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Cottage, Clysters, Brothers, "sister" (Suzi Ayna)

Cottage, Clysters, Brothers, "sister" by Suzi Ayna


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    • Average 3.7 from 3 ratings

I'm Suzi, stripped, chained, shaved, suffering high insertion as punishment.

It started as make believe, just me and the posters of the "nobles" or "Romans" or "barbarians" (actually rock stars) on my wall, watching my humiliation and anguish. Then Carol and I met and reality evolved as we tortured each other. But then there were masters, Carol and I slaves for real.

Product type: EBook    Published by: Fiction4All    Published: 12 / 2011

No. words: 80000

Style: Bondage/BDSM and Humor, Gay/Lesbian/Bisexual BDSM

Available Formats: Palm  MobiPocket (MOBI)  EPUB  Sony Reader (LRF)  PDF  MS Reader  This book has a format which can be downloaded to Kindle



Was it that old book on torture that I found at the summer cottage where we stayed? Maybe that’s what started me off; all those engravings and drawings of naked men and women in shackles and chains and being whipped and all those torture machines. And there was the movie on TV with the chained girl being whipped by the Romans.
The enema mom and dad gave me after they had to secure me to a chair to keep me still was part of it. I still turn on just thinking about my reflection while mom stuck the little nozzle up me and the hot suds felt so funny way inside.
Up to then, that summer at the cottage, I’d been just a typical girl, curious about my body and boys, but “innocent”, figuratively and literally – and literarily.
I was a couple months past l8 when we spent vacation at that cottage. And maybe the combination (or synergy?) of being a “grown-up woman” and the perceptions and experiences were like an instant imprint in my mind, influence of my body, thus pervasive, astounding “preference” for my sexuality.
My best friend Carol’s the same way too and when we do things together, it’s unreal. Carol got started differently from me. I had a real happy, loving childhood, but I guess by the way she was brought up, you’d say she was a battered child. But somehow she came to need and love chains and belts and whips and naked humiliation the same as me. Funny how you can start from such opposites and end up at the same thing in life.
Maybe a lot of people would say Carol and I are filthy or sick or that we’re “perverts”. But I think they’re wrong. There are all kinds of ways you can express what you need or feel -- like in writing or music or dancing. Well, why not in sex? There’s a reason that Carol and I are “bondage and discipline freaks”. There’s got to be a reason for everything. And if no one gets really hurt or ripped-off (or ripped-up), and if it makes people happy and feel good, then why should it be considered wrong?
“Bondage and discipline”. That’s the term I learned from Carol’s brother Jimmy. I know I’m in love with him and Carol’s in love with my brother Billy. And it’s not just because we’re all into the same thing together with sex. Like Jimmy says, “You’ve got to combine every part of yourself into a whole of meaning for life, or else creativity is only a fetish” or something to that effect.
Right now I’ve got to do some studying for a senior final exam tomorrow. I guess that’s what Jimmy means, that kind of thing even when I‘m in my bondage things. But oh, it gets so bad sometimes that I think the throbbing in my body will blow my mind apart, and in torture it’s sometimes hard to concentrate on schoolwork. Like now, with my chastity belt locked on and four whole days to wait until Jimmy and Billy take Carol and me to the cottage again. They’ll strip us and chain us and make us beg for mercy. But we’ll love every minute of it. And we’ll love them all the more while they make love to us that way because no matter how far out it all is, what we’re into, and what’s into us, it’s real and beautiful.
And why shouldn’t “perversion” be recognized as an artistic performance of the body?

Yes, I guess you could say I’m precocious. That’s what Mr. Hale says, anyway. He’s my senior English teacher and he told me I should be a writer because I’m very precocious at writing. Or something like that. I had to look up the word but I didn’t let on that I didn’t know it. That wouldn’t have been precocious.
So I should be a writer. When I thought about it, I figured maybe I ought to start right away. After all, practice makes perfect and Mr. Hale told me when you write about things you enjoy doing you can always read about them later when you can’t do them, and it’s like an enhancement of life. He was talking about vacations and stuff like that I guess. If he ever read what I enjoy doing most, he’d really think I’m precocious. Maybe I’ll show him some of my memoir writings sometime. Expurgated!!
But up until now, this diary I keep has been for me alone to read whenever I like, especially when I’m in chastity and can’t actually do anything. Reading about doing it sure is an enhancement of my aching, throbbing, untouchable needs then.
Maybe it’s unusual for an eighteen-and-a-half-year-old girl to be writing a “memoir”. But Mr. Hale said that a writer always writes everything because it might go into a book or something later on. So everything, every thought, idea, image and inspiration are all kind of like one’s files to compile. And that’s what I do.
So, dear reader, let me introduce myself. I’m Suzi. I’m going-on nineteen, and I guess I really am precocious. You’ll decide if and how as you read this book.
My “orientation” started suddenly a few months back when my parents rented a cottage way up in the mountains of New Hampshire and we stayed there for a month. There wasn’t anything really special about the place except for the beautiful scenery. It was a typical old shingled cottage with distant mountain scenery. And I guess I was a typical young woman for my age, interested in and curious about boys, but not really connecting the phenomenon with doing anything sexual. Seeing pictures and statues in the art museum had been my exposure to naked sexuality – except for a couple times at the cottage when I’d slept naked.
Also, there was a big lake right in front of the cottage. When it wasn’t windy, my parents would let me take the boat out alone. It was one of those times I’d rowed all the way almost out to an island near the middle of the lake. Some teenagers were camping there. Boys and girls were all swimming together with no bathing suits on. They saw me and even yelled at me to join the party and a couple boys started swimming out toward me. Boy, I rowed away real fast. I’d seen the girls’ tits a little, but down below I was too far away to see more than the shadow of their pubic hair which looked gross for some reason. I made believe I was one of the girls on the island later when I’d rowed far away from there and real far from our cottage too. I made sure there were no other boats anywhere around. I took off my bathing suit and swam naked.
And suddenly I realized that my pubes looked like theirs and then and there it seemed almost a compulsion to get back to the cottage and remove a … blemish? … of my nakedness. That hair just wasn’t “statuesque”! And what made that vacation in the mountains so special involved two more things.
Mr. Hale, my English teacher, says that reading helps to develop a precocious mind. Well he’s right, and one of the things that happened was I found a book. It was way in the back of the attic of the cottage and it’d probably been there for years. It was very old and had a fancy leather cover and it took every bit of strength I had just to carry it out under the light bulb where I could see. There wasn’t any date or publisher or anything, but on the first page inside was real fancy, scrolled writing that almost looked like a monk might have done it by hand. I figured it was some kind of history and I was just about to close it and go looking through the other antique stuff. Things were piled almost to the rafters and I was fascinated by the antique furniture, trunks, and all. Especially the book.
I was actually closing the cover when a word caught my eye. It didn’t really jump out at me, I mean there were so many twirly lines and even the smaller letters of the text on the page were real strange. That word showed up kind of like when you look at those cards at the eye doctor’s to see if you’re color blind. And that word was “torture”.
I don’t know why I was so interested all of a sudden, but I studied some of the other words until I could figure them out. “Classical Manual Of Instruments And Means Of Torture” . . . was as far as I read before I got so curious I had to turn the page.
There were only a few times I remembered hearing the word “torture”. One was sometimes when mom and dad would fight she’d yell, “Oh Mel, you’re torture!!” But she could have been calling him stupid or mean or something. No, it meant something more than that, because I remember feeling a little bit out of breath as I turned that first page to find out what the book was really all about. All I had time for was a quick glance. Somebody was coming up the attic stairs and from the picture on that inside page I knew I’d better not let anyone catch me looking at it.
“Torture”. Why did that word catch my eye and body too when I was so young?
Suddenly I was picturing something from a couple weeks back. It was a TV movie about ancient Rome. There was a beautiful young woman and some soldiers had brought her from a dungeon to appear before a court or tribunal or something. They led her by a chain around her neck and her wrists were chained together behind her back, her ankles chained too. Soon she was kneeling and pleading and I was feeling her feelings, tears already brimming my eyes. Then some centurion or whatever stood up and read from a scroll about her religion and Caesar and the Roman Empire and that she wasn’t telling them what they wanted to know. The words he said that really struck me were . . . “you will be tortured” and a couple tears rolled down my little cheeks. Mom, sitting next to me, noticed and she stroked my hair. I’d always been very emotional, “vicarious tears” a fluency of my self-expression. Neither my parents nor I considered it unusual or aberrant for an over-eighteen-ager, considering that even the actually aged, like ma, cry at operas and such. She, as usual, reminded me that it was just a movie, just role-playing and dad again mentioned that bad things happened in history (and even still do sometimes), but by portraying, by acting, the wrongs can be shown and maybe people won’t really keep doing terrible things to each other. And that make-believe can be an outlet, too, as well as a lesson to people.
And in the movie they led the sobbing girl through a big stone arch. Just before they were out of sight, a soldier tore her clothes from her and for a split second I saw her whole naked body from the rear. The scene returned to the court or tribunal for so short a time before the girl’s cry for mercy stilled the men’s voices for the dead-silence second before the whistle and crack of the whip and the girl’s scream and another crack and I screamed out loud just sitting there with mom and dad and my brother Billy because I like felt the slice of every blow as if my own back was being flayed.
Suddenly I felt feelings I’d never really felt. Suddenly, those feelings of and in my body made me want to feel what chains would feel like on my body.
Another time I’d heard the word “torture” was when Billy had done something really bad, then had gone defensive and even sworn at Dad. And Dad, who believed in higher learning as the best “discipline”, was suddenly swinging his belt over Billy’s bum. As dad was spanking Billy and Billy was actually wailing, mom, who knew what and why, yelled to Billy, “You deserve what you’re getting, so don’t over react to a spanking as if it’s torture, Bill!!!”
So the word “torture” figured in my background. And there in the attic with the image of that first picture in that old book engraved in my mind, I felt a little tingle touch my lips, above as a smile, below as again I was feeling those feelings I had in response to the girl in the movie. Steps closer. I stole a last glance at the picture and closed the book just as dad’s head poked up after the trap door lifted.
“What’re you doing so quietly up here?” he asked and sounded almost a little suspicious. And I wondered if he could read my thoughts, see my imagery, feel the imagery that my own body was somehow recreating from the picture.
“Oh, I’m just looking at all the old things, dad,” I said, and prayed I didn’t sound out of breath like I felt. My whole body felt squeezed from inside-out, kind of.
“Well, Suze, you’d better come down now,” he said. “Your mother wants you.” His head disappeared and I heard his footsteps going back down to the first floor. Quick as I could I slid the book out again and opened it to the page just so I could be sure I hadn’t imagined the picture that was making me feel things that I’d never really felt before, as if imprinted in my body by things I’d never seen before.
No, it wasn’t my imagination. The fancy writing at the top said, “London Impalement Chair”, and aside from that the whole page was taken up by the picture. It was drawn like pencil-sketching, but it was so good you could almost have thought it was an old fashioned black and white photograph. It showed a girl, stark naked. Yes, she looked a little older than I and she was kind of sitting half sideways. From her waist down it showed more of her back and rear, from the waist up she twisted sort-of so that her face and one of her breasts were in profile. I stared at her tit and it seemed for the first time realized something about my own breasts, like that my nipples seem to inflate, pulse, send streaks of sensation down below.
The girl’s arms were pulled behind her and fastened with big bracelets on her wrists. Her hair was long and she looked like she was going to cry. Her lips were open and her head kind of tipped back. She was straddling this thing that reminded me of the horses we use for calisthenics in gym. It made her legs spread wide and her ankles were fastened with rings sticking out from the pole that it stood on. And as I looked closely, I saw that that pole came right through the seat of the thing and went right up in between her round buttocks.
I didn’t have time to look any closer because Dad was yelling for me to hurry up and he sounded annoyed now. But when I pushed the book back to its hiding place, my own little bum-hole was twitching. As I went downstairs, I realized that the pole was shoved right up the girl’s rectum.
By the time I was downstairs I felt so funny that I went right to the bathroom. It was really like I had to go but I couldn’t go. And that was true, because I’d been constipated ever since we came back from a trip to Quebec six days earlier. Not being able to go was torture in a way, and had resulted in feelings I’d never felt before! And trying to, and not being able to, made it even worse, but better. And now I was feeling even more sensations. Recognizably, agonizingly, strongly, now actually sexual. I was almost embarrassed doing it even though I was all by myself, but I stripped and touched my wrists together behind me and first I felt myself almost becoming the Christian girl about to be tortured and before I knew it, I couldn’t help panting.
I looked down over my breasts and seeing my slender waist and flat tummy and flaring curve of my hips actually seemed to turn me on more. . . until I focused on where I felt wetness as if wrung from the throbbing, almost agonizing ecstasy . . . but I could hardly see “me” there because of the hair there. And almost on impulse I grabbed the hair trimmer and all but a fuzz was gone in a minute. Mom’s leg razor (or who knows what else?) quickly made my mons and vulva as naked as the rest of my body. And seeing there, seeing an “in there” because I was a little open there . . . . I was close to something but I didn’t know what except I wanted it to last and last.
Suddenly I realized I could see my whole reflection in the tall mirror that hung on the back of the bathroom door. I gulped. There was a naked girl in real, pale flesh, her face showing some kind of agony. She sat on the toilet which was now a torture device, her ankles “fastened” to the base, body kind of twisted, arms stretched so that ribs just showed. Her bum was tilted back and her legs straddling the seat. She was breathing real heavy and she squirmed a little waiting for the cruel torture shaft to penetrate her.


I think this is awful, heavily self indulgent and there is too much self belief she can do no wrong. 2 out of 5 (JBC)

Here's writing that's not just organs being skewered by inorganic objects. Here's plenty of turn-on extremes, but also stimulation of the ideas, even the imagery aside from the erotic!!! 5 out of 5 (Arlen)

Author Information

Going-on nineteen and precocious! Yes, in writing, I think you'll agree when you read my book. And you'll appreciate my sexual precocity most of all -- which perhaps should be my major when I go to college?


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