Chances Are Chapter 8
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Thumper Ch. 05 free porn video
Note: This story veers into BDSM territory. Fun as it might be for some, it’s not to everyone’s taste.
***
Previously…
With their marriage on the rocks, Abby and George turn to a most unlikely source for help. Unbeknownst to George, Abby has agreed to let the incubus, Damian, and his mate, Britt, act as marriage counsellors.
Their first session has broken down some barriers. The next session promises to be even more challenging.
***
‘I made you an omelette. Just the way you like it.’
Abby stood at the entrance to the kitchen, hugging herself. He can’t possibly be doing this. He can’t possibly be making breakfast as he used to before.
George stood at the stove, smiling tentatively. George, so eager to please. ‘There’s coffee too,’ he said.
‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘You could say thank you.’
Abby did so and choked down half of the omelette. This easy domesticity wasn’t right. Did he think that everything could go back to normal? Nothing had changed, not really. She pushed the plate away. ‘I have to go to work.’
‘It’s Saturday,’ George protested.
‘I know, George. I just need some time. Please.’
At least they were talking to each other, thought Abby as she drove to the office. Mundane things, but the bitterness was gone, or perhaps just better concealed.
Over the next weeks, they started sharing their bed again and doing the things that married couples do — shopping, going for walks, occasionally eating out. It felt like play-acting, a couple of amateurs engaged in a drama that was beyond their emotional reach.
Britt had called on the Monday to see how things were coming along. Then nothing for over a week. Abby wondered, not for the first time, whether Britt and Damian had been for real.
Then came the day Damian called her at work. ‘Are you ready for the next session?’
She rose from her desk and closed the door to her office.
‘I don’t know. The last one was pretty humiliating.’
‘I see. Did you enjoy it?’
Abby had been asking herself exactly that question for the last couple of weeks, wondering about the method behind the madness. She hadn’t enjoyed it, not all of it. At first, she’d felt used and diminished. But as the days wore on and she thought back to her night with Damian, she realized that she had felt oddly liberated. It was refreshing to have been along for the ride, rather than driving.
‘Not at the time. Now, perhaps,’ she answered tentatively.
‘I’ll take perhaps over an unconditional no,’ he said.
‘It depends on what you have planned.’
‘I can’t tell you that. You have to trust me. Remember, you can stop at any time.’
There was that word again: trust. ‘I’m okay with it if George is,’ she said finally.
‘George is already okay with it. I’ve talked to him. This is a courtesy call.’ The next meeting was scheduled for the weekend. Damian gave Abby the address of a farm far north of the city, and had instructed them to pack an overnight bag.
‘I have plans.’
‘Change them. I expect you there by seven in the morning,’ he said, simply, and hung up.
* * *
The farm was located an hour north of the city.
After Damian had ended their last conversation, Abby had fumed at Damian’s arrogance and at her mute compliance. Now on the highway, having left the sleeping city behind them, she was filled with apprehension and curiosity. The sun peeked over the horizon on the right, illuminating ruler-straight rows of newly-planted corn.
Still flushed from the success of recent weeks, George chatted happily, occasionally placing a hand on her thigh. Abby was grateful for this unconscious contact, but was not so unabashedly optimistic as George. Yes, she and George had made the first tentative steps to rekindling their intimacy, but there was, she knew, a long way to go.
Besides which, her last session with Damian had shaken her, much more so than her outward reaction had indicated. She`d been played. Her will had been skilfully short-circuited. When she reviewed the evening and thought of Damian`s fingers on and in her most private parts, she felt not so much violated as bewildered, for as much as she recoiled at the memory, there was an unmistakable exhilaration. Abby still had difficulty reconciling the two.
Setting aside the initial violation, the session had been subtle. It had reawakened something in Abby, had started a process of thaw. Though she had yet to share these feelings with George, it felt like the first warm spring day after a long and cold winter. It was now possible to shed a layer.
Abby wondered absently what this weekend had in store. Plans had been made that involved her. She was along for the ride again, as on a rollercoaster, on track for a headlong rush into the first stomach-churning descent. She could finally put a name to the emotion — anticipation.
George still had his hand on her thigh. She placed hers on top of his and squeezed.
George smiled, unaware that she had squeezed his hand less out of affection, but more for reassurance.
* * *
They drove for miles along a gravel road until the GPS announced that they were at their destination. George slowed and then stopped in the middle of the road. The dust settled around them. He peered at the GPS.
‘There’s nothing here.’
Indeed, the empty road stretched ruler-straight before them, with a dense forest on the right and fields of corn on the left, until it disappeared over a hill in the distance.
‘There’s a track over there,’ suggested Abby.
George reversed until he drew abreast to the track. ‘This must be it.’
He swung Abby’s BMW onto the gravel path. The trees overhead formed a tunnel into which few stray beams of light broke through. After a hundred yards, the path emerged onto an opening. A gravel drive ran in a loop to the front door of a farmhouse.
The farmhouse appeared to be well over one hundred years old. It was built of stone, and a covered porch ran the length of the building’s face. Dark red shutters flanked the windows on the ground and upper floors, and two small windows peeked out from just below the apex of the tin roof on either side of the stone chimneys.
To the left of the house stood a barn and a large shed, to the right a well-tended garden.
George parked the car beside Damian’s Porsche. Damian, dressed in a tattered t-shirt, old jeans, and clunky work boots, emerged from the barn, wiping his hands on a rag. Britt, incongruously wearing an apron, appeared at the front door and waved. Both George and Abby were taken aback by these rustic apparitions.
‘Welcome to our home,’ said Damian.
‘It’s beautiful,’ said Abby, surveying her surroundings.
A pair of horses trotted to the cedar rail fence. Beyond the farm, a field of grass stretched over undulating hills until meeting a band of forest far in the distance.
Damian collected their bags and ushered them into the farmhouse, which was filled with the aroma of baking. George’s stomach grumbled. ‘We’ll set you up in the guestroom upstairs and have breakfast.’
‘Sounds great,’ said Abby.
‘And then we begin,’ said Damian, grinning.
Something in Damian’s look suggested that he wasn’t talking about chores.
* * *
After breakfast, Damian and Abby strolled to the barn. The shadows of passing clouds ran before them.
‘George thinks that everything is okay now and that you and Britt are geniuses,’ said Abby.
‘You don’t think so?’
‘No.’ Abby smiled. ‘To either one.’
Damian placed a hand on his heart. ‘Madam, you wound me.’
Abby laughed nervously.
‘But you’re right. You’re wise to recognize it. The journey has only begun and new challenges await. Are you up for it?’
‘I think so.’
‘I can assure you that this won’
t be pleasant for you.’
‘Then let’s do something else,’ suggested Abby as they entered the barn. ‘Ride the horses, for example.’
‘No.’ Damian closed and bolted the door behind them.
The barn was a large wooden structure with a dusty floor and stables running up one side. All of the stalls were empty but one, where a large horse nickered gently. Ropes, chains, and pulleys hung from the rafters and tools hung from hooks on the wall opposite the stables. A not unpleasant aroma of hay and animals permeated the atmosphere.
Abby walked to the center of the barn and turned to face Damian.
He approached. ‘I’m afraid you’ve had it pretty easy so far,’ he said.
Abby didn’t trust herself to speak.
‘I have a bit of a test for you.’
‘A test?’
Damian nodded. ‘It won’t be easy. You don’t have to go through with it.’
‘Will it hurt?’
‘Maybe.’
‘And if I don’t want to go through with it?’
‘Then you and George go back home. You’ll never see Britt and me again.’
Abby thought for a moment. There was a challenge in Damian’s last statement that she could not ignore. Part of her wanted to throw in the towel, spare herself whatever humiliation Damian had in mind and preserve what remained of her dignity. Another part of her, the louder one, remembered the heady thrill of her last session with Damian and desperately wanted to know what he had in mind this time. Finally, she was a strong woman and felt that she could easily deal with whatever he threw at her. ‘Let’s do it then.’
Damian nodded again. ‘Last question, then I don’t want to hear anything from you until I’m done or you say your safe word, whichever comes first.’
‘Okay.’
‘Do you want to see what I’m doing or do you want me to blindfold you?’
Blindfold? Abby’s heart raced. What did he have in mind? What had she let herself in for?
She raised her chin and said with more confidence than she felt, ‘I want to see.’
‘Very well.’ Damian led Abby to the far end of the barn. On the floor lay a small platform constructed of rough timber, four feet square and about eight inches in height. The platform featured eye bolts at regular intervals and several mitred holes. ‘Strip to your underwear and step up,’ Damian commanded.
Abby hesitated at exposing herself to this man. Who was he anyway, to command her so? It wasn’t too late to call it off. Her hands rose to the top of her blouse. What was she thinking, to even consider such a request from a man she scarcely knew? She could return home with George, cobble together some semblance of a normal marriage, and congratulate herself for having dodged a bullet.
She undid the first two buttons of her blouse and her heart rate accelerated. Stop, shouted part of her. You don’t have to do this.
But hadn’t she promised George that she would do whatever it took?
Suddenly, she was outside herself, looking on in horror, as she mutely shed her clothes. Clad only in her underwear, she stepped onto the stage. She was now committed.
Damian stood in front of Abby, studying her. She wore a black bra and matching thong. ‘I see you took my advice to heart,’ he said.
Abby nodded and bit her lip. She shifted self-consciously from foot to foot, hands loosely held in front of her.
Damian smiled wickedly and walked to the work bench. He returned with a large canvas bag. ‘Tools of the trade.’
He retrieved a length of rope from a bag and dropped it on the floor. He stepped behind Abby and gathered her wrists behind her back and set about tying them together. Abby’s knees almost buckled. Her breath came in gasps. Idiot, she said to herself. Idiot. It became a mantra as Damian looped the rope repeatedly around her wrists and tied it off. The rope was tight but not uncomfortable.
Damian placed a hand on her bare shoulder and Abby flinched. ‘Relax,’ he whispered into her ear.
Damian rummaged in the bag again and withdrew a pony bit, a rubber rod held in place by heavy metal rings and leather straps. He held the bit to Abby’s mouth. ‘Open,’ he commanded.
She closed her eyes and complied. He inserted the bit, moved behind her and fastened the strap.
He faced her again. ‘Too tight?’
Abby shook her head. She opened her eyes again. If she should see herself, she was sure she would recognize fear.
Damian busied himself next with Abby`s ankles. He wound rope around each, and then pushed her legs apart. He tied each ankle to an eye bolt and Abby struggled to maintain her balance.
‘Looks like you need something to steady yourself.’ Damian grinned.
From above Abby’s head, Damian pulled down a hook that dangled on a thick rope from a pulley high up in the rafters. He showed Abby the hook and moved behind her. Abby felt some tugging on her arms. Damian walked to the wall where the other end of the rope was tied and slowly pulled. When the slack was taken up, Abby’s arms gradually rose behind her, forcing her body to bend forward.
‘This technique is called ‘strappado’ or, to use a more recent term, ‘Palestinian hanging’. It’s a torture technique dating back to the 1500s where the torturer binds the victim’s arms and pulls them up until the victim is hanging. Often, the arms become dislocated and all kinds of nasty nerve damage can occur.’
Damian pulled the rope and Abby’s arms rose another few inches.’We don’t want that, of course.’
Another few inches. Abby was forced to stand on the balls of her feet and she whimpered. ‘But then, we don’t want this to be too easy.’
Damian held the end of the rope loosely in his hand. ‘Enough?’ he asked.
Abby nodded frantically.
Damian smiled and tied off the rope on a cleat on the wall.
He approached Abby. ‘Rest assured that I don’t want to damage you.’
He ran his fingertips lightly down her arms and along her sides until they rested on her ass. His touch thrilled her. ‘That being said, people usually feel some discomfort in short order. This position begs for the use of floggers and whips. You’ll notice that your ass is already presenting itself nicely. Of course, one can also choose to take the bound party from behind. Nothing much to stop it, after all. Personally, I find this position irresistible.’ He rubbed her ass once again and ran his fingers from Abby’s crotch down the insides of her spread legs.
He smacked her hard on the buttocks. ‘Do you like it?’
Abby was only now realizing how vulnerable she was.
* * *
In the kitchen of the ancient farmhouse, George related the events of the past few weeks to Britt.
‘That’s great,’ said Britt. ‘I’m glad that things are getting better. But we’re not done though. Not nearly.’
‘No?’
‘No. One weekend of intimacy changes nothing. Let me ask you this. If you and Abby were to fill out the questionnaires now, would your answers be different?’
George thought for a moment and his face fell. ‘No,’ he admitted.
Britt nodded.
They sipped coffee for several minutes. Britt gazed at the barn from time to time. Finally, she stood and removed her apron. ‘Today we’re going to cover how to properly hit a woman.’
George nearly coughed up his coffee. ‘How to what?’ he sputtered.
‘Hit a woman. Oh, I forgot that you were a squeamish one, a sensitive guy. Let’s call it impact play then. Happy?’
‘I don’t hit anyone, let alone women.’
Britt rolled her eyes. ‘You’re a lover, not a fighter, right?’
George was incredulous. ‘Did you miss that day in grade school when they taught you that it’s never okay to hit? Buffing your stilettos?’
Britt moved around the table and stood in front of George with her arms crossed. ‘Have you ever patted Abby’s ass?’
‘Of course.’
‘Ever given her more than a pat?’
‘Perhaps. You know, in the throes.’
‘In the throes. That’s funny. If that’s the case, then
you’ve hit her.’
‘Come on, there’s a big difference between smacking her on the bum and assaulting her.’
‘Bingo! I knew my faith in you was not misplaced. Somewhere between a caress and a beating is a line both parties must negotiate.’
George was exasperated. ‘But I don’t want to negotiate anything. What are we talking about anyway? Spanking?’
‘Sure. That’s one option.’
‘Oh God.’ George was genuinely horrified. ‘I don’t want to talk about options. It’s wrong. Besides which, there’s a symbolism to subjecting women to violence, even play violence, that I can’t stomach.’
‘Symbolism is for pickle-faced harpies who fret about such things and wonder why life’s not much fun.’
‘I can’t believe we’re having this discussion!’
‘If I told you that Abby wanted us to have this discussion, would that make it okay?
‘She what?’
‘Let’s say, hypothetically, that she isn’t averse to a little spanking from time to time. You know, smacking her on the bum. Possibly even a little discipline.’
George pictured Abby drawn across his knee. He shook his head. Abby was a strong, confident, and proud woman, and would never allow herself to adopt that position, to subjugate herself in such a way to any man. ‘My Abby?’
Britt nodded earnestly. ‘Your Abby. Would that make it okay?’
George thought about it. Britt was right, of course. It was all about lines. Even if the line was drawn on the far end of spanking and even if Abby allowed it, could George do it? He remembered the burning desire to hit Abby when he discovered that she had been unfaithful. If fact, he’d wanted to pummel her, but his nature and a lifetime of conditioning had rendered his hand impotent. But if Abby wanted something milder, and it was within an intimate or perhaps erotic context, could he strike her? He conceded reluctantly that he could, and noted, at the same time, that the mental picture of Abby’s bare ass under his hand did arouse him.
‘I guess,’ he said finally.
* * *
A dull ache grew in Abby’s shoulders and her calves knotted with the effort of relieving the strain on her arms. She concentrated on maintaining her balance, as any failure to do so only increased her discomfort.
Self-recrimination at allowing herself to be trussed up like this faded into the background. There would be time enough for that later. Now she was focussed entirely on her predicament.
‘I bet that right now, you’re asking yourself why you ever agreed to this.’
A thread of saliva ran down Abby’s chin as her teeth gritted against the bit. She glared at Damian, refusing to respond.
‘So strong, yet you’ve never been so helpless, have you?’
Again, Abby didn’t respond.
Damian clapped once and rubbed his hands together. He reached into the bag and removed a large silver hook with a metal ball on the point and an eyelet at the top. ‘Do you know what this is?’ asked Damian.
Abby shook her head.
‘It’s called an anal hook.’
Damian smiled as Abby’s eyes widened. ‘As you’ve probably guessed, it’s not for fishing. It’s inserted into the rectum and tied off. Given that you have such a nice head of hair, I’ll use that.’
Abby shook her head and tried to speak from around the bit in her mouth.
Damian stopped. ‘Was that your safe word? Thumper?’
Abby took a deep breath of resignation and shook her head.
‘I thought not.’
Damian tied Abby’s hair in a ponytail and then moved behind her. He applied lubricant to the ball at the end of the hook and ran it in circles around her anus. Abby arched her back and whimpered. He pressed it against her anus. ‘It’ll go easier if you relax.’
Relax. The notion of relaxing while someone threaded a hook in your ass was laughable. She couldn’t see Damian. She was desperately conscious of her vulnerability. Bent over as she was, legs spread and tied, he was painfully helpless and exposed.
The ball pressed once more, insistent, and finally violated her anus. Abby gasped. She could feel her sphincter closing over the ball and its slow passage up her rectum.
‘See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?’
Damian placed himself in front of Abby. She could feel the heat coming off him and smell the faint aroma of cologne.
‘Doing okay so far?’
Arrogant bastard, though Abby. She nodded.
‘Good. I have great expectations for you.’
Roughly, he pulled her head back so that she was looking directly up at him. He tied off the rope on her ponytail. Every movement of her head now translated itself to her ass.
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