Thoughts On A Triangle

I was to be whipped, then inseminated. Naked, my arms drawn up above my head, my wrists secured to the apex of the triangle, I would have been with my weight off my heels in any case. When he made me part my legs, so that he could fasten my ankles to the corners of the frame, I was up on my toes indeed, my body stretched, my slightly fleshy nether cheeks cringing in anticipation of what was to come. For my feelings were mixed. I knew joy as always, that my Master was well again, and could see to my management himself, and fear, for his renewed strength enabled him to inflict upon my well-used buttocks, agonies that searched out the last vestige of my pride, and called upon the uttermost limits of my courage. His black rod could bite and worry my poor flesh so that my very soul seemed in pain, though, later, cleansed and whole again.

It was some small consolation that that flesh was well able to sustain the fierce purging. Maternity had filled my previously frail frame. My breasts were now full and smooth. They had for some time thoroughly satisfied their role of providing comfort for a man, and physical communication between two people in sexual congress. Now, having amply fulfilled their other function of suckling a babe, my teats were large and firm, especially when, as now, fear and anticipation rendered them engorged and erect. Below I had always had just enough fattiness in my buttocks that I could sustain a proper whipping without injury, but now my whole body had a healthy sleekness. Gone was the almost pitiful frailness, and I was all woman.

For sometime my Master, out of consideration for me, had been taking his pleasure and, I almost blush to admit, mine, between my nether cheeks, in my tightest orifice, that I might not have to carry one child while feeding another, but with our first-born son off the breast, he intended to impregnate me again. He did not, however, neglect my well-being by overlooking that correction which, as I freely acknowledged, a woman needs from her Master if she is to remain a loving and loved companion. I would be well laced before he entered me, and I would receive his seed in my womb with tears of contrition on my cheeks above, throbbing welts in my cheeks below.

Now he stood behind me, his jacket removed to give him free play, and tested the formidable Malacca that he used for my correction, by cutting the air, as he was about to cut my buttocks. Those parts heard the keenness of its passage and cringed beyond my control.

"You are clenching, Jane," he said, "relax your cheeks, or I shall not begin."

A part of my mind cried that in that case I would never relax them, for I could not endure the pain, but the better part fought to let them hang limp so that the correction might begin, and hence end the sooner. The very tautness of my position encouraged me to tighten them, but I overcame the weakness and let them open to invite the rod to cut deep.

The first stroke fell. It was every whit as bad as my fevered imagination had remembered from my previous visits to the triangle, sending a wave of flame through me, the agony seeming to seep through to my womb itself. I gasped at the shock of the pain in my hinds. It had begun.

A second followed, its bite as keen and perhaps two fingers width below the first, nearly in that most tender crease that my fatty cheeks engendered at the top of my thighs behind, for he was ever wont to cut me low, holding, with some truth, that a woman would feel it the more keenly there and hence take more benefit from it.

The third stroke landed exactly on this most tender point. I knew now it was going to be bad. Not only was he in a fine physical condition today, his wrist lending a force to the blows that I could feel in my belly and, indeed, all the way up to my thickening breasts, if not behind my eyes even, but he had marked out his ground well, the three welts running even and level across my buttock, defining a band less than three inches wide from the crease upwards, all in the juicy underhang. He would work this now. A dozen strokes, which was the tally I had been promised, would have to be accommodated in that narrow field, a ploughing that would leave me furrowed, and harrowed too, and ready for planting with his seed. I set my teeth and awaited the next.

Four! My buttocks bounced under its weight, the cane sinking in until almost lost in my soft folds. I would not scream, to scream would have shown weakness and brought disgrace, yet I wished that he would make me scream, that I could surrender to him completely. To delay that inevitable outcome I set my mind to recalling how I had come to have him as my Master, and the strange adventures that had intervened until I could be truly his. It was not possible to shut out the terrible hurts that were being inflicted in my lower parts, but the recollections of the past served, for a time at least, to divert me from the need to shriek my agony, so that when I did capitulate, I would do so, with honour and gratitude.