My weekend

Just back from a nice weekend in the country with my Partner. To do some work, drink some wine, get closer ...

Not exactly. 

It was unreasonably hot, so I decided to stop and rest. My Partner gave me one of those looks and suggested that I take off my clothes and lie in the grass. Sounded good to me. Off with the tee and shorts (that’s all there was).

A minute later, though, there She was with a hatchet and some rope. Banging some pieces of wood into the ground, She proceeded to stretch me out and tie me spread eagled. When I complained, she took my kerchief and stuffed it in my mouth, then tied Hers over my face. To protect me from the sun, She said. MMMMMF! The rest of me, unprotected, began to sweat and burn. And my back itched from the damn grass. 

Seeing me writhing and grunting there. she came and tied a rope around my waste and into my - well, you know. As if that weren't enough, She took our big block and tackle - the one we use for lifting heavy equipment - hooked it through the ropes and began hauling. Pretty soon She had me arched up in the air with just my hands and feet touching the ground.  VERY uncomfortable! She let me hang there, squirming and pleading for a while. 

Now, the property has all these kind of bushy things with long, thin, whippy branches, and I could hear Her breaking some off. Didn't sound like it was easy to do, either. Then She started in, using them on my conveniently-located thighs and belly, not hard enough to raise serious welts, but not just a tickle, either. And I REALLY began writhing and squealing. After a bit of that, She began working on my teats, and I can tell you I was screaming and heaving for all I was worth. It would have been a LOT easier to do the damn work. 

After giving me three hard strokes - one on each thigh and one across my titties - I started blubbering.  After a while, she lowered me back down and untied the rope between my legs, but left me staked out and blindfolded.  

There was silence for a while, as if She had gone away, and as the sun began to set it got cooler. I got scared that She was going to leave me out there all night. But then I heard voices coming nearer, and realized She had rounded up a few of our neighbors.  And me helplessly naked.  Swoon!  

She bent over close to my head and whispered, "I'm gonna give you a nice rubbing, Tina, so you can let everyone see what a little slut you are."

I REALLY wanted to cum, but not with other people WATCHING, for God sake. Didn't matter what I wanted, though, and She started in on me.  I was so sensitive already that I could have let go right then, but embarrassment held me back.  For a while.  It's SO embarrassing to think what I must have looked like, writhing around on the grass.  At least my usual potty mouth was somewhat gagged.

Can’t wait for next weekend!

"The Sitter"

Enjoy!  Read more for free at www.smashwords.com/books/view/453756!

As I remember it, I was working on a new story that day.

It’s my eighteenth day - I think – it’s hard to tell time in here.

They take me out of my cell in the morning, and my heart is pounding fit to kill me.  Will I be the observer today?  Or the subject?  The only good thing about these little ‘trips’ is that they take off the belt around my waist – the one they always buckle so tight I can scarcely breath, and to which my wrists are shackled.  In back, of course, so I can’t hurt anybody when they come for me in the night.  Like I, a slip of a girl – and worn out with little sleep and lousy food - could fend off  three or four husky soldiers bent on having me. And with my ankles handcuffed to the sides of the “bed” to boot.   Well, I don’t want to think about that.  Maybe I have worse things to worry about.

When they bring me into the room – I resist calling it an interrogation room, or a torture cell -  the stench knots my stomach as usual.  You’d think I would be used to it by now, but I’m not.  It’s a vile mixture of vomit, shit, more or less dried blood and burnt flesh.  Don’t know how they stand it, either.  At least we’re equals in that.

As usual, there are two of those heavy metal chairs sitting facing each other.  I’m always first, so I can’t tell what the plan is.  Again as usual, I fight like crazy as they force me down into one of the chairs.  With my legs unchained I try and kick.  Sometimes I get lucky, and hurt someone.  Mostly I hurt my own toes.  They’re bare, of course, like the rest of me.

And let me say right here that, yes, they do take advantage of us.  Not the least compunction about pushing us up against a wall so they can do a “manual inspection”.  Or making us bend over one of the little pipe railings they have here and there, the four eyebolts in the floor with the old straps just waiting to restrain our ankles and wrists - so passing soldiers can unzip and use our raw holes.  I haven’t gotten used to that, either, but I try to have a kind of out of body experience when it’s happening.  The first time, I actually slapped the guy – just like I was back in high school!  But being lashed down to your bed spread out on your back while guys do whatever the fuck they want to your pussy and breasts with cigarettes and straps and shock batons made it not seem worth it somehow.

Oh, oh, today . . .

Right about there, the phone rang.  My partner answered it, gave me one of those “it’s for me” waves and disappearing into the other room so as not to bother me.  For a sadist, she’s really considerate sometimes.

“Asha Released” is out!

“Asha Released”

Copyright 2014 Tina B

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/436919

My wounds are healing slowly.

A while ago, I was asked to document what had happened to Asha (not her real name), a beautiful Indian woman who was tortured in a foreign land when she was only nineteen.  After some weeks of interviews, I wrote and sent a draft to Asha for review.  Hearing nothing back after several weeks, I drove to her house.  Only to find her gone.  Fearing that my draft had somehow been responsible, I nevertheless published it as “Asha has been Taken” – partly in the hope that someone would let me know that she was alright.

Subsequently, I received an email from a man who claimed to know where she was.  After some negotiation, I went to a foreign city to meet him.  He may well have known where she was, but I didn’t find her.  Because it turned out that he was one Asha’s torturers.  And he did to me some of the same things he did to her.  So that, as he said, I would truly know her story.  And how well I do, I think with a shudder.

When I walk, there is a tightness across my soles where they were seared with the thin wire whip.  And there is still a faint scar across my breasts where the same whip did its work, feeling like someone had cut me open with a dull knife.  My pussy . . . well.  

Bad as those were, they are healing.

The worst part, the hardest to get over, has been the rape.  I no longer really trust anyone, and feel a kind of hardness in me that wasn’t there before.  And I’m angry, deep down, tremendously angry, at the man who did it.  My publisher only says, “I told you not to go.”  As does my partner, to whom I am now cold, yet whom I very much cared about “before”.  I roam the house at loose ends, going over the whole nightmare again and again in my mind, trying to find a way, something I could have done, to make it come out differently.  To no avail.

I got the story, preserved on my recorder, thankfully, because I was in no condition to take notes.  So for a while I buried myself in writing that story, which was published as “Asha was Used.”  Perhaps you’ve read it.

And then the man I think of as my torturer emailed me again.  The bland message was innocuous enough: “When you’re ready, I will take you to her.”

My partner found me at the computer, nauseous and shivering, unable to move or even turn it off.  It was like being raped all over again.  

Several restless days later, there was another email.  “You can save her.”

Save her from what?  Was she in trouble?  If so, it seemed unlikely that I could help, other than to call an embassy.  Still, there was the anger.  I wanted someone to pay for what had happened to me. So I emailed back.  Negotiated terms, and set off again.  Without consulting my publisher.

This time I wasn’t tortured.  Oh no.  Not me.  It was worse.