Every other weekend now my Mistress Heather takes me camping. We have a strict sadomasochistic relationship, and we’re always searching for more extreme ways to get each other’s rocks off. She particularly likes this latest tactic: taking me far out into the wilderness, miles from any help, and then tying me up and torturing me for days.
This time she seems extra zealous, particularly excited by some fabulous new plan. She grins wickedly as she orders me to load up the SUV. Consequently clammy-handed, I pack up all the usual camping gear, while Mistress adds bags and bags of her own paraphernalia. Then she orders me into the passenger seat.
Once there I docilely submit while she handcuffs my wrists, shackles my ankles, binds my knees together and tightly straps my arms and torso into the bucket seat. But then she forces her four-inch dildo gag into my mouth, locks it in place and hangs a two foot-wide cardboard sign from the protruding butt of it. In large, easily legible print, this reads, “Mistress Heather’s Happily Willing Slut.”
“That’s so no one on the highway gets the wrong idea,” she grins. Her bright green eyes are as merry as always, mocking and superior. She has her long, thick red hair pulled back in a fiery rope, but as always it’s her palpable energy, her obvious physical arousal that makes her most attractive to me.
Beautiful, with big firm tits on a lithe, strong body, Heather Healey has more vitality than a hundred million tyrannosaurs. She was bred, born and raised to use her overpowering sexual allure to dominate everything she comes in contact with – particularly her many serial slaves. I’ve been her latest for over five years now, practically a record, and have long since lost the ability to deny her anything. I blush a bright red at the prospect of the public humiliation approaching, but I can do little else as Mistress climbs into the driver’s seat and fires up the engine.
She drives the afternoon away, heading ever deeper into hilly wilderness. Her father’s paper company owns uncounted thousands of square miles of pristine forest, and as his only heir she knows this land like the back of her hand. From the luckily sparsely populated highway to obscurely numbered state roads to rutted, bumpy logging tracks, we spend at least three hours driving, before finally arriving at her favorite place: an extremely secluded mountain lake. At last she parks, and removes my sign.
Needing my services now, at least temporarily, Mistress releases me from all of my bonds except for the locked-on cock-gag. Following her orders then, I quickly pitch camp, setting up the tent in our usual spot: close to the shore by the woodpile, and about ten feet away from our dreaded and beloved ‘punishment pine’.
This is a tree she’s had me specially modify. Mistress unpacks her rather esoteric gear right near it, and by the time I’m finished with my chores, she’s ready and eager to get underway.
“Strip!” she orders peremptorily, and I swiftly comply. Then she forces me to lie facedown on the ground, with my head pointing toward the tent and my spread legs bracketing that sturdy young pine.
From a height of about fifteen feet, all the dozens of limbs covering the ten-inch trunk of this barely mature tree have been sawed off into two-inch stumps. The only exception is for one long, strong limb that juts straight out from the back at about six feet off the ground, on the opposite side from the one facing the tent. This is basic to Mistress’ fiendish designs, but first she has some preliminary preparations in mind.
One of her favorite torments is to take a firm ripe zucchini, poke a bunch of holes in the skin, and leave it soaking in Tabasco sauce for a couple of days. Now she pulls one of these ‘slut stuffers’ from her cooler. Dripping with liquid hot pepper, this is the biggest one yet: nearly a full foot long and over three inches through at its largest.
Using the devilish ‘marinade’ as a lubricant, she somehow crams it all the way into my ass to ‘cook’, using her familiarity with that territory to ruthless advantage. Then, while I bite down hard on the cock in my mouth and writhe at this burning, splitting, invasive pain, she locks my widely separated ankles to either end of a four-foot iron spreader bar, securing them behind the punishment tree. Then somehow my Mistress hauls me upright.
Quickly my arms are stretched above my head, and back around the trunk of the tree to where they’re cuffed over that single remaining branch. With my spreader bar and ankles just off the ground then, and all four limbs locked tightly behind the tree, I hang there painfully bowed in my bonds, with all those sawed-off little branch-stumps digging cruelly into my bare back and immensely stuffed-up butt.
My shaved-bare groin and torso jut out correspondingly toward the opening of the tent. Stretched out too taut to even writhe much in my already growing agony, I respond to my insanely depraved bondage by quickly growing boldly erect.
Mistress exalts me then by jerking and pulling on my ridiculous man-meat for a good five minutes, until she’s admittedly impressed with its unprecedented tumescence. Then she produces a shiny, perforated metal hose clamp, familiar to any of those with an automotive bent.
She winds this about the base of my enormously swollen organs and then uses a screwdriver to cinch it brutally tight. Then, as if in compensation, she finally unlocks and removes my dildo-gag.
“Yes, Mistress. Thank you so much!”
“Don’t thank me yet! You’re going to need all your breath soon!”
“What do you mean?”
“Now that I’ve got you stuffed, I’m going cook you!”
Though it’s only late afternoon, Mistress proceeds to build our usual large campfire, right between the opening of her tent and me. Only this time, rather than construct the blaze close to her sleeping place, she kindles it directly in front of the punishment tree, where my already agonized, tightly bound body is hung.
No wonder she’s had me amputate the branches so high up. She can build a veritable bonfire right in the shadow of the living plant and still not threaten it. Soon the blaze crackles hungrily away, and the regular breeze off the lake blows the smoke and sparks consistently into my face. That’s bad enough, of course, but it’s pretty obvious that the true torture is barely beginning. It seems this time Mistress means to inflict something on me worse than ever before.
Still she piles on the wood, and as the size of the fire grows, the burning heat of the flames begins to slowly bake me. There’s literally no other word for it. Soon I’m pouring out sweat in rivers, and gasping desperately for breath through the choking smoke. Then through teary eyes and a wavering heat haze, I see my gorgeous Mistress Heather uncoiling her favorite bullwhip. Grinning like a red-haired demon, she taunts me:
“Time to tenderize the meat!” Then she makes my private hell complete by using her ten-foot lash to slash uncounted livid welts across my slowly reddening flesh.
This torture goes on for perhaps a good two hours – until sundown, anyway. Mindless with agony, I hang from my punishment tree and sob and scream and strangle on brimstone while my body slowly cooks and my chosen she-devil whips me extravagantly. But at last she’s temporarily sated one appetite, and developed another. It’s time for weenie roasting.
Mistress slowly coils and stows her long cruel whip. Then she produces a package of hot dogs and some jointed, extensible steel skewers. She spears one of the big weenies from the end and then carefully threads it onto the skewer. Then she stands at a comfortable distance from the fire and holds her hot dog into the flames. Soon it begins to brown and sizzle.
Mistress cooks and eats a couple of weenies this way, eyeing me meaningfully all the while. Then, as she’s preparing her third, she laughs outright at me hanging there: mewling continuously, with my black-and-blue striped body going a bright and shiny red from the fire. Because of my bowed-out posture, and the cruel steel hose clamp clinching me erect (which naturally burns me like a circlet of fire itself in the heat), my swollen genitals are thrust out closest of all to the hellish flames. Consequently they’re burned the brightest red, and Mistress can’t resist making the hilarious compare.
“We’re roasting some weenies now, aren’t we! The only difference is, yours doesn’t have a skewer stuck through it! But I can fix that!”
She disassembles one of the jointed skewers until she’s left with only an eight-inch needle of steel. First she sterilizes this in the fire (wearing a heavy glove to protect herself), and then lubricates it in the Tabasco sauce. Then she skillfully slides it into my penis-eye: threading it up my urethra until my weenie is just as skewered as hers.
The iron weight pulls down against my urgent upthrust, leaving my penetrated cock stuck out at an almost perfect ninety degrees: closer than ever to the fire with a good inch or so of steel still protruding from the eye.
Quickly this whole big needle grows as hot as the hose clamp, searing my cock from the inside to match its outer burn. I try to control my miserable sobbing, but soon find that to be impossible. And then Mistress finishes her last weenie, and piles a fresh load of wood onto the fire. This blazes up high, and she steps back, laughing with delight at my writhing struggles and tortured screams.
“Goddamn, that’s hot! What a bonfire! I don’t know how you can stand it! I’m going to have to take me a little skinny-dip, and cool off!”
Right in front of me my Mistress begins to strip.
Talk about hot! But as addicted as ever as I am to the sight of her glorious nudity, I can barely make her out through all the smoke, the heat haze, and my singed lashes and streaming tears. Lit up in leaping golden light, her warm, freckled flesh and shining red hair form a smeary, wavering vision of heavenly beauty, like a blazing archangel just barely glimpsed through the mortal veil.
From devil to deity she goes in an instant. Yet goddesses can be even less merciful than demons. Mine leaves me roasting alive while she flies down the nearby shore and slips into the pristine lake.
In burning agony I hang by the fire and listen to her splash and swim and cavort around in the blessedly cool water. What remaining imagination I have – that which hasn’t been effaced by my various tortures – is soon a source of torment itself. As I picture my Goddess’ bare, sylph-like form slipping through that silky liquid element like an immortal river nymph, I shudder with mad desire for her.
She splashes around out there for nearly an hour: enough time for the fire to burn lower, and for my emotional torment to gradually supersede my many physical ones. My eyes finally clear a bit, and the haze is less. And as my vision of Goddess’ transcendent glory improves, my desperate longing to be worthy of it begins to swell as well. Finally I’m keening with an urgent need for her as loudly as I whimper and mewl and groan with pain at my stretched, burned, whipped raw body and anal and penile impalements. When at last she swims back toward the shore, I watch her come like the source of all ecstasy – even though I know she brings only a return to more terrible-than-ever agony with her.
Indeed. She approaches me, beautifully naked and dripping, and straightaway throws another giant armload of dry, seasoned wood onto the fire. Both it and my physical torment blaze back into renewed and ever more furious life. My shrilling screams echo across the lake again then, rebounding from the empty hills and returning to serenade the two of us: Goddess and sinner, all alone in their private Hades.
Heather recovers her whip then, and once again begins slashing at me with it.
Once again she’s a fiery demon, the female Balrog chosen to wreak an appropriate vengeance upon me for all eternity – or at least the entire weekend. As the moon rises, as the stars turn overhead and the fire burns, falls, and is replenished over and over again, my naked red-haired Mistress whips me in every possible place from every possible angle until it seems she’ll never be finished with it. But at last, after she climaxes herself several times, she deems me worthy of this sublime kind of suffering myself. Donning the heavy glove again, she reaches from around behind the tree, loosens the metal hose clamp, rips the hot steel skewer from my horribly burned erection, and begins to violently jerk me off.
This agony is truly unprecedented. Yet predictably I find it correspondingly arousing. Despite my extensively traumatized physical state, it’s barely a matter of seconds before my burned balls suddenly convulse, and I shoot out an incredible, agonizing stream of semen through my steel-seared urethra.
My lowly seed hisses and steams and perishes in the roaring flames. Then before I can go limp, Mistress tightens up the clamp again and re-inserts the skewer. Speaking fiendishly to me from behind, she lays out her plans for the rest of the hellish weekend ahead.
“I’m going to bed now. I’ll build up the fire for you one last time, but you’ll probably be cold by morning. Don’t worry, though. I’ll get up and rebuild it first thing, so you can start cooking again.
“You will remain bound to this tree all weekend, my tasty little campfire treat. During the next two days you will neither eat nor drink, but will instead be slowly roasted, and continuously tenderized with my various whips.
“Finally, on Sunday night, after you’ve cooked for a full forty-eight hours, I’ll take you down, pull out that tasty butt-stuffing and allow you eat it. Then, after you’ve swallowed every last bite, I’ll reward you in the way that you covet most: I’ll roll you over, spread you out, strap on my biggest hard cock and brutally butt fuck the ever-loving shit out of you. Then I’ll take you down to the lake, and finally let you soothe yourself in the wonderfully cool water. So suffer exquisitely for me, slut, and look forward to that magic moment!”
And with that my Mistress adds more fuel to the fire than ever, stoking up my personal hell to incredible new levels before finally retiring to the blissful heaven of her big double air mattress and down-filled sleeping bag.