Echos of Agony

[F/ff] [lezdom] [extreme] [whipping] [bondage] [CNC] [forced]

Continued from:

Caution: This story involves intense sequences of consensual non-consent (CNC) play in a BDSM setting. Everything is always consensual in my world, but people interested in and aroused by CNC sessions, want it to feel forced and against their will. This is their fantasy, brought to life in a safe, sane environment. 

The basement was already closing in on us, that musty chill seeping into my bones, when I heard it—the slow, deliberate click of heels approaching from the shadows. Not just any heels; those standard-issue pumps, the kind Mistress Andrea favors, black and sharp like her commands. 

I saw her lower half first, emerging from the dim light: simple jeans hugging her legs, a black top tucked in casually, but those shoes… oh god, those shoes. My mouth went dry—no, worse, it started watering instantly, a Pavlovian response I couldn’t control. Memories from my last session crashed over me like a wave, unbidden and unrelenting. Being sexually tortured, strapped down and forced to orgasm over and over while I sucked on her toes, one by one, salty and warm, my tongue tracing every curve of her bare soles as vibrators buzzed mercilessly inside me. And it didn’t end there—oh no, she made me worship for over an hour, my face buried in her asshole first, licking and probing like a desperate slut while the flogger cracked across my back, each lash syncing with my “unwanted” climaxes. Then her pussy, grinding against my mouth until I associated every degrading act with my own shattering pleasure. It rewired me, broke something in my brain without me even realizing, turning humiliation into craving. Now, just the sight of her feet in those heels, the sound of those slow clicks echoing off the pipes… my pussy throbbed hard under my big granny panties, a fresh gush of wetness soaking through, my mouth salivating like I could taste her already. I was conditioned, owned, and it terrified me how much I loved it.

She stepped fully into view then, and my breath hitched. Dark aviators hiding her eyes, a black mask covering her lower face—anonymous, menacing, playing the role of our captor to perfection. No warm smiles or knowing winks; just this faceless figure looming, the mask muffling her voice into something cold and detached. I was mesmerized, lost in those rewired memories of forced bisexual worship, my body betraying me with that insistent ache, when Debbie beside me shattered the silence. She opted to be vocal, playing right into the “forced” ambiance we both craved—pleading with our captor in these fabricated, desperate tones that made the scene feel so real my knees weakened.

“Please,” Debbie whimpered, her voice trembling as she backed up a step, hands clasped like in prayer. “You don’t have to do this. Let us go—we won’t tell anyone, I swear. We’re just normal women, moms… don’t hurt us. We can pay you, anything—just please, don’t.”

Andrea—or the captor, in this twisted play—said nothing at first, just tilted her head behind those shades, the silence stretching like a threat. Debbie’s pleas ramped up, promises tumbling out: “I’ll do whatever you want, just not… not that. We have families, please…” It was perfect, heightening the terror, making my heart pound as I stood frozen, my big satin panties now a slick mess from the arousal I couldn’t deny.

Then Andrea moved, quick and commanding, grabbing my arm and marching me to the corner. “Face the wall,” she growled through the mask, her voice muffled but unmistakable. “You’re going to listen. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” I nodded mutely, pressing my nose to the rough, insulated wall, hands at my sides, trembling as she positioned me just so—able to hear everything but see nothing. My pussy clenched involuntarily, wetness trickling down my thigh under the pantyhose, my bottom lip quivering with fear and forbidden excitement. This was it—the buildup I’d begged for, knowing I was next.

Behind me, the sounds started, each one a knife to my nerves. The snip-snip of scissors, sharp and final, cutting through Debbie’s dress—fabric ripping away in jagged tears, her cries rising in pitch. “No, please—don’t! My clothes…” Then the harsh tear of nylon, pantyhose shredding open, exposing her to the cold air. Debbie’s weeping turned frantic: “I don’t want to be naked in this basement! Please, stop—I’ll do anything, just not this!” Her voice broke, pleading turning to sobs as the scissors worked mercilessly.

A crack—leather meeting bare flesh, the whip slicing the air before landing with a thud that echoed. Debbie yelped, and Andrea’s muffled voice cut in: “Panties and bra off. Now.” Another crack, sharper, Debbie not stripping fast enough. “I said now!” 

More whips followed, cries piercing the dim space—three, four, each one making me flinch, my body trembling against the wall. Then silence, broken only by Debbie’s weeping, sounding low like it was coming from the floor. Curled up, maybe, protecting herself, naked and broken already.

I was terrified, arousal beyond belief flooding me—my pussy throbbing so hard I could feel my pulse there, granny panties soaked through, legs shaking. I couldn’t believe I wanted this, needed this degradation, this forced witness to torture, knowing my turn was coming. The humiliation of it all, standing there in my Sunday best while another woman was stripped and whipped… damn, it was everything I’d craved, and more.

**********************************

There I was, nose pressed to that rough, insulated wall in the creepy basement corner, the musty smell filling my lungs, my high heels shifting uncomfortably on the cold concrete. It was relatively quiet at first, apart from Debbie’s soft whimpering echoing behind me—“It’s too tight,” she kept murmuring, her voice strained and shaky. I pictured it vividly, my mind racing: she must be getting bound somewhere, somehow—maybe her wrists, ankles, or even her entire naked body wrapped in ropes or cuffs, rendered fully immobile, helpless against whatever came next. 

My own body betrayed me, that involuntary wetness building under my panties, my pussy throbbing at the thought. I wanted to turn, to see, but I didn’t dare— just listened, trembling, my bottom lip quivering as the anticipation knotted my gut.

Then Mistress Andrea’s voice cut through the dim air, muffled slightly by that black mask but cold and commanding: “I think 100 lashes to start?” It was rhetorical, not a question at all, just a statement hanging like a threat. Debbie’s reaction was immediate—begging, her voice pitching high with panic. “No, please—don’t whip me! I can’t take that, I’ll do anything else, just don’t!” 

But the first crack landed anyway, leather slicing the air before thudding against bare flesh, Debbie’s cry piercing sharp and raw. I flinched hard, my whole body jerking like I’d been hit myself, my pantyhose-clad legs tensing. Another crack, another wail—and so it went, the full 100 lashes dragging out in agonizing rhythm. I flinched with almost every one, counting in my head, each impact echoing through the basement like a personal warning. By the 80th or so, Debbie’s cries had shattered into desperation; she started offering her body for sexual use, her voice broken and pleading. “Please, stop—I’ll suck your dick, anything! You can fuck me anywhere you want, my mouth, my pussy—just make it stop!” 

God, hearing her break like that, reduced to begging for violation… it was exactly what I’d craved, but terrifying too. I knew this would soon be me—broken and begging, offering my body to the captor, hating and loving the degradation as my pussy wept with unwanted arousal. Part of me wanted to take her place right now, to feel that whip cracking across my own skin, pushing me to the edge where pain blurred into surrender.

The lashes finally ended, leaving only Debbie’s sobbing gasps hanging in the air. Time stretched then, the basement falling into a heavy quiet broken only by her whimpers, my heart pounding so loud I thought it might give me away. Then new sounds filtered in—the wet, gagging sputter of a sloppy blowjob, slurps and chokes that made my cheeks burn hotter. Mistress’s voice, low and taunting: “Moan for me—show me you like it. Good little slut, take it deeper.” 

Debbie’s muffled responses, obedient hums mixed with retches, painted the picture vividly in my mind—she on her knees, maybe, forced to worship, degraded and used. My pussy throbbed harder, that love-hate humiliation twisting deeper; I was aroused beyond reason, my big satin panties a slick mess, hating how my body craved the same treatment.

More time passed in my corner purgatory, the silence building tension until it snapped with fresh sounds: hips slapping against ass, rhythmic and insistent, grunts and moans filling the space. Debbie was being fucked—hard, from the wet smacks and her stifled cries. I couldn’t resist; I dared a quick sneak peek over my shoulder, my breath catching at the sight. There was Debbie on all fours, tied down to a rough wooden pallet on the floor, her back arched painfully, that neat bun now a messy ponytail being yanked back by Andrea’s grip. A strap-on plunged into her relentlessly, Debbie’s own white panties stuffed into her mouth like a makeshift gag, muffling her into submission. Mascara streaked her face, her torn pantyhose dangling in shreds around her thighs—she looked violated, owned, and it sent a jolt straight to my core. I whipped my head back to the wall, not wanting to be caught peeking, but loving and hating every second of this voyeuristic hell, my pussy clenching with envy and dread.

Debbie must have spit out those panties at some point, because her pleas rang out clear again: “No, not there—not in my butt!” A tense moment passed, her words cutting off into muffled protests—must be a real gag now, like a ball gag shoved between her lips. 

The sounds shifted to grunts, each thrust into her ass forcing out these guttural noises around the obstruction, rhythmic and raw. She could still form muffled words, barely: “No, I don’t wanna cum like this—not like this!” Then it built to a scream—an unwanted, shameful orgasm ripping through her, her body betraying her just like mine always does, cumming hard while her ass was fucked by her captor.

Everything went quiet after that. Just Debbie’s whimpering, soft and defeated, more sounds of rope whispering—maybe adjustments, or release. I stood there trembling, my own unwanted arousal a constant throb, terrified and beyond belief that I wanted this, needed this degradation, about to go through with it all. Then I jumped, a gasp escaping me as the captor’s firm grip closed around my bicep, turning me around roughly.

There she was—Debbie’s whipped ass on full display, red and painted with angry welts that crisscrossed her cheeks like a map of torment. She was bound by her wrists to the ceiling now, dangling just enough to stretch her onto her toes, crying openly with mascara runs streaking her face like black tears. Defeated, violated, her session essentially over except for listening to and watching me get the same brutal treatment. No safeword ever spoken—she’d endured it all, just like I would. 

********************************

Ugh, wrapping this up now because I have to—every last humiliating bit typed out, or Mistress Andrea will make sure I regret it. God, the shame of it all, knowing you’re reading about how I broke, begged, and came like a desperate slut… it’s got me throbbing again, my fingers sticky as I type, hating and loving how wet it makes me. But fine, I’ll finish.

My session was essentially the same as Debbie’s—whipped until I shattered, offering every hole just to end the lashes, then fucked and violated in the bum, in ways that left me sobbing and spent. No need to drag out the details; you get the picture. 

Soon enough, we found ourselves side by side, bound to the ceiling by our wrists, up on our tiptoes, fully bare naked—pantyhose torn to shreds, big granny panties long gone, dresses in rags on the floor. 

Whipped raw, asses on fire with welts, then taken hard, one after the other, our cries mixing in the dim basement until we were both defeated messes. Mistress just clicked out of the room then, shutting off the lights with a promise to return and “use” us some more, leaving us dangling in the dark, bondage biting into our wrists, toes aching, the drip of pipes our only company. 

A few minutes stretched like hours, terror and that twisted arousal churning until I thought I’d break all over again.

But that was the end of the scene. The lights flickered back on, and there she was—Mistress Andrea, mask off, aviators gone, all soft smiles now. She got us down gently, wrapping us in plush robes and slipping fuzzy slippers on our dirty bare feet, hugging us both tight like we were her favorites. It was masterfully designed, that session—the buildup, the terror, the break… perfection.

Over tea later, during aftercare and debrief in her cozy lounge—blankets, snacks, talking it all out—I found out the twist. “Debbie,” if that was even her real name, wasn’t a client like me. She was a paid adult fetish film star, brought in as a prop to crank up the intensity of my fantasy. 

Her elaborate pleas, those gut-wrenching cries? All fabricated, scripted to perfection. Yeah, she got whipped and fucked for real, but in her line of work, that’s probably just another Tuesday—consensual, enjoyable even. It was a brilliant plan by Mistress Andrea, using her to make my “witness” role feel so raw, so inescapable. Even now, filled with such humiliation and shame at how I begged and came, I had to thank them both—hugging Debbie, whispering gratitude to Andrea for crafting me such a wonderful, twisted escape.

I can’t picture my life without the Facility now. That dark pull, the release in the degradation… it’s part of me, humiliating as it is to admit.

Carol...

Disclaimer: All text prompts going into A.I. systems to create some of the content of this blog along with requests for A.I. images appearing in this blog, clearly state that everyone involved is an ADULT, above the legal age of consent.