Fall from Grace Read online

  I trembled in anticipation. I stared down at my aching nipples - they throbbed, hard and prominent. I wanted them sucked. I wanted to see spit dripping from their straining ends. Then I wanted them pinched - so hard, so fiercely, so cruelly that tears streamed down my face. And I wanted them thrashed, with a strap or a belt - something with a hard cutting edge, something that would bring the highest levels of pain, and something that would release my uncontrolled screams. I wanted to feel the tension in them straining against the smacking sting of a viciously wielded strap. I wanted to feel them on fire. I wanted them bitten. I wanted to feel the cutting edges of sharp teeth eating into their throbbing flesh. And I wanted to beg for it all to stop, knowing that it would not and knowing that, in truth, I wanted it to continue.

  Father Dawson stood up. I did not look at his face. He did not allow it at this time. This was the time of complete obedience - the moment that tested my commitment to his will. No, I did not dare look at his face.

  I did not move as he unclipped the leash from my collar - something else I had learnt at his hand. This was a moment of freedom, and I had to show him that, even when I was not secured, I was still under his control.

  He took hold of the shiny leather strap that was fixed to the post and clipped it into the large iron link at its top. I breathed quickly and licked back the spit from my chin. What else could I do? It was impossible to hide the thrill of anticipation that was coursing through my veins. I wanted to urge him to wind the strap more quickly into the collar at my neck. I wanted to plead with him to draw my neck up against the hard edge of the post tighter than ever before. I wanted him to make me more secure than I had ever felt. I wanted to hang against the unforgiving post, limp yet constrained, captive and hopeless. I just wanted ...

  ‘Onto all fours,’ he ordered curtly.

  Sometimes he let me get onto my hands and knees without this order, just sometimes, but not this time. I could sense the urgency in his voice. This time he was not prepared to wait. This time he only wanted to see me punished, he did not want to engage in the moments that might precede it - the waiting, the pent-up excitement, the wondering, the expectation.

  ‘On all fours!’ he shouted again. I had made him wait, and he was angry, and that meant he would be even more severe with me than usual.

  I did as he ordered. I dipped my back, allowing it to curve downwards from my shoulders and rise up again to my taut exposed buttocks. I felt the searing heat of sun on my skin. I forced my buttocks higher; they opened enough to expose the soft oval of flesh that was my cunt. The heat of the blazing sun was intense - it burned like a branding iron against the swelling delicate flesh. I felt moisture running in the crack. I widened my buttocks more - the edges of my flesh pulled against the tension. I dropped my head forward and swallowed heavily in a massive gulp.

  ‘Yet more sins,’ he sighed. ‘Always more. The unending flow of your sinfulness is sometimes too much to witness. Yes, even for a minister of the Lord. Even with God’s support, my dearest Syra, sometimes your evil is too much to bear.’

  I wanted to tell him how sorry I was. I wanted to plead with him to help me, to save me, to release my sinfulness, but I knew that although there might be a right time, this was not it. In the night, when I was alone and curled up in my kennel - when I had no greater pleasure to distract me - then there was nothing else in my life except the desire for forgiveness. At these times, that was all that mattered. But now, at this moment, my desire to beg and my being able to do nothing else except beg were brought together by my single-minded anticipation of the pain to come.

  The thought of it made me gasp. I opened my mouth wide. Spit ran down between my legs. I watched it dribbling towards the sand. My eyes followed its bubbly strand. I wondered if it would reach the sand before my punishment started. I had no time to think before the answer was given - ‘No’.

  DAWSON’S RISE

  MY SUFFERING AT THE POST

  Father Dawson yanked me up tightly to the post. My head banged against its hard edge. I felt dizzy. I looked towards my kennel - as if its rickety frame might offer some sense of safety. The leaking hose they used for cleaning the black Ford sedan lay in a tangle on the sand. Water sprayed in a fine multicoloured mist from its heavy brass end. I licked my lips at the thought of its cooling sanctity, and imagined myself lying beneath its soft mist, naked, my legs wide, saturated by its soothing rain.

  Two of Father Dawson’s shabby penitents had arrived for his absolution. They sat together on the rusty front bumper of the old Ford pickup. They were young but troubled. I could see they had done something, committed some wrongdoing, and were here in the hope that my cruel master would somehow wash it away. I could see in their eyes the hope that, with the power invested by God in his hands, he would grant them forgiveness for something for which they should more rightly be punished with a cruelty beyond even Father Dawson’s means. They both wore blue dungarees, had been talking quietly and picking up and throwing pebbles to amuse themselves. Now they could not keep from staring at me - captive, naked, lashed to the post and awaiting a punishment for something they could not understand.

  Behind them, stood an old woman, her craggy face worn by years exposed in the desert sun. Her tangled black hair hung in greasy strands on her naked shoulders. Her breasts were exposed and the light shift that draped from her bony hips barely covered the dark triangular shape of her pubic hair. She squeezed up her eyelids tightly, lifted her hands and beckoned me - it was a cruel gesture. I pulled against the collar at my neck. I wanted to spit at her for her spitefulness. I thought I saw her smile, but I could not distinguish it from a sneer.

  I hung on the leash that connected the collar at my neck to the top of the thick post. I knew he was going to beat me - a thrashing of some sort, a whipping perhaps, or maybe a caning. I never knew exactly what it would be, but I knew it would be painful, and I knew that, even before it finished, I would have confessed all I knew. But it never stopped there - simple confession was never enough to halt the pain at his hands. He would continue long after I had stopped begging for mercy. He was never content until he saw me lift up my buttocks against the pain - not in spite of it, but lift myself to meet it, to welcome it. He was never satisfied until I begged further, until my salivating lips and drooling tongue cried out for more - more pain, more savagery, more humiliation. And even then, he would not release me, even when I opened my legs wide, even when I lifted my cunt to the whip or the cane, even when I screamed uncontrollably as he lashed my tender exposed flesh unendingly, even when I shuddered with ecstasy, when I licked at the parched sand, when I crawled and licked his shoes, when I clung onto his legs and entreated him to lash me even harder, even then, when I did all these things, still he did not stop. And it never seemed to end. He thrashed me into oblivion. The lashing strap, or cutting cane, would still be lacing my buttocks well after I had slumped before him, overcome with the pain he had inflicted so cruelly, barely able to keep myself conscious enough to know that there was still more to come.

  Yes, he was the cruellest master - the most unforgiving torturer. He drove me to the pinnacle of pain as, at the same time, he raised me to the heights of pleasure. The two came together - I was both a victim to his cruelty and to my own primitive need for the pleasure it brought. As I was racked with anguish and suffering so I was seized with the shivering ecstasy of the deepest joy. As I begged to be saved from the humiliation he bestowed on me, so I shivered with pleasure at the delight it transmitted to every part of my trembling body. But all the suffering, all the joy, had exhausted me, drained me, left me now unable to cope. I did not think I could stand any more. Even the delectability of the highest joys was no longer enough for me to tolerate the pain and disgrace that was the route to it. His devious and savage cruelty had overcome me. The pleasures I had experienced had given over to abject suffering - now I could only think of freedom.

  I looked up into the r
elentless sun - a flaming fire in the cloudless sky. Its heat burned my forehead and cheeks and, when I closed my eyes, its brightness and radiance lit up my eyelids so that all I saw was dazzling spots of intense yellow light.

  The two ragged penitents came up and stood one on each side of me. For a moment I felt the relief of being in their shade.

  ‘Something different for you today, my little pet,’ said Father Dawson, as he stalked around me holding his forefinger against his nose. ‘Something to help shake out your sins and allow you a complete confession. Oh, how relieved you will be if you are emptied of them. And I will be overjoyed with your salvation.’

  His sneering tone made me shiver - his words were more ominous than usual. A wave of fear ran through me. I bit hard onto my lips - an introduction to the pain to come.

  ‘Untie her!’ he ordered.

  I slumped to the ground as the leash was released. I was no longer secured, and there was a sense of relief, but I knew it was not freedom. I tried to crawl back to the post - there was safety in its harsh unforgiving strength, and I was too exposed away from it. I stretched my hands out to it. Father Dawson’s foot stepped across by clawing hands and pressed them down into the soft hot sand.

  I looked up. The sun was behind his head. A halo of blazing gold shone around him. I fell back terrified. He was like an apparition.

  ‘Please,’ I begged. ‘I can stand no more.’

  He laughed cruelly.

  ‘But you must, my little pet. There is so much more to come. How can you deny yourself pleasures that you have not yet experienced?’

  He nodded to his assistants.

  Each penitent put a hand beneath each of my armpits and lifted me upwards. It was a relief to feel their strength holding me up - there was something strangely comforting about it.

  One of them sniggered. I looked up at him - he was unshaved, scraggy and wide eyed. He laughed as he caught my gaze and squeezed my upper arm painfully in his tightening grip. I felt his cruelty. A gold tooth shone behind his half open lips. It glistened with spit from his hot squirming tongue, as it caught the light from the ever present, searing sun.

  I did not know whether to cry out or not. I wanted to, I needed to, but I knew there was more suffering to come and that saving my cries for mercy until later would help calm the flames of pain that would then be burning in my body. Yes, I knew that what was ahead would have a more rightful claim to my screams. I bit harder onto my lips and fought the reflex need to shout out. Yes, I would save my cries.

  The one with the gold tooth let go of my arm and spun around. He stood before me looking down as the other held me on my knees before him.

  I looked up into his face. I realised how pitiful I was - my eyes wide and appealing, my mouth slightly open, my lips trembling with confusion and expectation of what was to come. I inclined my head slightly to the side, asking him to forgive me for something I had not even done. I felt a wave of shame.

  He grinned and his gold tooth flashed. I winced and pulled back. I felt a sharp pain under my arms as the other gripped me tightly and pushed me back into place. Yes, I was in place, in the place they wanted me, under their control, and these disciples were in turn under the control of Father Dawson. I felt his dominating hand even as I knelt before his grinning acolyte.

  I thought again of reaching for the post. I felt my body tensing as it prepared itself. I imagined grabbing the post’s hard edges and offering myself to its strength. I thought of them clipping my collar to it, holding me against it, pinioning me tightly to it. And I imagined myself cowering at it, crying out in agony as the lash came down time after time on my upturned naked buttocks and back. I saw myself writhing beneath the thrashing leather, twisting and turning helplessly as my skin was reddened and striped by its unforgiving ferocity. I felt the overpowering call of the sanctity of pain that it promised - a pain I knew, a humiliation that would satisfy me with its painful disgrace. But I knew I could not move - it was a ridiculous fantasy. I had no choice - I must await whatever he had planned for me.

  I was held fast on my knees. The penitent who stood before me grinned again. He opened the front of his trousers, pushed his hand inside them and drew out his cock. It was thick and engorged. Its end throbbed and, as he pushed it towards my face, I felt its heat.

  He pressed the hot glans against my lips. I looked up at him.

  He nodded.

  ‘Between your lips first,’ he drawled. ‘Make it wet and let me feel your tongue around it. Draw your lips tight and run them along its shaft. When you have done this to my satisfaction, I will tell you what I want next.’

  I looked quickly to the side. I did not know if I should take instructions from him. I felt I must have Father Dawson’s approval before I did anything.

  I was snatched back to face the penitent.

  ‘I have given you your orders! Do as I have said!’

  I sensed his anger. I looked again - still I felt afraid of acting without my master’s approval. This time I was snatched back more viciously. The one behind me clasped his hands against my cheeks and squeezed them tightly, forcing my pursed lips towards the others waiting cock.

  ‘Do what I have said! Your master has given you to us. He has no more need of you. He says you are beyond his help. Do as I say!’

  I felt a great tide of fear rise within me. I could not believe I had been abandoned. I leant forward until the hot glans touched my lips. I opened my lips and let them enfold it. It tasted sweet, and it was hot and hard. I licked it, taking saliva from beneath my tongue and using its tip to spread my spit across the throbbing end. I sucked at the hot glans, drawing it in, and, as it entered, I felt the ribs of the venous shaft against the insides of my cheeks.

  I looked up at the penitent. He stared down at me, his eyes commanding me, regulating my movements, forcing me to follow his instructions.

  ‘Now, take it down!’

  I felt his cock’s heavy end against the back of my throat. As it touched I felt myself gag. My throat closed and I felt an irresistible nauseous heave. I relaxed, my throat opened and the heaving sensation passed. I drew it further. I welcomed it into my throat and, as saliva flooded around it, I swallowed on it, pulling it in as much as it would go until his heavy testicles were splayed and pressed against my spit-smeared chin.

  I felt the gagging sensation again. I could not stop my throat tightening on the pulsating shaft. My babbling breath gurgled past the ribs of his hard cock. Bubbling spit squeezed up along it and frothed out in a foamy, gluey mass around my lips and down my chin. I sucked in and again my throat tightened, this time more, and I felt his heavy cock expanding as his semen ran up the throbbing shaft.

  It splashed into my throat and I choked. Gulping and gasping, I kept it in, tasting the hot semen, swallowing it, sucking it down. He pulled back and his still flowing semen filled my mouth, covering my tongue, and sticking to my teeth before flooding out over my bottom lip and down my chin.

  A hand behind me forced me forward. I dropped onto all fours. The cock above me still flowed with semen, splashing more of it onto the back of my head and around one of my ears. It trickled down the side of my face and over my cheek.

  A sudden smack on my buttocks made me twist sidewards. I looked around but another vicious smack told me to turn back. Another sharp smack and I realised that the penitent behind me was driving me forward with the open palm of his hand. Another smack told me to continue, another told me to move more quickly.

  Semen ran from my mouth as I crawled forward across the searing sand. I stared ahead. A rainbow of light dazzled me. Smack after smack drove me on. I swallowed and felt more of the sticky semen running down my throat. Another smack and I turned my buttocks up to meet it - the sharp sudden hit, the penetrating sting, the sound, the feeling of obedience all came together and made me want it more. I dropped my shoulders lower so that t
he small of my back dipped down and accentuated the rising mounds of my reddened buttocks. Another smack, another sharp sting, another instruction and a wave of painful, humiliating pleasure flooded through me.

  I crawled towards the rainbow. It was formed in the mist of water spraying from the brass end of the leaky hose. I pulled myself into it. Another smack slapped wetly as my buttocks were drenched by the cloud of misty spray.

  There were no more smacks. I stopped - a moment of relief was my order to wait. I stayed there, on my hands and knees in the middle of the mist of spray that rose in a circling plume from the hose. It cooled my skin. I bathed in it. It was luxurious. I swallowed heavily on the semen in my mouth - it was delectable. I lifted my buttocks and let the water droplets collect and run down their crack. Their cool moisture ran around my anus. It dilated with the contact and a deep tingling sensation flowed up into my bowels. It flowed down against the soft flesh of my cunt and its pliable tissue swelled in response to its soft caress.

  I raised my face into the gentle storm of water from the hose. The spray ran into my wide open eyes, down my cheeks and into my gaping mouth. It mixed with the semen which still clung to my lips and it ran inside and mixed with the semen that still stuck to my tongue and lips. The misty water brought a new freshness to my mouth and I tasted the semen anew - more aromatic, more salty, more delectable than even before. I felt the heat in my cunt and I lifted my buttocks as high as I could, exposing my crack to the cloud of coolness and the soft touch of its delicate rain.

  Suddenly, my hands were grabbed. My face fell against the wet sand. It stuck to my lips and I tasted its gritty bitterness on my tongue. They dragged me up and bound my hands together with a spare piece of hose. I was confused and could not make out what was happening to me. They lashed the old piece of hose that held my hands together around the rusty front bumper of the old pick-up. They pulled my feet off the ground and stretched me across the long sharp front wing. They held my legs apart. I saw myself in the wing mirror that was immediately in front of my face. I shrunk back from what I saw - tear-filled eyes, sand mixed with the semen stuck to my cheeks and nose, water dripping down from my spit smeared lips.