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<pre>

My "Images" (a term I stole from Suki) are short ideas, images,
and sketches written for the amusement of and offered as tribute 
to my Liege and Lady.  They were always longer and never so well
crafted as Suki's short masterpieces, and over time, my Images
files began to include various email excerpts and other works
in progress or ideas for works and became more journal than art,
so some juxtapositions may seem odd.


Some of my Images follow.  They are generally cruel and 
nonconsensual and of interest only to sickphuxs, so please 
read no further if such doesn't appeal to you.

The Images are impurely the products of a warped imagination, and
should not be seen as a reflection of the scene, nor should they be 
imitated by anyone not interested in a protracted term as the ward 
of the state.

Steven S. Davis


---------------------------------------------
Some imagery from this morning.


First, the quick femdom version:


----------------

Two locked chests in a woman's bedroom for her toys.  
One full of chains and clamps and canes and irritating 
oils and ropes in coils and various things which go 
in or over a man's mouth. The other with a bound man 
inside squirming around as best he can in the small dark 
space, trying to get as comfortable as he can in a hard 
wood box, waiting not terribly patiently for his mistress 
to decide to let him out, hoping that this time after she 
has her way with him she may let him stay in bed with her, 
happy at least that she often wakes up needing him again.
Better for him is when she still can't go to sleep thinking 
of him in the box and needs to bring him out and use him
again; even if she does curse him out for what he does
to her when she comes to get him ("damn you" with a horny
smile is a curse he can bear, in other contexts for
her to curse at him would be shattering).  But usually
when she can't get to sleep she alternates between
punching her pillow and pounding the top of his box
and he hasn't heard that, so he may have a long night
in the box.
----

This was the quick femdom conversion of the morning's masturbatory
images.  The longer version:


The imagery involved passing an order home to get someone and
box her (I was taking several women and assuming a harem;
which has various attractions but one, to this sadist, is the
strange feelings created when subs are involved in punishing
other submissives).  So two women went and got D, stripped
her, bound her, and put her in the toy box and locked it shut,
while D rather mournfully asked what she had done and why
she was being punished and the other women could only tell
her that they didn't know, they were sorry, but they had their
orders, she had to go in the box.  None of them were happy about
this, they all knew that the box became an ordeal very quickly
and they were all friends; the other women would be suffering
as they thought about D locked in the box as the hours
dragged on.

Finally the order was given to let her out.  But only to
immediately take her and bend her over a chair and tie her 
ankles and wrists to the legs of the chair (at different 
heights) and then surround her with hot lights and turn them 
on and leave her sweltering in the hot rays of these lights.
Again, without answering her questions why, except to say 
again that they were sorry, they didn't know why.

After an unreasonable amount of time in the heat, the women
were instructed to get straps and begin working D over.
Still no explanation, just give her a thorough strapping
all over and do not show any mercy.  Which had the other women
crying too before they were finished, though not sobbing as
much as D was (D wasn't suffering as much from seeing 
her friends suffer as she was suffering from the strapping
- towards the end when the relentless pounding of the sharp
leather against her ass and back and thighs and sides and
arms and belly and breasts had become too much, D wasn't
aware of much of anything except that she occupied a universe 
of pain - but it did add to her distress).


  [Sometimes one's morning masturbation isn't going well
   and one needs to escalate things]


Of course, I couldn't handle that much cruelty.  I'd want the 
women torturing me to be enjoying it; seeing a woman crying
as she swung a strap at me would confuse my circuits too much,
even if I know she as a submissive and so it was OK for me to
enjoy her suffering.  And I'd have to know what I had done or
better that I hadn't done anything, my Lady just wanted me to 
suffer; being allowed to believe for hours that she was angry
with me would be too cruel.

And I'm afraid I don't think I could actually deal with a
universe that consisted of nothing but pain (how incredibly
awful it would be when the pain blocked out even the awareness
of my Lady, when there wasn't even any room left in my mind for 
her, because every piece of my consciousness was fully occupied
with one thing: pain)


But perhaps the longer femdom version might go like this:

Morning comes and I'm shaken awake and told to get back
in the box.  My last service to my lady had been good enough
that she went to sleep warm and happy hugging me, which made
me warm and happy.  But now the brief peace she'd felt is gone
again, now she's hungry again.  She is in fact sort of mad at
me, for this isn't how she'd expected things to be.  She didn't
think that having more and bigger orgasms than she'd ever known
was going to lead to her being relentlessly, achingly horny,
with only very rare periods of peace when she was able to satiate
her lusts.  She jokingly cursed at me for cursing her with
insatiable desire but part of her wasn't joking, part of her
wanted release from this torment, but she could find none.
She wanted me when she was with me, wanted me more when apart,
wanted me in her arms and wanted me in her torture devices,
wanted me to be suffering and wanted to give me comfort,
wanted my lips pressed against hers and wanted my lips open
in a scream.

There wasn't much she could do about this now - somehow or
other life goes on even when one has a new slave and she
had things she had to do, she couldn't stay and bite me all
day - but she could lock me in the box and know that I was
suffering too.  Not that knowing I was in the box made 
standing in line at the cleaners any easier.

When she got home and it was time to make dinner, she
could at least get me from the box, sit on my face for
awhile, then when having a brief calm period, tie me
over the chair for later.  Turning on the hot lights
as she left, already getting wet again, and telling
me that I would roast while she cooked her roast.

Which I would indeed, standing bent over in an airless 
windowless room surrpounded by hot lights, blinded
by them, uable to open my eyes (not until she prys
and clamps them open, something she'll only do when 
she's going to be there to keep my eyes moistened).
Fortunately for me she'd rush down after dinner,
having little hunger for food, and turn off those lights
so she could see to swing a strap (the dark sunglasses
didn't help much with seeing black leather straps),
and could begin making my body burn all over the way
hers burnt, a relentless beating all over my naked
body which was as merciless to her as it was to me since 
every stroke of hers and every squirm and scream of mine 
made her burn more until the fire consumed her and
she'd scream in a shattering, shaking, full body orgasm
that left her as helpless as me but contented and at
rest.

For a while....


 [OK, it's a bit over the top, but then, getting over the
  top is sort of the point]

---------------------------------------------------
Keeping my end up

"Get your ass in the air, baby".

It'd been awhile since I'd been a source of entertainment
for my Lady.  And lacking many other skills, entertainment
was my main value as a submissive, so this was a serious
failing.   So it was about time I was put to use.

Today's use was, appropriately enough, to keep my end up.

Telling her about fun videos I've seen is always dangerous.
I shouldn't have been surprised that she filed this idea
away for some time when I hadn't been keeping my end up.

"C'mon, get your ass up.  I'm not having any fun just
standing here with this cane looking at you laying there
nicely trussed.  Well, I am, but I'm not having as much as 
I could be having, so hold your end up, boy."

She had my ankles crossed and bound so that if I did
decide to get up and hop away there was no chance I'd
succeed (she knew I wouldn't try to flee, but she liked
making sure I didn't have any capability of doing it
as well as no probability of doing it; she also liked
me knowing it, maybe because she knew I liked her wanting
to take away my capabilities of resistance). My hands
were locked in leather cuffs, locked together in front today
so my hands wouldn't get in the way of the cane, and to make
certain I couldn't use my hands (which were taped up in fists, 
thumbs inside the fists) the cuffs were then tied to a cord
- a short cord - which was tied around my balls.

This wasn't the easiest position to move in, but I struggled
up on my knees, presenting my ass to her.

"Good boy.  Now, let's see", she said, bending at her knees
to study my ass, running her nails over the existing welts.
"The stripes are coming up nicely.  Now, where would another
one look nice.  Here, I think", she said, scratching her nail
along a line on one cheek.   Then she stood and flicked the
cane a couple times without impact, before saying, giggling,
"Hold still till I hit you, silly boy", and slashing the
cane across that line on my cheek, at which I shrieked despite
myself and rolled away to my side.

"Again with the falling over.  You're just not keeping your
end up, boy", she said as she slashed at my exposed arm
and then put another welt on my thigh.  "You're not making
it any easier on yourself, since ever time you fall over
I'm going to hit a wing and a thigh.  Sometimes even an
inside thigh", she said, slashing one.  That may not have
been why my ankles were crossed, but she wasn't one to
miss the potentialities of my position.

"Hold your end up, boy".

So I squirmed and wiggled and got my ass back up in the
air and my face on the floor.  "Two cheeks up and one
cheek down, good", she said, walking around me a few times,
studying her handiwork.  Stopping, not coincidently, I
knew, with one foot near my face.  I squirmed around a bit
and managed to kiss her foot, and she walked around behind
me again and bent down to feel my ass.  Not kissing her
foot wouldn't mean that she wouldn't keep beating me 
- she didn't allow me any safewords and knew I didn't want
any - but she knew when I kissed it that I wanted her to
keep doing what she wanted to do.  Which didn't mean I wanted
her to do what she was doing, but that was oft a distinction
with no significance.  At least not one my ass would record.

"Here, I think", she said, and she stood up and the cane
slashed down twice. "Oh, and there too", she laughed, as
I rolled - well, sorta - grimacing at the double pain.

She stood there enjoying my pain - not helped much when
I jerked my wrists upwards - for a time before slashing
an arm and thigh and saying, again, "Hold your end up, boy".

"Have I mentioned that that isn't funny anymore, ma'am ?",
I rasped.

"I'd noticed you weren't laughing.  But it amuses me, and
that's what matters, isn't it ?"

"Isn't it ?", she repeated, slashing across my shoulders.

"YES, ma'am".

"Don't keep me waiting so long.  Now about holding
up your end...."

"Yes, ma'am", I said, struggling into position.

"I think we've almost enough", she said, studying the
lines on my ass.  "Maybe four more, two on each cheek.
Shall I do them all now ?", she asked.

"As it pleases you, ma'am", I said, shuddering at the
prospect.

"Silly cliche answer, but a pretty shudder", she said,
slashing my shoulder.  "Sorry, dear, shudder, shoulder,
too tempting.  Felt good - quiet, boy, it felt good
for me - so let's do it again", she said before the cane
slashed through empty air over my shoulder, once, twice,
three times, four, five, dammit when was she going to
stop toying with me SEVEN, shit seven.

"When I saw the way your shoulders kept tensing and you
raised your hands a little each time I missed, I just
couldn't resist a chance to make your torture your balls,
boy.  But you don't want me to be able to resist you,
do you now ?"

Well, she had a point.

She also had a cane and the damn thing suddenly descended
on my poor ass four times in rapid succession, her wrist
flicking so quickly that it felt like one long stroke
but all four strokes landing right were she wanted them
two on each cheek between the previous welts, the pain
way more than I could process and freezing me for a moment
as I stayed on my knees shuddering before I could get
a sound out and wwhen that sound came it was a sob. Her
kneeling behind me and squeezing and pinching and clawing
and hand slapping my burning ass kept me sobbing for
some time and kept her nicely entertained, as I could
see from her smile and glow when my tears cleared enough
to see her face over me as she stroked my hair.

"I think there's enough welts on your ass, now, dear.  
Or will be in a little while.  So you rest for awhile
and then I'm going to paddle your ass but good.  I know
how much you hate getting paddled over fresh hot welts
- and you know how much I enjoy doing it to you".

"Now hold your end up, boy. I want to watch your buns rising".

Sometime after getting my ass up in the air it occurred to me
that I probably deserved a Mistress who was a punster among
her other sadistic bits.  But as she dropped the rat traps
within my field of view I wondered if I deserved one with 
with such a good memory or so much interest in videos I'd 
enjoyed (and such an appreciation for irony).  

It seemed I'd be doing "shake those tits, baby" later,
while sitting on a very sore ass (not fair, they didn't
use both a cane and a paddle on the woman in the video).
I obviously didn't deserve such a Mistress.

I'm just lucky I guess.

END

----------

Additional/background information

FWIW, the video I'm referring to is a Tao Productions
video called Fetish Phone Fantasy.  There's a scene
in which a woman (her bondage is more conventional,
wrists tied behind her and ankles tied together)
is squirming on a bed being paddled by another woman,
who keep telling her to get her ass up and then hitting
her ass (no other tortures for her; this is a job interview
(the job is a phone sex place where - yeah, sure - women
actually enact the things the callers describe) and she's 
just told "if you want the job get your ass up".  There's
another scene in which she's sitting on a bed tied at the
ankles and knees, wrists and elbows tied behind her (she's
one of these women whose elbows can touch) and with rat
traps on her breasts she's told to "shake those tits, baby"
and made to keep shaking her shoulders while the other
women whip her if she hesitates.  Very hot.  While I wouldn't
be surprised if the rat traps had been modified to reduce
their pressure, she really looks like she's in a lot of pain 
when she's shaking her tits.


There's more, of course. including a nice scene when she's
kneeling on the bed and the two other women (the boss in
blouse and skirt, and an employee in lingerie) are each holding
strings one end of which is tied around one of her nipples
and alternately tugging them and flogging her until she's 
begging "no more, please, no more".

--------------------------------------
Fetish Objects

She lay in her bed, fondling one of her high heels.
She'd never particularly liked high heels, and hadn't
worn them much since high school, after she'd decided
that she had enough credentials as a woman and didn't
need her shoes to prove anything.  But he liked them,
she knew, and though he'd never ask her to wear them
he reacted well when she did, and she liked that.
She liked the way she felt when he was submitting to
her, and though she'd never tell him this, she'd do
anything that gave her more power over him, and the
high heels were easy enough.  Besides, it was fun torturing
him with them, making him suffer with the objects he enjoyed
so much, and a convenient way to keep him attending her,
since it was quite impossible to keep dust off them and
her command to keep her shoes spotless kept him at her
feet, just where he belonged.   And where he was in easy
range for a jab with her heel.

He'd probably be amused if he ever learned she wiped
them before his arrival with something which helped
attract dust.

Funny thing was the way the shoes made her feel now.
Some Pavlovian response  ("But Mistress, you're certainly
no dog" she could hear him saying; "Then how can I be such
a bitch" she'd reply, while being appropriately cruel, if
ever he gave her that particular opening).  She felt so
powerful and sexy with him, she usually wore high heels
for at least a while when seeing him, so she started 
feeling powerful and sexy when she put them on.  Now
she was getting worse than him.  At least he didn't react
to the shoes when she wasn't wearing them.  She'd wondered
about that and watched him when she had such shoes in his
line of sight, sometimes when he was alone waiting for her,
and he didn't look at them much or touch them other than to
quickly wipe dust off them.

She was the one who'd taken to laying in bed fondling one
and thinking about him.  Holding the shoe gave her some
part of the rush she had when he was with her, so attentive
to her, so determined to please her, so under her power and
so much loving being under her power, and she so loved having
him under her power.  And under her shoes; she got so hot
pressing her heel into some sensitive part of him, or resting
a stiletto against his throat or his eyelid.  The one saving
for him when she had him on the floor, circling, kicking, jabbing,
and stepping/standing/even dancing on him was that it got her
so hot so fast she'd soon dive onto his face or his conveniently
erect cock.  Now holding her shoe she felt some part of that arousal
and while it wasn't the same, with her shoe in one hand and his
shirt on and one of her favorite toys - well, her favorite inanimate
toys - in the other hand, she could have quite a good time.
She was tempted to tell him that she'd found his replacement,
and before he was too crushed show him the shoe/shirt/slip-in
combo.  But she wouldn't.  It'd be more cruel to him than even she
was ready to be, and anyway it wasn't really true, since the shirt
wouldn't moan when she stepped on it (she'd never admit to anyone
she sometimes lay one of his shirts on the floor and put her shoes
atop it so she could see the tableau from her bed).

Certainly not a replacement.  But when he wasn't available,
fondling the shoe, feeling the sharp toe and hard heel and imagining
him under them did work surprisingly well.  Weird thing, this
fetish business.


---------------------------
"You don't look like Lou"

It was kinda cute the way her eyes flashed
defiantly whenever she perceived that one of
us was looking at her.  But maintaining the
pretense that she wasn't scared of us was
too difficult to do all the time, and when
the studied indifference we showed her caused
her guard to drop, the fear was apparent.

And delicious.

She sat there on the bed, propped up by pillows
like we were concerned for her comfort, the
frilly femininity a deliberate contrast to her
dire situation.  Of course, someone lounging
comfortably in bed usually isn't in business
clothes (minus her shredded jacket, some of 
which was stuck in her ropes but most of the 
remains of which had been cut away and tossed
on the floor; her figure was displayed nicely
by the top she wore but nicely concealed by
the jacket, giving her the option to show off
or not show off; well, that used to be her
option, now she had no options, now we made
all the choices for her, and we chose to display
her).  Usually she wouldn't still have her 
high heels on (the rope around her insteps 
assured they didn't come off however much she
kicked, though should hadn't been kicking for
awhile).  And usually she wouldn't have ropes
wrapped around her wrists and ankles and above
her knees and elbows.

But as I'm sure our guest would agree, these
weren't usual circumstances.  Well, not for
her.  It was the first time she'd been tied
up since she was a little girl playing cowgirls
and Indians.  For us this was more common, and
a lot of women had sat where she was now, waiting
to find out what was going to happen to them.
We let them wait a long time, it was hard for anyone
to stay brave when she had to sit there so long
with her body aching from the tight bondage and her
jaw screaming - when she could not - from the ballgag
jamming her mouth.

One thing they never expected was to be ignored.
Usually they weren't women who were accustomed
to not being looked at, and they plausibly enough 
expected that they'd be ogled by anyone who abducted
and bound them.  But we didn't pay much attention
to them for a long time after getting them in position.
We knew the bondage would hold them and we wanted them
scared and confused and whatever confidence they might
have in their ability to handle us to wane.

This lady was certainly used to being admired.  Slender
everywhere except where clumps of fat are admired,
with long slender but well sculpted legs, a sharp short
cut for her blonde hair and cool blue eyes over patrician
features.  She was used to being in charge as much in
her personal life as she was over her employees.  Well,
that was over.

After my partner and I read looked over the newspaper
and chit-chatted a bit, then had something to eat,
and then made love (partly because it was, of course,
fun to make love, especially when we were both so 
horny after the capture of a woman we'd stalked for
a long time, but partly because watching us make
love further confused our captive), and cuddling
for a long time, we finally got to the task of looking
through our prisoner's purse and papers to find out
who she was.  We knew who she was, of course, she'd
been selected and surveilled and stalked so when the
trap was sprung she'd have zero chance of escape;
a woman like this we were not going to shoot in the
back as she ran away from a botched capture.  But we
didn't want her to know that, didn't want her to
realize that she was grade A in our opinion and wouldn't
be casually killed or damaged.  Whatever gave her a
sense of how valuable she was to us would give her a
little bit of an edge and we wanted her as powerless
as we could make her, so the pretense that she was just
some woman we grabbed at random and now we wondered
who she was was useful.  As was letting her know that
we knew where she lived and worked - where she used to 
live and work, that is - and what her loved ones looked
like.  Sometimes knowing her family would be in danger
if she escaped caused a woman to stay where we put her
even when the opportunity to escape presented itself
(and sometimes it didn't, but either way was OK with
us; it was really sweet seeing a woman opt to stay and
die rather than imperil her family, and even sweeter
telling a woman who'd bolted through the phony escape
path and run into our trap that because of her cowardice
her family would all die).

We are never surprised.

Well, until today.

Sometimes fate catches all of us off guard. We wanted
so much to show this woman that she'd lost control
of her life, that for all her intelligence and skills
and beauty she was not in control.  Seems fate had
done that already.  An interesting letter in her briefcase
from a doctor discussing her diagnosis of ALS, and some
printouts from websites concerning the disease and it's
course.  She was very early in its course, as much as
we'd watched her we'd never seen anything that showed
any deterioration.   Guess she must have noticed 
something though.

Irritating being cheated of our chance to pronounce
a death sentence on her.  Ah, well.  Fate can be so
unkind.

Interesting situation for us.  From what the papers
said she probably had longer to live than most of
our slaves survived; it's a hard life and even if
neither rough games nor sudden summary punishment
caused death, being a sex and torture slave wears
one down (the more so since we liked mature women
of accomplishment; a coed would last longer but
an accomplished professor was a sweeter prize,
it was so nice changing a physicist's focus from
big bangs to gang bangs) and even if she were
healthy our prize wouldn't still be a beauty a
year from now, and we'd be considering the most
fun way of terminating her.   From what we read,
letting nature take its course could be fun;
letting her become a prisoner within that magnificent
body, unable to flee even when we made no effort
to restrain her, unable to respond to the tortures
we inflicted on her, that might be amusing.

Maybe this wasn't such rotten luck for us after all.

Pretty rotten luck for her, but then, her luck had run
out as soon as we realized what a woman of beauty and
accomplishment she was and decided she would be ours.

So I sat down on the side of the bed, the letter in
one hand, and looking at her slender lovely legs
and ignoring (but enjoying) the angry look she was
giving me, I finally spoke to her, saying "You don't
look like Lou Gehrig".

-------------------------------------------------
The Choice

He didn't know what to do.

And his Mistress, laying back and smiling, wasn't helping.

"I said, 'Pick the toy you think you should pick'; seems
clear enough to me", she told him.

Clear enough for her perhaps, but he had to make the choice,
and he didn't know what to do.

Arrayed before him on the floor were a range of toys, one
of which he was to pick and bring to his Lady.  What did
she mean, "pick the one you think you should pick" ?
The one he liked the most ?  He didn't much like any of them,
but the elkhide flogger with its soft flat but rounded
tails, heavy thud and no sting, was one he came closest to
enjoying.  Though what he enjoyed most was his Lady's approval.
But what would bring that ?  The most severe toy there, the
knout, a heavy hard leather singetail that could easily slice
him apart ?  She never used that save for show, he didn't
believe she'd ever use it on him, and she knew that, so
there was no sacrifice in bringing it to her.  His optimal
choice would be something the choice of which please her 
so much she'd not use it on him, but something so severe she'd
never use it wouldn't do that.

But she hadn't made this a simple choice for him; he couldn't
exclude the babybear and papabear and find what was just right.
Mamabear had a full menu, but what was her choice ?

And did she want him to make her choice ?   He was supposed 
to always do what pleased his lady, so he should be picking what
she wanted, right ?  But he was always to be honest with his
lady, so he should show honesty and pick what he wanted, right ?
Why wouldn't she tell him whether he was picking what he wanted
or what he thought she wanted ? 

Not that he was sure what she wanted.  Mamabear's menu included
the viper, a vicious tongue of leather which he couldn't
bear but could endure, maybe that was the choice.  But she knew
he'd only pick that hoping that she wouldn't use it, and this
she just might use (but should that matter ?) - but she might 
not, and she might be disappointed in him if he brought her a 
toy she'd not want to use.  Was he to bring her something he was 
prepared to bear but wouldn't like ?  The rubber flogger was what 
he could bear but could bear the least.  But she knew his limits 
and wouldn't use that past his breaking point, which meant she 
wouldn't use it long.  The flogger made from leather shoelaces, 
that he didn't like but he could handle it, he'd be squirming and 
whimpering under her lashes for a long time with that, she could 
have a lot of fun with it.  Was it the toy she'd have the most 
fun with that was the one that he should choose ?  Was it about
his sacrifice or her fun ?

He knelt there before the array of toys and under his Lady's
laughing eyes and sly grin, and he didn't know what to do.

But he knew he was very sorry he'd ever been so arrogant and
unsubmissive as to decide what was best for his Lady, and
he hoped to leave all choices to her in the future.


-----------------------------------------------
Perspective.


A couple images:

   1)  A man spreadeagled out in the wilderness someplace, his
       clothes cut off by a woman who then plays with him with
       the knife for awhile, then puts a small incision in his 
       lower abdomen and pulls out a bit of intestine, then ties 
       a very long rope to it and ties the other end to the end 
       of a truck which she tells to drive way very slowly while 
       she lays alongside him, fondling and threatening him while
       watching him come to the end of his rope, at which point 
       she has the option of either cutting he rope, or lying 
       back and watching him come slowly undone (perhaps while 
       speculating how much of him could come out and still be 
       put back in, till it gets to the point where she smiles 
       and shakes her head "no" to quash whatever hope remained 
       that she might mean to spare him).  If she *knows* that
       she will cut the rope, it might be a little less messy 
       to simply tie his balls; a little more interesting might 
       be tying his balls and leaving the rope coiled between his 
       legs and having the truck on his head side, so as it pulls
       away the uncoiling rope would be pulled across him, maybe
       through a ring tied to his cock to bounce/tug his cock
       as it's pulled through the ring.


   2)  She strips him and ties his hands behind his back and make 
       him stand with one foot on each of two blocks of ice, then 
       puts a noose around his neck with a foot or so of slack, so 
       she can watch his bare feet squirming on the ice as the blocks 
       melt and the noose tightens.  And watch as he lowers towards 
       the row of spikes below him, between his legs, which will begin 
       piercing his crotch a while before the noose tightens enough to 
       make him lose consciousness.  


Both a bit excessive, I agree.  I really wouldn't need the spikes
piercing my testicles while I was torn between hoping the noose would
kill me and trying to hang on (so to speak) a little longer, knowing
that each minute's existence would be paid for by deeper piercing of
my groin, to remind me that the stuff we worry about every day isn't 
*really* so important.  I suspect being tied face down on a bed 
with a striking array of striking instruments on the bed above my
face, with those instruments taking their turn in the hand of a
woman who likes me and *really* likes hurting me, and enjoys asking
me if I'm worried about short shipments and overage release orders
now, that would probably be enough to restore my perspective.

-----------------------------------------------------------
That would sting

&gt; &lt;paper cuts&gt;
&gt; &gt; I've never done it, but the idea of binding someone to a chair
&gt; &gt; and cutting her again and again with paper has long amused.
&gt; &gt; Lots of little cuts along the tops of the ears, then running
&gt; &gt; my fingers ack and forth over her cut ears.  And, of course,
&gt; &gt; much alcohol spraying/wiping over the cuts.

[cut comment about the alcohol hurting more than the cutting]

So you'd say that fondling a man's cock to keep it hard as you
pricked it again and again with a series of sharp tiny pins
coming from an opaque container (so he can't tell how many more 
of them you might have) probably would not hurt him nearly as
much as would the constant alcohol wiping (supplemented by
occasional peroxide pours) done to maintain sterile technique ?

"But Ma'am, the pins are all sterile already". 

"But they won't be when I start reusing them a second time 
- and they won't be so sharp as to be almost painless when 
you get pricked a second time with them.  Oh, don't be such 
a silly wimp, first of all there's no way you are getting loose, 
and if you keep twisting your wrists like that you'll hurt yourself.  
Why, look, already you're bleeding a little; now I'll just have to 
pour some peroxide on your wrists.   Bad boy !  Such language; I'll 
have to gag you if you insist on being so coarse.  Now to finish taking 
care of your wrists.  There.  Oh, dear, now you've gone away again, 
you should feel very bad about making me work so hard fondling your 
cock and balls, there you go, that's better, but you're getting blood 
on my hands and it clashes with my fingernail polish, now where is that
thing, what'd you call it, a stiptic pencil, why are you shaking your
head "no", isn't that what it's called ?  Well, whatever, it does seem
to stop the bleeding from the pin pricks for awhile.  I don't have
this magnifying glass here to hurt your ego, I'll use it to study
where I can apply fresh pricks on the second go around - and the 
third, when the needles will really start hurting - and I can't see
if there's blood all over."

