Any country engaging in battle finds itself with the unpleasant task of interrogating prisoners of war. I suppose in any marriage, one or the other spouse finds times when he/she must inflict various torture techniques to get a partner to talk. (I have been accused of "poking the bear" until Eric either speaks up or shoves his cock in my mouth to shut me up.)
Lately, I've been silent in my own head, Eric and I unable to connect as we have before. Today I experienced a truly effective way to make any human squeal.
The tiny room was barely lit, hot and muggy, though the day outside was cool and comfortable. A hard backed wooden chair pressed up against the filthy corner and a curtain danced throughout the dust bunnies buried underneath. The bed, lined with plush white linens and pretty purple pillows looked somehow ominous and uninviting.
Another command, followed by a gesture toward the mattress.
I hid my face in the rectangular fluff and reached back, swallowing hard as I grasped my own ass and parted two unsuspecting globes. A deep breath and I glanced to the side, just in time to see a stick in the hands of my tormentor. Burning hot, it lapped at my skin and was followed by intense searing pain.
I shielded my eyes from the piercing circular light overhead and my knees were thrust into my chest and opened wide.
Again, the stick, this time roasting the tender skin of all areas private to me and leaving red welted tracks of stinging agony. I clenched my teeth, fists balled up under the trauma as tears popped uncontrollably into view. My misery was unmistakable as I audibly begged for it to be over quickly.
I was handed a mirror, with which to view the raised battered skin that still smarted even though it had been cooled off by an oiled palm. My own fault. I had willingly signed up for this treatment and paid for it in more ways than one.
Blushing, I raced home to Eric, ready to talk and searching for his tender kisses on my now smooth bikini waxed body.
Need a POW to talk? Easy. Just send him to a wax salon.