn’t want comfort. So I used my strength to open her arms clinging to the bar. She grunted, she spluttered, she shook her head, her eyes so full of pain and fright, I nearly stopped. And then I remembered when she had lost her no-orgasm-for-one-month bet: She wanted her pussy caned, I hesitated.

“Come on sissy, I thought you had it in you, you were a man strong enough to take care of his woman, a guy, who knows how to win his bet …”

I threw her on her back, pressed her knees next to her ears and sat on her with my back to her face, and one, two, three the cane left its painful marks: one welt on each outer lip and one straight in the middle, right on her clit. But this time her pussy juice went all over the place.

How she catapulted me off her body will forever stay a mystery. She ran screaming through the whole house as if she could run away from the pain, leaving a trail of pussy juice, finally ending in the sleeping room, panging her fists against my breast, shouting: “I love you, I love you …”

I had managed to make her stand. Pulling apart her feet was far more difficult and I couldn’t prevent to see the bloody pulp which was all that was left from her pussy. I had seen many gory things in my time, but this sight nearly had me vomit and in tears at the same time.

She was shaking from fear so strong, she simply couldn’t stand still. I didn’t want to destroy her asshole as well: “Monevata, do you remember when your grandfather showed you how to become a good Cheyenne warrior?”

The crazy bastard had trained her to shove needles under her fingernails.

“Use your Cheyenne breathing, yes, very good, …”

I couldn’t believe it worked, she calmed down, even if it made me sick to my stomach because it meant I had to give her the second slash against her pussy.

I did it and I would lie if I’d say I didn’t do it as hard as the first time.

“Splash. Cling. Cling.”

The blood splattered everywhere. I must have hit the chain again. But it suddenly hung over her shoulders. And her clit ring glittered on her bloody back?

There was no sound, just her breathing, and then she slowly fell to her knees and started shaking. There was a pool of blood forming beneath her ass cheeks. This finally brought me out of my stupor, rushing to hold her, nearly slipping in all the blood and pee.

“So beautiful … thank you … the pain is … good now … it’s coming … and coming … I so … love you …“

She was mumbling sweet nothings, interspersed with gasps and groans each time she shook.

I knew I had to stop the bleeding, the hyperventilating, the possible shock she was entering … first try to get her to lie on her back … That’s when I saw it: lifting the chain back over her head, her clit ring slipped into my hand, a rosy little finger still attached. Her clit had separated at its root. My shocked expression had her touch my face and smile. How could she smile, half unconscious with pain, the proof of the destruction of her sex right here before her eyes?

“Mhm, my little …mhm … clitty … mhm … is gone …” She was kissing it and talking to it, while finally my professional training kicked in and after cleaning, what was left of her pussy, it helped me prioritize the further actions: The pulsing of her hole put to rest my worry about her hyperventilation. Her shaking wasn’t the result of too much oxygen, but of too much orgasm. Therefore first get rid of the remnants of her inner lips, no salvation possible there, best to cauterize the edges to stop the bleeding. Gashes in her outer lips were sometimes fairly deep, but nothing which couldn’t be repaired with some surgical staples and glue. The blood pressed rhythmically out of her vagina looked rather worrisome till I saw that her pee hole had torn. Put in the catheter, two stitches and she would be good as new, sort of. What was left of her clit was something else: blood was still seeping out between torn pieces of skin and flesh. I had to cut deep to create a smooth surface, which I would be able to suture.

“Marlene, stop sucking on your clit, take out the ring and bite on the towel instead. This will hurt and I don’t want you to bite your tongue.”

She wasn’t really listening, still cramping, getting more and more incoherent.

“No … grrh … towel, no pain … gngh … killers …”

Cutting away and opening the skin around her clit stump was relatively easy. When I pulled out the clit, however, she made a keening noise, and when I cut through it just half a centimetre shy of the fork, her legs started to flop and with a rattling breath she fell unconscious. Strangely her hole still continued to pulse.

It took me more then half an hour to close all the wounds and bandage them, her back being less a battle field than I had feared. Another two hours to prepare the bed, lift her into it and clean all the mess.

Exhausted I lay next to her, stroking her sweaty hair, expecting any time that she would wake up whimpering in pain, but refusing again any pain killers, contemplating why I went along with this … ‘her way’ as she called it. Not that I hadn’t offered alternatives, psychotherapy figuring prominently as surviving her crazy grandparents, where she grew up in the reservation, as well as her even crazier father must have left deep psychological scars. No one would be able to stay sane when ordered as a 14 year old girl to service the whole company, as her father had done when he found out that she had slept with one of his grunts.

“They were all gentlemen. They only used my mouth and pussy. The girls were vicious though, because they all wanted to fist me and it still hurt even after so many cocks.”

She hadn’t spoken with her father since that day. She had gone back to the reservation and took on the name Monevata, Young Bird. That’s what her grandparents called her, because, when she danced, she flew through the sky like a young bird straight from its nest.

And she refused any treatment. Just mentioning it meant getting the silent shoulder. And then she would turn around and her eyes would be even blacker then before and she would say: “You’re all the treatment I need.” It must have been something Indian. She had put a spell on me.

She healed fairly quickly: Three days on her belly with spread legs, dosed with sufficient whiskey and weed do keep a horse unconscious as she refused any other pain killers. Although the look at her destroyed body was fodder for my guilt, it gave me also a constant hard on.

“You can’t run around like that:,” she slurred and grabbed the air three times before she finally got a grip on my dick and gave me one hell of a blow job.

“You have to come now for the both of us,” she mumbled before falling asleep again with my cock still in her mouth.

Then came the three days, where she was crawling around the house crankily because I refused to fuck her, because she had torn out her catheter and it hurt like hell to pee and because she wasn’t convinced that the Cherokee healing chant, she had learnt form her grandmother and exercised for hours sitting naked on the porch, really helped.

And finally there were these three days, where she kept disappearing for hours into the woods and cooked strange infusions, after she came back laden with herbs, her naked skin even more damaged through brambles and nettles and branches.

She made an ultimatum: either she could ride me or she would ride her horse. I relented but under the conditions that we would wait for the next weekend as it would give us a whole day to experiment, that she would define the tempo and that she would stop as soon as her pussy or back started bleeding.

It was obvious that it hurt a lot when she cautiously sank down and of course she didn’t stop, when the first smears of blood showed on my cock. But she took it slow and for the first time we did not just fuck like randy rabbits, but made sweet soft love till dawn and exhaustion crept up on us: Me, because I had come three times, she, because of the pain especially as she took my finger and pressed it on the wound, where once her clit resided, when I was close.

“It’s gone, I can’t come any more.” Her whimpering brought me off each time without fail.

I still remember the look in her eyes, when we both drifted off to sleep, and when, after a long walk through the hills the next morning she put her hand on my breast and closed the door in my face: loss, longing and love.

I had hoped that she just needed space like several times before, but I didn’t hear from her till Dorothy, her former colleague, showed up at my work, crying, full of remorse and admiration, first stuttering, then with growing conviction: “She suddenly stood there … in the changing room … naked … her piercings gone, but … I can’t say it … her sex … it’s also gone … I didn’t want that … just an empty slit … so pretty, so clean. She’s a reformed woman, she will join our church, she will be reborn. I’ll speak with the school board, right next week. I need her back. We lost so many children to home schooling. Some parents even organised a bus to drive to the next town. This has to stop.”

Then she added wistfully: “I can’t proof it of course, but I’m sure that this … how shall I say … reformation is your work, Brian. Some of our older unruly girls certainly would profit from your expertise.”

This wicked woman gave me the creeps … and a hard on.

Several weeks later Marlene just stood there at the entrance of the grease joint opposite the clinic. I had heard that she had been reinstated, but she hadn’t shown up in the clinic and I certainly wouldn’t visit the school and force myself on her in front of the kids.

I had lunch with Cecile, one of my nurse colleagues, recently divorced, needy, well did I mention my helper’s syndrome? Marlene knew about her and that we found solace in each other, especially on the occasions, when Marlene had kicked me out. She called Cecile my fuck buddy and once over a beer they made even fun of me by comparing notes, so to say. But now Marlene stood there shyly, her hair cut short, her riding outfit accentuating her small frame, her slated eyes even bigger than before. And then she turned and ran.

I never could figure out how she always managed to be faster with her horse than me with my four-wheel drive.

I banged on her door, this time I wouldn’t take a closed door for an answer. She opened naked. As much as she had cut her hair on her head, as much she had let it grow everywhere else. I could smell her even from the distance: sweat, pussy, blood? Then I saw the whip in her hand. She jumped me like on our first date, my hands slipping on her bloody back.

“I’m a good girl now. I only need the whip once a month and I don’t come any more … ever.”

“Wanna bet?”

“I bet you can’t get me pregnant within a month.”

She lost both bets.