• #10528 (no title)
  • 15 September 2020
  • Gourmet, Down South
  • The Author
  • Walking
  • What Endures. What Passes.

Dispatches From Dystopia

~ "What man by worrying can add one cubit to his span of years?"

Dispatches From Dystopia

Category Archives: sadomasochism

The Volunteer

26 Tuesday Mar 2019

Posted by David in Erotic Writing, sadomasochism

≈ 5 Comments

Tags

#Spanking #Humiliation

NSFW Erotic Fantasy. Mature Topic

It was a typical medical office. There was the sign-in sheet designed with confidentiality in mind, the desk where insurance coverage was verified, the waiting area of chairs, magazines, TV monitors on some specialty medical office channel touting flu shots, stressing hydration, and affirming the wisdom of cabbage (cruciferous vegetables). Sarah Jane was as tired of hearing about cabbage as she was of her husband’s interminable praise of golf.

“I want a doctor to tell me to eat pastry,” her fanciful and rebellious imp side whispered in her right ear as she glimpsed at an ad for Farxiga.

“Maybe a session in that fancy jetted tub after strawberries and mangoes would make more sense and be more fun,” countered her healthy fairy godmother in her left.

“Mrs Harricott.”

The nurse called her name.

“This way, please.” She knew the drill, the weigh in, the blood pressure. She was half-expecting the application of leeches and the analysis of her bodily humors. That would make about as much difference as to how she felt.

At this point, the office visit took a singular and momentous turn. After the mandatory “knock knock“, a woman in a lab coat strode into the examination room.

“Hello, I’m Dr Parminter. Dr Feivel has the flu and asked me to cover for him. I see you are here for a six month visit for your hypertension.”

“Yes.” Sarah Jane tried to sound upbeat and that she had this handled, but she couldn’t hide her discouragement and resignation.

“You sound discouraged.”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about it.” And this time she did. The frustration around the usual culprits in getting older, hypertension, obesity, diabetes.

“You don’t have to act your age. Acting your age is the fast track to the cemetery. I’m looking for volunteers to test a concept I have around wellness. Are you interested in being a test subject?”

“Sure. If it doesn’t cost too much.”

“How does free sound? All you have to do is follow instructions.”

“OK”

“Be at the address on this card tomorrow at 6:00 AM. Please fast for 12 hours, water only. Bring a good pair of cross training shoes. Ask for them at an athletic shoe store.”

The Fast

She had her early dinner at Five PM, the one she thought would help. Chicken breast, broccoli, brown rice. Iced tea. Algernon, her golfing husband joined her, although he had a glass of Sauvignon Blanc from some exotic vineyard in Uruguay that his oenophile buddies were raving about. Sarah Jane thought to herself, “Maybe one glass.” She had one glass, then two more, followed by raiding her secret stash of Ben & Jerry’s.

Then the munchies hit and the twelve hour fast became a ten, then an eight, then a six. Getting up at Five to be at the Clinic at Six was a challenge, but she made it with her brand spanking new cross training shoes.

“Good morning Mrs Harricott. We are going to draw your blood first,” said the impossibly chipper Physician Trainer at the Institute. Dr. Eisenblut, or so his name badge said.

“When did you last eat, 6:00 PM?”

“Uh, no, Doctor. More like Midnight.”

“You understand you have yet to begin here and already you are failing to comply with instructions. We could disqualify you outright, but that would not serve our interests or yours. The fasting bloodwork is critical in determining your baseline level of health. If you want to continue, you will stay here and we will draw your blood at noon. There is a waiting room with all the water you want to drink and copies of Life Magazine from 1966, for your reading enjoyment.

This waiting room was unlike any other waiting room in which she had ever waited. There were mirrors on all the walls. A little intimidating, as every ice cream bar, soft drink and donut she had eaten in the last two years flashed before her eyes.

Atop the mirrored wall was a sign, a question, painful to consider:

WAS IT WORTH IT?

At noon the phlebotomist came, drew her blood, asked for a urine sample. A blonde woman with an East European accent came and offered her an orange and some blueberry yogurt.

At 1230, Dr Eisenblut returned. The blonde woman stayed.

“We need to set the tone for working with us. Key is following instructions. There is a level of discipline involved. We hope to transform externally applied disciplinary measures into internally retained positive habits. To that end, you will sign the Consent To Discipline Agreement to continue. You will also receive your first discipline session.

You may withdraw now, If you choose. We will compensate you for your bloodwork, it is useful in building our database. The choice is entirely yours.”

Sarah Jane thought about her choices. She hated the general track her life seemed to be following. She was angry at herself for this initial screw-up. There was no choice really.

“OK, Doctor. I agree.”

She signed the paperwork.

“Magda, prepare Mrs Harricott for her session.” With that Dr Eisenblut left the room.

“Please undress.” was the terse two word instruction. Sarah Jane complied, as if she were an automaton. She undressed, tee shirt, shorts, sports bra, knickers, socks, shoes. Naked, she followed Magda from the waiting room to an adjoining room, reminiscent of a college lecture hall. There were people seated at the desks, some wearing lab coats, others in tee-shirts, shorts, sneakers. Reflexively she covered herself in embarrassment. She felt every pair of eyes in the room were focused on her. They were.

“We want to welcome Delta-21, our latest volunteer. She has the usual imperatives compelling her to healthy living, and the usual impediments, alcohol, bad diet, sedentary living and a penchant for self-will. She needs our coaching.

“Let’s first complete our profile. Please stand still while we take our measurements to calculate your lean body mass. The skin fold calipers meticulous measured the”muffin top” of her naked body, as the measuring technician called out the numbers in centimeters. The numbers were noted by the Lab Coat People, the Tee-Shirt People nodded or smiled knowingly.

Finally Sarah Jane heard Dr Eisenblut’s voice. “There is also a matter of a disciplinary session that I believe will be more efficacious if we conduct it publicly.”

With that an upholstered chair was brought out. “Place yourself over the back so that the volunteers and staff may observe your buttocks as you receive your spanking.

She complied. The paddling began. With each stroke of the paddle the observers counted. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5…..20.

Her stinging and reddened buttocks were on displayed for a full thirty seconds. There were camera flashes.

“Turn around”. She turned and the crowd saw her tear streaked face.

Magda returned to the stage and led her back to the mirrored room. There was a tee-shirt and shorts that matched those of the other volunteers.

She was in The Program.

Journey Part II

28 Thursday Feb 2019

Posted by David in Erotic Writing, sadomasochism

≈ 11 Comments

Tags

# Discipline

NSFW. Porn. Kinky Porn. sadomasochistic violence. Spanking. This is fiction, y’all!

Three

Flor thought she laid draped over the leather sofa for an eternity, or at least an hour. It was actually 10 minutes. The Captain walked up to her,lifted her off the couch , turned her, draped her over his shoulder, and took her to bed. She stirred when her skin felt the cool sheets. She welcomed the warm down comforter and the silky duvet cover. Her naked body reveled in the tactile awakening. She felt leather, the cotton of The Captain’s shirt, and now this silky warmth. Luxury. The ring of her anus felt its brusque intruder, Flor noted it as well. And at this moment, Flor fell asleep.

She had no idea how long she slept. Greta entered the bedroom with a tray. Flor noted the espresso pot, the pitcher of hot steamed milk, the sugar bowl, and the large cup. The croissants, butter, jam promised something rich, and the fresh pineapple, mango, and strawberries were more than welcome.

“Shall I fix your coffee while you use the bathroom, Mistress Flor?”

“Yes please. Sweet please. And strong.” She entered the bathroom and was taken aback by the mirrored walls opposite the toilet. As she made water, she was struck by her vulnerability, her exposure, if only to herself. After she voided, she stepped over to the bidet, cleaned herself, and here too, she saw her reflection. A mirrored bath. Decadent. She noted the drapes that were hiding the mirrors when she “freshened up”last night.

“Incremental decadence,”she noted inwardly.

Flor noticed the breakfast items had been set on a table overlooking a garden, planted with autumn flowers and rose bushes bore their last few flowers of the season.

“May I ask where The Captain is?”

Of course. He is at the pool and the gym. Then he checks with his office.”

“When will he join me?”

“When he is ready, Mistress, you will be taken to him. Please enjoy your coffee before it’s cold.”

Flor noted the abrupt change of subject, and the ominous sound in the passive voice (will be taken…) The coffee was hot, sweet, delicious. The croissant was a buttery extravaganza. Just sitting nude, in the warm and sunny room was a luxury.

Flor, as instructed, had brought no clothing with her. Since last night’s evening attire was provided, she assumed there would be suitable clothing provided for the day’s activities.

“Greta, I’d like to get dressed now.”

“Mistress, I have no instructions to provide you clothing. Are you warm enough?”

It then dawned on Flor that a choice had been taken away from her. She was being kept in this house, naked, waiting for this man, this Captain, to join her in his own good time. Her gorge rose. She was being ordered, directed, controlled. It dawned on her that there is a term for those who possess no power of choice, slave.

Four.

“The Captain is ready to see you. Please follow me.” It wasn’t Greta who made this announcement, but a man, a stranger, who entered the room. Flor felt her vulnerability as embarrassment, covered her breasts with her arm. Her other hand covered her pubis.

“Please put your hands at your sides. Walking will be easier.”

He opened a door to the terrace. She followed him, down a little step, to a path of stone pavers that felt cold and hard and rough on her bare feet. Her nipples hardened and pointed out in the autumn chill. She was relieved the servant was not looking at her, but the man mowing the lawn, stopped the mower and stared, as did the woman, in the flannel shirt and jeans, planting bulbs. She put down her trowel, and looked straight into Flor’s eyes, as she approached her. She smiled, then whistled, then winked.

Eye candy! At my age! A little insulted, a lot flattered, and even more frightened, as her vulnerability became even more apparent.

Finally they reached his office, a stone cottage, with that Lake Country quality. She almost expected Wordsworth to be inside. But no. The Captain was.

He made general inquiries about her comfort, as courteous as always.

Flor responded with anger and disrespect.

The Captain simply said, ” I knew showing you your place would bring this out. You were looking for the thrill that sex with a rich stranger would offer and yet you were indifferent to what that cost to you might be. But cheer up. My price is only what you want, what you need to lose.

“Thank you, Dr Phil!” Her sarcasm came bubbling out and she instantly regretted the remark.

I’ve noted your rudeness, your insolence, your discourtesy at resenting my… hospitality. There is, of course, corrective action to address your lack of manners.

He pointed to the leather ottoman in front of the arm chair in the office sitting area.

“Bend over that. Ass up.”

Any reticence was preempted by the hand gripping her bicep, then pushing her down and over. He was behind her to her left. She heard a drawer opening, then closing. There was a pause, then the paddle hit her squarely on her raised ass.

“We won’t have any counting strokes theatrics, but you will keep your hands on the floor.”

The paddle struck her buttocks, then again, and again, as the tempo increased and the heat in her ass, rose. She lost her dignity as the tears began. Her imagined stoicism vanished with the sobbing that came deep within her.

The spanking, no, paddling ended. As it was last night, she was alone, this time with her crying, her tears, and the snot. And she felt that something had left her. Something she needed to lose.

Thunderstorms and Defeat

05 Wednesday Jul 2017

Posted by David in Exercise/ Fitness, sadomasochism, Uncategorized

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

Baseball, swimming

According to the YMCA, who manage a bunch of indoor swimming pools across the length and breadth of the Good Old U.S. of A, lightning can travel through glass and strike an indoor pool.  Understandably this would be bad news for anybody swimming in an indoor pool at the time of the lightning strike.  Currently we are having a thunderstorm.   I have yet to swim today.  The chance of a swim looks sketchy right now. But I get plenty of exercise.  Still I want to go swimming. Right now.

It has been a good day, all in all, despite watching the Yankee relief pitcher walk, yes, walk in what would be the winning run in a 7-6 loss.  This is torture, real torture for me. Tie me up. Beat me. Spank me. Peg my ass with the biggest strapon you own. Just don’t let me watch another fiasco like this

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