textfiles/sex/EROTICA/S/sarah2.txt

                            BREAKING SARAH

I had been topping Sarah about once a month for a year.  I would
sneak over to her house whenever I could get away.  Divorced, she
lived in a house with her two kids.  (Still does, but in a different
house now.)  We kept a fairly well stocked playroom in her basement.
The playroom was locked off from the rest of the basement so the kids
never went in.

In the winter of '91, like maybe December, I first noticed her talking
about death.  She seemed to be on a death kick for a couple months,
thinking about it, talking about it.  Then one day I heard her
say... I remember this very clearly; she was reading a newspaper... "I
wonder what it would be like to die, I mean really."  That's all I
needed to hear.  I thought about it for a while.  Could I let her
experience death without actually killing her?  In a week or so I
decided what I was going to do.  Our next play session didn't come
about until much later, March or April.  Below is the description, as
best I remember it, of that session.

We were in her basement, as we usually were.  The kids were at her
sister's house for the weekend.  I parked two blocks from her house
behind the Ameristop store (kind of like a 7-11, if you've never seen
one.)  It provided good cover from passing motorists.  I walked the
rest of the way.

She has this great wooden frame in her basement.  Her husband built it
from 4x4 posts to hoist out car engines.  This thing is _heavy_ and
_solid_.  We took it apart and reassembled it in the basement after
her divorce.  I guess he didn't feel like taking it with him.
(Getting off track, sorry.)

She was completely naked.  I turned off all the lights except for the
25-watt dark red bulb that was directly over her head.  I had her
wrists bound and attached to the top of the frame, about 2 feet apart.
Her feet were bound by straps that hook to the bottom sides.  She had
the mobility to spread her legs wider, but 2-1/2 feet was about as
close as the ties would let her bring them together.  I inserted the
usual black ball gag and gave her her ping-pong ball.  Whenever I use
a ball gag, the ping-pong ball acts as her safeword.  If she drops it,
I stop.  Then I put Julee Cruise on the CD player and unceremoniously
went to work.

In front of her, about eight feet in front, is a wide full-length
mirror.  We both like to watch as she gets her punishment.

She was bathed in a soft, dark, red light.  I got out the brown
leather cat-o-nine that I usually begin with.  I started rather softly
with a steady rythym until she got into it.  Over the next 20 minutes
I increased the intensity.  At the end of the 20 minutes I was
whipping her pretty hard.  She had welts all over her butt and the
backs of her thighs.  Some of the welts were bleeding a little.  She
was rotating her hips to try to lessen the blows and make them land in
places that hurt the least.  She was whimpering.

It was time to move to the next phase.  I put down the cat and picked
up Uncle Sam.  Uncle Sam is (was) a beautiful rock-maple paddle.
Sixteen inches long, not including the handle.  The handle was long
enough that I could swing it with both hands.  It had a satiny-smooth
finish on one side and an engraving of a horse in a field on the other
side.  The smooth side was the business side.

I waited a couple minutes while she collected her thoughts and let her
contemplate what was to come next.  My cock was ready to burst through
my jeans (I stay fully dressed through punishment sessions unless I
decide I 'want a little'.)  None of this was out-of-the-ordinary so
far, we had played this scene several times.  The first swat was a
soft one.  Sort of a courtesy swap.  Then, no more mister nice guy.
The second smack was hard.  She jumped forward and howled a little
through the ball gag.  Tears were starting to stream down her face.
At about 30-second intervals I gave her 4 more at that same intensity.
Each time she jumped, and each time she howled.  And each time the
paddle left a beautiful imprint on her red ass.  Now here's where the
story takes a turn.  Her record, before dropping the ball, had been 7
swats.  She had never been able to hold on to the ball after number 7.
I was going to to add a big flourish to the windup for this one, but
there was no point.  I looked at her in the mirror.  Her eyes were
clenched shut as tightly as her fists.  She had a good strong grasp on
the ball.  Her arms and legs were shaking.

So I rared back and hit her with every ounce of strength I had in my
body.  If this had been a baseball game, the ball would have been out
of the park.  I had never hit her this hard before.  When wood met
flesh, she bolted forward like I had hit her with a cattle prod.
(Mental note - Try to get my hands on a cattle prod).  She emitted a
scream that was barely muffled by the ball gag.  She was crying,
quivering, and was still clenching that damned ping-pong ball.  I hit
her so hard I broke the paddle.  She must not have noticed because her
eyes were still closed and she was tensed up for the next one.  A new
record.  God, I loved her for that.  Even if I had not broken it, I
certainly didn't have the heart to hit her again.

So I set the split paddle aside.  I removed the ball gag, and then
wiped away her tears and the snot coming out of her nose with a
tissue.  I stroked her hair and kissed her on the forehead.  She was
still whimpering a bit.  I left the room.

I came back about 10 minutes later and said, "you can drop the ball,
I'm not going to hit you any more."  Note the careful wording.  I gave
her the choice, and of course there are punishments other than
hitting.  She dropped it, expecting to be set free from the frame.
Instead, I walked behind her where she couldn't see me clearly in the
mirror.  I put the ball gag back into her mouth.  It's a big one,
and she really has to stretch her jaws to get it in.  I love that.  I
then pulled out a plastic bag, the kind you put fresh vegetables in at
the grocery, from my pants pocket.  I put it over her head and secured
it to her neck with surgical tape.  It was airtight.

She was startled, but she didn't really show any fear.  I don't think
she was about to give me the satisfaction.  Now, a person with a
suffocating bag on her head goes through distinct phases.  It reminded
me of microwave popcorn.  At first there was little activity.  She
slowed her breathing as much as she could.  The bag expanded and
contracted with a predictable rythym.  I sat down in a chair, between
her and the mirror, facing her.  I crossed my legs and put my hands in
my lap.  I sat there stone-faced the whole time.

Within a couple minutes she started to tug at her restraints, looking
for a way out.  Her breathing was heavier.  The bag expanded and
contracted about twice each second.  She was looking around the room.
In another a minute or two she was really panicked.  She was bucking
and twisting and thrashing trying to get free.  She was trying to yell
through her ball gag.  She was twisting her head around in the bag as
though trying to find a small pocket of oxygen that she had somehow
missed before.  I said nothing and showed no emotion.

Then her activity started to slow.  She was still tugging, trying to
get free, but with much less energy.  She had a pitiful look of
horror and fear that I will never forget.  Her legs buckled and she
was hanging from her wrists.  About 10 seconds later, her eyes closed.

The instant her upper eyelid met her lower, I jumped up and ripped
open the bag.  She was unconscious for about 20-30 seconds, breathing
very hard.  I detached her bonds from the frame and carried her to the
couch.  When she woke up she was crying uncontrollably.  She wasn't
really herself again until the next morning.  She hasn't mentioned
death to me since.  Not long after that she got a job offer in Chicago
and left.  I haven't seen her since, but we do talk on the phone
and exchange notes occasionally.