Pixie Isobella

‘Get my belt,’ Lord Arendt ordered the other men. He looked down, meeting Summer’s eyes, and she knew she was looking up him with wide eyes and fear in her face.

‘Stupid whore,’ murmured Lord Marlowe, handing Lord Arendt a thick strap of leather.

‘How many, milord?’ asked Makepeace from his place further across the room.

Lord Arendt smiled an evil smile down at her. ‘As many as I feel like. Seeing as the slut can’t remember…’

Summer’s Engagement: 9

[Summer’s Engagement contains non-consent fantasy erotica, female submission to male characters and object insertion. All characters are over 18. Chapter 1 of Summer’s Engagement is here]

Summer felt her mind panicking. She hadn’t been hit with a strap, ever, not even when she was young, not even when she had been very bad.

And she knew already that this was going to hurt.

Lord Arendt raised the strap above his shoulder and it came flying through the air, landing full across Summer’s exposed breasts, the nipples hard and taut in the cold air. She screamed. She couldn’t help it. The pain was sudden and shocking. While the young men had sometimes played pattycake with her breasts, they had never hit her there.

Far above her, she knew Lord Marlowe was grinning with pleasure at her response.

She didn’t have time to process the pain though or the three men’s enjoyment of it, because Lord Arendt immediately raised his arm again and without even a pause, brought the strap down across her breasts a second time.

Summer screamed in pain and felt herself mindlessly fighting at the bonds, desperately to somehow — anyhow — get free, to escape the whistling pain that came down through the air towards her sensitive, soft, precious breasts. It was useless, of course. She was restrained very comprehensively and there was nothing she could do to protect her exposed breasts from Lord Arendt’s sadism.

The belt landed again while she was struggling and screaming, a third time, then a fourth, and a fifth time. A sixth time, right across her nipples, harder than the others. Then a seventh and an eighth, and Summer knew that Lord Arendt wasn’t going to stop, he was hurting her, oh gods, it hurt so badly she couldn’t even process the pain.

He was enjoying it, he had a deep smile on his face, he wasn’t going to stop. She was screaming and tears were running from her eyes, she was losing count of the strikes. She was so overwhelmed by the sensations that the strikes were blurring into each other.

Deeply, from some far away place beyond the pain, Summer knew that her pussy was wetter and slicker than it had ever been, each slice of pain across her breasts driving through her restrained body into her groin. But she couldn’t process that, couldn’t enjoy how desperate and horny she was.

She couldn’t even look forward to being fucked, because Lord Arendt was still belting her breasts.

She had lost count, it hurt so much and she was screaming so loudly, her voice going hoarse, her eyes blinded by tears.

Lord Arendt didn’t stop and the pain continued, each strike a new flash of overwhelming pain feeding into the growing throbbing well of pain that was her breasts. Dimly, Summer knew he had hit her maybe twenty or thirty, or even forty times, the hard leather feeling like iron each time it landed, stoking the stinging, fiery pain in her soft breasts.

She was crying, choking on loud sobs when she realised the attack had slowed. Through blurry tears, she could see Lord Arendt bending over her, the belt mercifully still at his side, inspecting his handiwork. Her skin hurt to touch and she knew the skin of both breasts was red and abraded and starting to bruise.

‘Nice work, milord,’ said Makepeace.

‘Yes, indeed,’ grinned Lord Marlowe and Summer hissed through her tears to feel all three of the men’s hands on her misused breasts and nipples, groping and fondling. One of them lowered his mouth to suckle hard on a nipple, and Summer hissed in pain and at the indignity.

‘Are we going to string these udders up?’ asked Lord Marlowe.

‘Of course,’ smiled Lord Arendt nastily. ‘She’s a whore isn’t she? We’ll treat her like one. It’s not like she can complain to anyone. We might as well be as brutal as we want.’

Summer trembled in fear at the words and at the sound of clinking chains. She didn’t know what they meant by ‘string her up’ but it didn’t sound like the men intended for her to enjoy it. She whimpered in fear, hating the pathetic sound of her voice, and wincing inside when Lord Marlowe looked down at her.

‘I love it when one of your cows realises we own her now,’ he said to Lord Arendt. ‘Do you remember that little brunette from the castle who thought she could say ‘no’ to you? How much she screamed when you whipped her?’

Lord Arendt grunted in amusement as Makepeace handed him something that Summer couldn’t see.

‘She screamed at everything,’ he said, still sounding amused. ‘Such a delightful sound. Until she learned her lesson and she didn’t anymore.’ He chuckled and handed one of the metal items in his hand to Lord Marlowe. ‘I kept her for a long time. She was like a dog at my feet, eventually.’

Lord Marlowe grinned. ‘I remember. She was good to fuck in front of the fire when I came to visit your lodge. Sweet. Compliant.’

Summer felt herself growing cold at their words.

No.

No, please.

She tried to remind herself that she was going to King David’s court tomorrow. This indignity, this horror was just one night. But oh god, they hadn’t even fucked her yet.

Both the men lowered their hands back to Summer’s breasts, starting to tease the painful nipples, and she tensed in fear. She felt a flash of cold as Lord Arendt placed a bar of iron against her nipple, and then finally she realised what they were doing.

It was some kind of clamp, designed to hold onto the flesh behind her nipple. She had seen these in some of the forbidden pornographic books she had found in the castle. Both Lord Arendt and Lord Marlowe were tightening the clamp across her flesh, crushing the tender flesh of her breast behind her nipples.

At first it didn’t hurt and she thought it would be endurable, but the men kept tightening the screws on either side of each clamp until the rigid bars of metal were digging fiercely into her soft flesh, crushing and hurting. They kept tightening the clamps long past when it started hurting, while new tears formed in Summer’s eyes, and she forced herself to breathe through this new pain.

Finally, when the crushed flesh formed two new rigid lines of pain across each breast, the men finished. Summer hissed as they teased the puffy, swollen flesh of each nipple, cut off from the rest of her breasts by the clamp.

Oh, it felt… her nipples hurt so badly but it also it felt so stupidly good. She was feeling almost light-headed with the pain and with it a strong flash of desire ran through her body and into her groin. Oh, she wanted to be fucked. She didn’t want them to fuck her — Lord Arendt with his arrogant smile or cruel Lord Marlowe, and she guessed rough Makepeace was going to get a chance at her as well — but her body was crying out for penetration.

The men weren’t done with her breasts yet though. Makepeace lowered chains down from the ceiling and grinning broadly, Lord Arendt attached each clamp to a chain, gesturing to Makepeace to tighten the chains again. The chains tightened, pulling back up to the ceiling, pulling the clamps on her breasts with them. The metal dug fiercely into her flesh, increasing the pain in each breast.

While Summer watched horrified, the men tightened the chains, lifting each clamped nipple up into the air towards the ceiling. The pain was excruciating, each breast stretched taut up from her body. She could feel her body almost leaving the bed, so that some of her weight was also resting on the clamps.

Lord Arendt ran teasing fingers across each of her nipples, pinching and tugging, and smiling at Summer’s immediate whimpering reaction. Her nipples were so much more sensitive than normal and it felt amazing, even as her senses swooned from the intense pain. She hated that he could get this reaction from her, even as she loved the horny feeling in her pussy.

‘She’s such a slut,’ remarked Lord Marlowe, watching smugly from the other side of the bed. ‘Who even knew?’

Lord Arendt chuckled his assent to Lord Marlowe’s words. ‘I wish I could keep her in my dungeon for ten years. I’d never grow tired of hurting her, or of knowing that it was spoiled little princess Summer I had beneath me whenever I fucked her.’

Please follow me here or on my creator site for more stories! In the real world, remember to always play safely and practise positive, informed and enthusiastic consent that is respectful of all genders.

Chapter 10 of Summer’s Engagement is here.

Want more erotic torture?

If you love erotic torture and object insertion stories, you might like my Abigail’s Descent trilogy, now available as a bundle on all These Roadworks!

Abigail had no idea that her cousin’s wedding would be an orgy of brutal sex.

She didn’t know that she would be ravished again and again by the men of the bridal party.

No-one told her that she would soon become a bimbo, a sex-toy obedient to her master’s every whim…

Get all three books now together as one bundle! (But please check you don’t already own one of the books – please check you are not doubling up before purchasing).

© Pixie Isobella