A Painful Reunion

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Every day, after work, I walk home by the same route. I pass the industrial estate, then skirt the edge of the park, cross the river, and walk a short distance through one of several quiet, non-descript residential neighbourhoods that together constitute the bulk of this town in which I grew up.

I’ve been back here for a year now. It still feels weird.

I’m now about twenty minutes from my flat. I’m walking down a narrow path that runs beside a long chain-link fence behind some buildings, which are on my left.

Between this building and the next there is a small car park – just three spaces, which back straight onto the path behind with no fencing. Sometimes careless parkers make it difficult to get by, but usually the spaces are empty.

Today, the nearest space is occupied by a big, shiny, black Jeep with tinted windows. I notice someone standing the other side of the car. I think nothing of it.

As I draw level, a woman suddenly steps out in front of me.

The first thing I notice about this woman is how tall she is. She’s probably a little over six foot – I’m rather short, but she stands nearly a full head taller than me. In fact, she’s massive in every way – she’s fat but in a solid, firm-looking way, like some powerful animal.

She’s stylishly dressed in dark brown leather ankle boots with a low heel, a brown suede miniskirt, which displays her thick thighs and a cream silk blouse, partially unbuttoned to show a deep line of cleavage between her round, heavy breasts. Around her neck is a chunky gold necklace, which matches her large hoop earrings. Over her shoulder she has an expensive-looking handbag, with a dark brown and cream houndstooth pattern.

She has long, straight, glossy brown hair and an even, natural-looking tan. Her full lips are painted burgundy and her narrow, green eyes glitter with careless hostility.

As I look into her eyes, it hits me. It’s Gemma Weston.

Gemma was two years above me in secondary school. When I joined I’d just turned eleven, while she turned fourteen within the first month of the school year. For the following three years, until she left, she had tortured me mercilessly. She’d beaten me up, locked me in cupboards, called me names and degraded me in front of everyone. I was too scared of her to do anything about it. In fact I was so scared that I would do whatever she told me, even grovelling and sucking up to try and garner her pity. I let her treat me like garbage, and she’d completely gotten away with it.

Fear of running into Gemma was the main reason I was reluctant to move back here. But I had resolved, finally, that if I ever saw her, I would confront her about how she treated me in secondary school.

Now she’s standing in front of me, staring down at me. It’s because I’m staring at her, terrified and rooted to the spot. Finally, trembling, I step forward and in a shaking voice say, “Ge-Gemma Weston…?” It wasn’t supposed to sound like a question, but it did. Her eyes narrow further and her lip curls up into a sneer, revealing large, flat, very white teeth. She drawls, “Yeah, so what? Who the fuck are you?”

She doesn’t even remember me. I wasn’t sure what I’d been expecting, but… this? My meagre courage evaporates. I feel like my throat is closing up. I splutter, “I, I, I, y- you… you…”

For a few moments she stares at me, then her sneer widens into a smirk. “Oooh,” she says, “Sally.”

Gemma had called me that in school because, she said, I looked and acted like a weak, little girl. Unevolved and unimaginative, yes – but to an adolescent boy, especially one who gets pushed around by a girl every day – deeply humiliating. Worse, the name had caught on to some extent, and had stuck with me almost until I left for university.

Hearing it again for the first time in over ten years, I am overcome with anger. Taking another small step forward, I splutter, “Listen, you horrible b-bitch…”

Suddenly, Gemma’s hand whips out and grabs my balls, easily gaining purchase through my thin cargo shorts. I yelp and fall silent, my mouth open in shock.

With her free hand, Gemma grabs the back of my hair. She swings me round and slams me bodily against the back of the Jeep, her big breasts and belly squashed hard against me.

I am too shocked to resist. I’m also too afraid of what she’ll do to my balls. I press my palms flat against the smooth metal of the car and stand there, legs shaking. Her cleavage is right in my face and I can’t help but stare into it, while her smooth, round breasts rise and fall, glistening with sweat on this hot day. I can smell her too, sweat mixed with heavy perfume. Shame now mixes with fear as I feel the inevitable rush of blood, and I stiffen against her hand.

She leans down and breathes into my ear, “Aw, is Sally’s little clitty getting hard? I always knew you liked it rough.”

Suddenly she lets go of my balls and slams her fist into my stomach. She pulls my head forward as I double over, burying my face in her istanbul travesti cleavage. I gasp for air but she’s smothering me with her big tits, as my arms flail uselessly. She takes a small step backward, pulling me with her, and deftly opens the boot of the Jeep.

She grabs me under the arm, spins me round and shoves me hard in the back. I careen forward and my knees collide painfully with the bumper. I fall, landing hard on the thin carpeting in the back of the Jeep. Now she’s got my wrists, my arms are behind my back, I hear two sharp clicks and feel cold metal around my wrists. She’s cuffed me.

With my cheek against the carpeting, I keep trying to form words but I’m just making random noises. Then a deafening SMACK! reverberates through my head, accompanied by searing pain, as Gemma hits me hard with her open palm. Her command rings out: “Open your mouth.” Whimpering, seeing stars, the side of my face throbbing, I comply.

Barely a moment later, my mouth is stuffed with a rubber ball, attached to straps which she fixes tightly behind my head. She strokes my cheek and says, “Good girl.”

I realise with dismay that I’m harder than ever. I feel more worthless than I’ve ever felt in my life.

Now Gemma grabs my balls again. As her hand brushes my throbbing erection, my shame deepens even further.

“Oh my gosh, Sally,” she crows, “you are such a horny slut. No wonder you let me do this stuff to you.” Then she tightens her grip and pushes forward a little. In a low, steely voice, she says, “Get in.”

I clamber up on all fours into the back of the Jeep. She climbs in after me, still clutching my balls. Below me there’s a metal ring set into the floor of the boot. Gemma growls, “Head down – down – down!” until my forehead is pressed against the carpeting.

Then everything goes dark as Gemma pulls a black bag over my head. The bag is made of some shiny, synthetic fabric. It has a drawstring around the opening, which she promptly tightens around my neck. I feel her tying it through the metal ring on the floor. I can breathe, but not comfortably.

I’m blind, but I hear Gemma retreating and feel the suspension rock as she climbs down. Then she smacks my arse and I squeal into the ball gag.

“Good girl,” she says again. “Now let’s go for a drive.”

———————————————————————–

Kneeling there in the back of Gemma’s fancy Jeep, unable to see, move or speak, I sink rapidly into a miasma of self-loathing. I can’t believe that, even now, fifteen years later, I’m letting her treat me like this again. I am an adult man, I’m twenty-eight, and I’m still getting beaten up by a girl.

I’m still dizzy from Gemma’s powerful slap, and now from a slight lack of oxygen. And from surging arousal, which I still can’t shake. I’m overwhelmed by thoughts of my face buried in Gemma’s cleavage. I can still smell her perfume, still feel her strong hand between my legs…

Consumed by this reverie, I lose track of time almost instantly. I have no idea how long we’ve been driving but, suddenly, we stop, and I hear a garage door opening. It seems we’ve arrived.

I hear Gemma coming round to the back of the Jeep and opening the boot. She roughly pulls off my trainers, then my socks, then my shorts and my pants, until I’m left in nothing but a t-shirt. Then she climbs in and unties the bag on my head from the metal ring.

She holds onto the drawstring as she climbs out, tugs on it like a leash and says, “Come on, Sally.”

She places her other hand on my bare hip, guiding me as I crawl awkwardly backwards and climb down out of the Jeep. As soon as I’m out she shoves me down roughly onto my knees, then tugs the drawstring again and says, “Heel”.

My hands still cuffed behind my back. I crawl painfully on just my knees across the concrete garage floor, desperately trying to keep up with her.

Gemma leads me through a door into an adjoining room, in which the floor also feels like concrete. By the time we’ve crossed that room, my knees are killing me. At last we stop and, without saying a word, Gemma, with my passive cooperation, manoeuvres me up bodily onto some kind of bench. There’s a raised section in the middle which supports my torso, while my legs rest either side. I feel her fasten leather cuffs around my ankles. Then she uncuffs my hands and fastens my wrists to the bench in the same manner. Oh, fuck… what is she going to do to me?

Then Gemma snaps her fingers and says, “Take the bag off.” For moment I’m confused, until a woman’s voice from in front of me says, “Yes, Mistress Gemma.”

Wait… I know that voice… but it can’t be… can it?

I feel a pair of hands at my neck, loosening the drawstring. Then the bag comes off, and – holy fuck… it is.

I’m staring into the eyes of my first girlfriend, Becky.

Becky and I were in the same year at school. We dated for four years, until I left for university. Becky had stayed in town istanbul travestileri and become a hairdresser.

Like me, Becky had been one of a handful of kids singled out by Gemma for particular, merciless torment. In fact, I had met both of them at the same time – my ill-fated attempt to stand up for Becky against the mean older girl was what had first put me on Gemma’s radar. It was my first and last act of selfless bravery.

When Gemma left three years later, Becky and I bonded over our shared trauma and the joy we both felt now we were finally free. That’s how we first got together.

The last time I saw Becky was eight years ago, two years after we’d broken up. We said we’d remain friends but, of course, we drifted apart.

Now she looks very different from how I remember her. For a start, she’s kneeling on the concrete floor wearing nothing but bright pink panties and a black leather dog collar. Physically, she looks largely the same – not fat but chubby, with round, firm breasts, large, dimply cheeks and a slightly upturned nose and shy, expectant blue eyes.

Naturally, Becky’s hair was dark brown. For most of the time I knew her it had been long and dyed black, later with a coloured streak in it. Now it’s platinum blonde and shoulder-length, with a fringe.

She’s also wearing heavy, whorish make-up, neon pink lipstick and long fake eyelashes.

Still gagged, I stare at her, questioningly, in wide-eyed disbelief.

“Hey,” she says, smiling at me, “it’s been a long time. It’s good to see you. I’m really glad you’re here…”

She reaches out and holds my face with both hands.

“Listen,” Becky says, looking serious, “there’s something that you need to understand. It’s something totally obvious that we never realised when we were younger, but now it’s, like… my whole life. And now I get to help you understand it – and it’s really exciting.

“I know you’re scared, but just try to relax. Mm-hm, that’s it, take a deep breath and relax. Relax… and get ready.”

Get ready for wha-…?

THWACK! I scream into the gag as my right buttock ignites in searing pain. I rock back and forth against the restraints, squealing madly.

Becky holds my face tight, stroking my cheek and making soothing noises. “Shh, shh, aw, poor baby,” she coos. “I know it hurts,” she says slowly, staring deep into my eyes, “but the pain will help you to understand. Now just look at me and breathe, and relax… relax… relax…”

THWACK! Now my left buttock is on fire. I writhe around and stare helplessly at Becky, my eyes wide with fear and pain, begging her silently to help me.

“I’m going to help you get through this,” Becky says calmly, “but you have to trust me. Just listen to me and trust me, and you’ll be okay – alright?”

Hesitantly, I nod.

THWACK! My whole arse is burning and throbbing now, but I try to focus on Becky. She’s going to help me.

“The first thing you need to realise,” Becky says, “is that there is nothing you can do to stop this. Nothing. You can’t fight, you can’t escape, you can’t argue, or beg, or bargain… There’s literally nothing you can do.”

THWACK! I’m still staring desperately at Becky. She sounds crazy, but I’m in excruciating pain and she’s all I’ve got right now.

“All you can do,” my ex-girlfriend continues, “is submit. Accept that you’re totally powerless, give up, and let Mistress Gemma take control. I promise, as soon as you do that, you’ll be able to deal with the pain – you’ll even start to welcome it.”

THWACK! Am I delirious with agony, or is Becky starting to make sense? I… I can’t tell…

“Look, babe,” she says matter-of-factly, “some people are strong, and some people are weak. You and me – we’re weak. We’ve always been weak. It’s just how we are. But Mistress Gemma is strong. That’s why Mistress Gemma can do whatever she likes to us, and there’s nothing we can do about it. That’s why all we can do is surrender to her will, and let her take charge. It makes sense – right?”

She… she’s right. I can’t deny it. What happened today just proves it. Of course there’s nothing I can do. It’s… all making sense now.

Slowly, I nod.

THWACK! I still squeal into the gag – but I feel calmer than before. At least now I can understand what’s happening, and why.

“That’s good,” smiles Becky, “I knew you would understand. You’ll start to understand more and more that we deserve everything Mistress Gemma does to us – because she’s so strong, and beautiful, and amazing, and we’re just weak, pathetic losers. We’re nothing, and Mistress Gemma is everything. That’s why she can use us however she wants, and we just have to say thank you and do as we’re told.”

THWACK! Now each blow from Gemma seems to drive home what Becky is telling me. I feel like I’ve experienced a revelation – I’m reassessing the world, my whole life, in a new context: I’m weak and powerless, and that’s okay because… it has to be. Because it’s inevitable. travesti istanbul I don’t need to be strong, because I exist to be controlled by someone stronger and better – someone like Gemma. And, Becky’s right – I should be grateful…

THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! Now the blows are coming thick and fast, everything behind me is a wall of fire and needles, with my head spinning and bobbing and floating in front of it. But it’s okay, it’s all okay… Becky has shown me the light…

After raining a further series of blows on my backside, Gemma casually walks round in front of me. I marvel at her massive arse under the skirt, swaying from side to side as she walks. Her long shiny hair, which flows nearly down to her waist, also twitches and shimmers with her steps. She’s topless now as well, with her ample, gorgeous tits on full display and her wide, fat belly bared proudly. I see the riding crop in her hand, the tool she used to teach me a much-needed lesson. Becky, staring up at her mistress as a dog might, crawls hurriedly out of the way.

Gemma grabs the back of my hair and crouches in front of me so that our eyes are level. She stares deep into mine and drawls, “Good girl, Sally. You took that whipping well, for a first time. You get it now – don’t you?”

Staring back, I nod.

“Good girl,” she says again. Her praise makes me feel both happy and ashamed. It makes me feel grateful.

“Slut,” she growls at Becky, “help me untie Sally.” Becky replies, “Yes, Mistress Gemma.” Taking one side each, they release my cuffs. Then Gemma goes back behind me and manoeuvres me onto my feet. She pulls off my t-shirt and tosses it aside.

Standing is difficult, but Gemma pulls me hard against her. She hooks her left arm under mine, using her hand to grasp my throat. With her right she shoves the riding crop into my hand, then she reaches down and once again takes hold of my balls. The heel of her palm is pressing hard against the base of my stiff cock. Between that and the feeling of her bare breasts and belly pressed against my back, I’m whimpering with pleasure.

“Slut,” she repeats, “assume the position.”

“Yes, Mistress Gemma,” comes the clearly ingrained response.

Becky at once clambers up onto the bench and kneels in the same position that I had just occupied. I see now that her pink underwear is a thong. The string is not between her hefty buttocks, however, but stretched tight over the flared base of the butt plug that protrudes from between them. Her arsecheeks are already criss-crossed with welts in various stages of healing.

“Now, Sally,” Gemma purrs in my ear, “you’re going to show me that you get it. You’re going to do to your little girlfriend what I just did to you. Show me how weak you are. Show me how little you’re both worth. I want to hear her scream. Do it now, bitch!”

That scene from my childhood – when I’d tried to defend Becky against Gemma, when I’d tried to be brave that one time – replays itself over and over in my head at lightning speed. Then I realise with horror that, in spite of that, my arm is already raised, my muscles are already tense.

I bring the riding crop down, but I flinch as I do so. I swat Becky’s arse lightly, eliciting nothing more than a sharp intake of breath. Instantly, Gemma’s grip on both my throat and my balls tightens.

“Try. Again.” the big woman grates menacingly.

I swallow heavily and raise my arm again. This time, I don’t flinch.

THWACK! Becky yelps loudly.

“Good girl,” chuckles Gemma, “that wasn’t so hard, was it? Now, do it again – harder.”

THWACK! This time, Becky lets out a short, sharp scream. I feel like the lowest form of life for doing this at Gemma’s behest. I frightens me to discover that Gemma can make me do this with just a word. But I know I won’t stop.

“Good,” pronounces Gemma, “again.”

I hit Becky again, and again, and again, until her whole arse is red and swollen. With Gemma’s strong hands on my throat and balls the whole time, and her lips pressed against my ear, I feel like nothing more than a machine that she’s operating. I zone out and let that feeling overtake me.

Eventually, Gemma gets bored of that game. She grabs the riding crop from my hand and steps back a little, releasing me. Instead she grabs the strap behind my head, unfastens it and removes the rubber ball from my mouth. It falls to the floor.

Then she turns me by the shoulders to face her. She lets go. I’m standing in front of her – naked, but unrestrained. I could do anything. I could make a run for it. I could…

I gaze up into her unwavering green eyes.

“Get down on your knees,” she commands, “and kiss my feet.”

Without another thought, my knees quiver and I begin to sink down…

Gemma suddenly grabs me again by the balls and hair and pulls me against her. She’s holding the riding crop in her left hand, along with my hair. She pulls my head back and growls, “When I give you an order you will respond, ‘Yes, Mistress Gemma’ – got it?”

I squeal, “Yes, Mistress Gemma!”

She lets go of my balls and slaps me hard across the face, letting go of my hair at the same time. I stagger back and crumple, landing in a heap on the concrete.

“Now,” she says, “let’s try that again. Come here and kiss my feet.”

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