I watched, clinically, to make sure she was breathing okay. She was, although the way her nose was running about every fourth breath she needed to huff out a hard breath adding a fresh torrent of water-clear mucus to what was already running down her chin onto her breasts.
The monster cackled and whispered, “Beautiful.”
When I was satisfied she could breathe I looped the narrow belt over her head and pulled it tight, forcing the panties deeper and ensuring they couldn’t be pushed out with her tongue.
Again, I watched carefully. Her eyes got big and I was afraid I would need to release her when she sort of cough/sneezed and a sudden flood of snot ran down her chin to hang in a thick rope connecting her breasts and chin. I watched her breathe for several cycles, four breaths and a quick huff adding to the mess on her lips and chin and tits.
Satisfied, I told her what she needed to do.
“On your knees and lace your fingers behind your head,” I said, my voice soft while that monster in my head danced a jig of anticipation. I watched as she did what I told her to do. I noticed that the tremor in her hand had stilled as she did.
“Elbows forward, look at the floor between your knees, and offer your back to me,” I said, in that same soft voice.
I watched as she did it. Her fingers pushed her head forward until her back was bowed. Her shoulder blades showing sharply, the little knobs of her spine clear against the shape.
She shuddered as I brushed the belt from the base of her spine slowly up to the base of her skull.
“It will be five strokes,” I said, keeping my voice soft, almost gentle, “unless,” I added after what I thought was a nice dramatic pause, “your hands don’t stay exactly where they are. If you move them, the count starts over.”
Another dramatic pause.
“Do you understand?” I asked.
She nodded and made a muffled “Mmmpffff” sound.
I gave her no warning.
I laid the first lash of the belt just below her shoulder blades, the doubled belt making a loud “CRACK” sound, adding to the shock. It was a full-on blow, almost as hard as I could swing the belt.
The monster shrieked his glee as we watched my mother do the saltare doloris, that beautiful Dance of Pain. She writhed in that boneless way some professional dancers can achieve, her spine moving almost snakelike as her body strained to escape the agony that the already-bright-pink rectangle on her back gave her. I could hear her muffled scream as a great flood of snot poured down her chin to hang in a sheet to her breasts.
There was no hope in the world that I could stop the smile on my face from spreading.
When Tomás de Torquemada was instructing the Inquisitors of the Spanish Inquisition he described the saltare doloris in detail, directing his Inquisitors to watch for that instant of relaxation when the dance ended as the moment to demand confession. I had no interest, of course, in confession, but I waited for that moment of relaxation.
As her body drew a breath and she visibly relaxed I laid the second stripe on her back, almost touching the first.
I watched her closely. When I read Torquemada and then pretty much everything I could find about medieval tortures, I learned that this, the moment of the second stroke, was the point where the victim might vomit or lose bladder or bowel control or sometimes just have a heart attack and die. So I watched closely, ready to free her mouth if she should start puking or administer CPR if that was needed.
But none of that happened. She danced her beautiful dance, huffed snot in quarts as she breathed, and screamed her muffled “MMmmmmmpppffffffff.”
And I watched, my cock harder than it had ever been. I was throbbing, feeling every beat of my heart.
With the third stripe, I thought I was going to have to start the count over. Her back arched so far back and her elbows flapped like wings as she tried to handle the pain. I was smiling as she danced, lost in her special world. I’m not sure, still, if I was hoping her fingers would part or if I was pulling for her to hold on.
In the event, her fingers stayed laced although as she whipped her head side to side trying to ease her agony she slung snot all over the room.
That was the peak of her sensation. The fourth and fifth strokes were anticlimactic. It was like she had passed some point and entered a realm of almost lasitude. At the fourth stroke, the dance was merely a sort of shudder that ran through her body and I chuckled as the word “twerking” ran through my mind. The fifth drew a long humming sound from deep in her throat and, surprising us both I think, the sudden tension and wave of womanscent of an orgasm. I watched, fascinated, as her thick white love nectar poured from her to puddle between her knees.
Her eyes were open so wide I could see white all around her irises, but I don’t think she was seeing me. I don’t know what she was seeing, but she was unfocused as her body came in four waves. The tears were flowing from her eyes leaving wet streaks down her cheeks and the snot from her nose sheeted her breasts.
“Christ, you are beautiful, Mom,” I said as I watched her body take what it needed.
She held still, her body shuddering, the thick white grool of her release continuing to pour out of her for several seconds (Minutes? Hours? Time didn’t have a lot of meaning right then) until she suddenly gasped and collapsed.
I struggled and forced the monster back into its cage before I stroked her hair, petting her, telling her she was beautiful and that I loved her.
In that weird part of me that kind of scares me, something I think of as cold, something that makes me understand how a sniper could squeeze the trigger and feel absolutely no remorse at the death he caused, I observed that the tremor in her hand had stilled.
And I looked, loving her, at the bright pink stripe across her ass and the five dark red rectangles that laddered her back.
“You are beautiful,” I breathed, my fingertips lightly brushing the marks on her back, feeling the quiver as I did and thinking, “And you’re feeling that.”
She drew another deep, bubbling breath and rolled onto her side.
She was a mess, of course. Her long hair was tangled. Her breasts were shiny with snot as were her mouth and chin. Tears still ran from her eyes.
She was beautiful and I said, “You’re beautiful,” as I kissed her forehead and started working the ratchet buckle on the belt that kept her mouth stuffed.
When the belt was loose enough I worked it over her head. I pulled the panties out of her mouth and they were completely sodden, soaked with her saliva and mucus. They made an audible “plop” when I tossed them at the closed door.
She gasped in a deep breath and the accumulated saliva and mucus poured out of her mouth in a gorgeous sheet of drool.
“You’re beautiful,” I said again, and kissed her.
She kissed me back and I was holding the kiss as I moved around to be on top and slipped into her where she was hot and wet and slick and ready.
I was barely inside of her when she came, suddenly and wetly. I felt her soaking my cock and balls.
“Again,” I said, thrusting as she came and relaxed and came again.
“Again,” I said again, holding her close now, slowing my movements, feeling how hot she was around me.
She grunted and soaked me again.
“Squeeze,” I said and felt her strong vaginal muscles squeeze, almost pulling me deeper.
“Harder,” I said, pushing myself up far enough to see her face.
She grunted and her face turned red as she squeezed harder.
“HARDER,” I said, kissing her hard, hurting her lips with mine.
She yelled into my mouth, into the kiss, like a powerlifter straining at the weight, her fingernails digging into my back.
And she collapsed, spent, limp as a sleeping kitten.
I stayed where I was, holding still, not wanting to finish now. The smile on her face was contentment distilled and I wanted her to be able to keep it.
“You are SO beautiful,” I said, watching her face as she sighed.
“I felt that,” she said.
I smiled and caught her hand.
The tremor was gone and when I kissed it she smiled.
“I felt that, too,” she said.
“Maybe I should open a clinic,” I said.
“Nuh-uh,” she said, her heels suddenly digging into my ass, almost spurring me, “I don’t want you worn out.”
I laughed.
“Selfish,” I said.
“Yes,” she said, “can you blame me?”
I grinned, said “I love you, Mom,” and let my rhythm speed up a little.
“God, that feels so good, thank you, Baby,” she said.
We shared about a thousand kisses as she came twice more before my body succumbed to the demands of evolution and I ejaculated deep into her.
As we lay there, on the floor beside the bed, panting after our lovemaking, she turned serious.
“Am I crazy, Davey?” she asked.
“Does this help?” I asked.
“Didn’t I teach you to never answer a question with a question?” she replied.
“Why are you avoiding the answer?” I asked, and we both giggled.
She held up her hand, showing how still it was as she relaxed.
“Yes, it helps,” she said.
“Then you’re not crazy,” I said.
“But it’s more than this,” she said, waving her hand.
“What?” I asked, realizing how damn surreal it was to have this conversation with my mother as we were fresh from my strapping her back and then fucking her.
“Davey.” she said, very serious now, “I enjoy what you’re doing to me. That’s why I think I may be crazy.”
“Masochist,” I said.
“Yes,” she said.
“Okay,” I said, realizing that she was seriously concerned, “yes. Masochism is a well-recognized form of sexual deviance so, yes, you are far outside of the mainstream. But I don’t think that makes you, as you put it, ‘crazy’.”
She started to say something but I stopped her with a finger to my lips.
“And if you’re crazy, well, then we are crazy in complementary ways because God knows I enjoy what I do to you,” I said.
She started to say something and I stopped her again, this time with a kiss.
“You were more beautiful than ever before as you did the saltare doloris,” I said.
Her brow furrowed and she looked at me with one eyebrow raised.
“The what?” she asked.
I chuckled and said, “The saltare doloris, the Dance of Pain.”
Her eyes got big.
“Where in the hell do you get shit like that?” she asked.
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