Queen Bee

She was the Queen Bee of the community, and an especially ripe specimen of woman she was indeed.

Blonde, 5’8” and 11 stone, she was not scrawny. Zaftig, in fact, fit her well.

 She described herself as sucky fucky happy go lucky. And she certainly was that and more, the night we met.

My first play party, organised by the community that had sprung up around a bulletin board. 

This was in the days before the world wide web. Telnet and TTY interface was the state of the art.

I did not see much of QB during the party. She stayed in the master bedroom of the suite and hosted a succession of alpha-rank doms. While I didn’t see her much, we certainly heard a great deal. 

Toward the end of the party, she emerged dressed in jeans, a plaid shirt, tennis shoes and a shit-eating grin the size of Manhattan. 

I was demonstrating my newest toy, a Titillator, and she began cooing in my ear that she was pleased to put a face to my handle. 

She was a fan of my posts on the bbs, which dealt mainly with responsibility and ethics.

The week after the party, she began joining my chats in the main channel, and we bonded over an almost-tragic event.

In October, one of the newest members of the community, a graduate student in art history and fine art, asked for advice about whom to play with as a first timer. 

She asked about me, and the old hen told her that I had been seen at parties and online but had not been seen to play. Another dom was suggested.

Three days later, the gal shows up on the main channel and asks how long it takes for your hands to stop being numb.

“Go to the ER.” She couldn’t, she would die of embarrassment. 

Two other people and I meet her. Her wrists are horribly bruised and abraded. The numbskull, who claimed to be an experienced rope master, used quarter-inch nylon rope tied into slipknots and so spread-eagled her on his bed. She struggled. She went numb.

Rather patent neuropraxis secondary to compression trauma. No internal effiusions. Applied loose ace bandages, athletic ice pack, and 60 mg prednisone p.o. in a single bolus dose. 

Repeated X2 days then weaned. (The statute of limitations is long gone, so IDGAF). Gave physical therapy to the sweetheart (really, the nicest gal any of us ever knew in those days with an explicit S&M theme. 

I tortured her flexors and thenar muscles mercilessly. And she healed just fine, ended up acing the studio part with a portfolio that focused on the bound female torso.

I make a point of teaching bondage safety. The fact that unless you have a safety monitor in the room, the bondage must be escapable. 

Queen Bee decides I am the greatest thing since sliced bread. At least online……

End of summer. Labor Day at the Vault. I am stag and I spend the first three hours being rejected by everyone I approach. 

I’m getting ready to leave when suddenly, the crowd before me parted and there she was. The Queen Bee, wearing an oversized shirt of fine linen, with lace inserts like an alb. 

On her knees. She bowed her head, profoundly, and held up her hands toward me. “Please accept this unworthy slave’s most humble submission.”

“Unbow your head, dear, but keep those hands up.” I put down my backpack, an old army style “large” pack, stuffed to capacity with toys…pulled out two locking bondage cuffs and put them on her wrists.

Then I linked the cuffs with a carabiner and pulled her to her feet. I steered her over to the carcass handler, which I lowered. 

Yes the vault was an old meat-packing plant. I positioned her to be spread-eagled to the bar of the handler. I ran my hands over her torso and she gurgled. “Hell butter” or something like that.

“You incorrigible rope slut.”

“Oh, Master, tell me more.” I opened the carabiner and quickly stripped off her robe. 

She was wearing a white body suit that completely exposed the breasts and glutes. She feigned modesty, tried to cover herself, but she submitted to an upper body spread eagle. 

I pulled out a six-fathom length of 6mm hemp rope and formed a lark’s head, which I wrapped and cinched in front between her breasts, before completing the shinju bonds above her breasts as well. 

Ancillary cords ran over her shoulders to hold the “bra” in place, while more strands dangled below. 

The combination of vascular restriction and mechanical pressure was causing her nipples—which were already quite spectacular—to be distended even more. 

When I ran the palm of my hand over her swollen dugs she jumped so hard that feared she would harm herself. Her head hung down, her jaw lolled and she began to drool.

I applied a standard sukuranbo crotch rope, which I then tensioned with the free lines from her breasts. 

The crotch rope was lovingly braided and knotted to ramp up the pressure on her anus, vagina, clitoris and perineum.

Gave the rig a good shake and she started to cum.

“Now, you’re really going to get it.” I blindfolded her and applied karada harness to her pelvis. With a twist. 

When I pulled the Oster Stim-U-Laxer out of the bag, I heard murmuring.

I had an audience. One that was disrespectful and broke the flow for me…but QB was hanging from the bonds, with almost her full weight on her shoulders and she had no idea what was coming. 

The karada held the foam pad of the tool squarely on top of her pudenda. I hummed “whistle while you work” as I wrapped up the bondage and then without stopping my whistling I simply flipped the on switch.

The vault had four active party floors that night. We were on the third floor. Essentially the entire population of the house pushed onto our floor. 

Her shrieks were ear-shattering, but put an icecube on her tummy and she could acknowledge that she knew her safeword and would master try to hurt her this time Sassy bitch, I pinched her nipple and she moaned. 

“You’re in transformation.”

“Brilliant Sherlock. Just duh. WHIP ME NOW”

I pulled the carcass handler up all the way. She went up on her toes. Not tiptoes, but her heels were well off the floor and she grimaced. Obvious discomfort. 

I get the nasty, stingy cat of belting leather and lay on 36 lashes before walking in front and delivering three bonus lashes to her flanks. The falls wrap around and make the unmistakable kersnap of a whipfall going supersonic.

The shock of the pain was obvious, and even now she did not let out a sound, but this different. 

Before, she held her mouth because she was actually ecstatic. Indeed the only noise was an occasional low moan.

But now she shuddered violently and more and more shudder-y as the 38th and 39th lashes struck home. 

Then the shudder ended and she screamed. Screamed until she was exhausted and she collapsed, hanging from the bar and only marginally aware of her surroundings.

The marks were spectacular. Her skin, so pale, showed the red and purple marks like tempera on fresh plaster. 

I brought out mirrors and made her look at the marks all over her back. She looked dumbfounded, and then I scratched her back with the wartenburg harrow. 

Now she could not mistake that the landscape of stripes bright and dark, red, purple and placed closely together was HER back. 

Not someone else's back but hers had been made into hideous fresco by me and my nasty, stingiferous flogger. 

I sprayed cold water and blew a fan on her face. No breaks in the skin, and the cool water soothed the redness. 

Her eyes opened. She grabbed the overhead ropes that held her arms overhead, and pulled herself erect again. 

She looked up into my eyes, and her pupils dilated. A grim smile of determination crept over her face. “Is that the best you can do, cocksucker?”

Story by Kevin

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