I was hiking up in the woods around Nyack when I first saw them: three women and two men. It was way off of any of the paths. They’d just arrived. I hid behind a deadfall very close by and watched. The women were beautiful, dressed in flowing white garments and sandals. They looked like angels. One of the men was also dressed in white. He was holding a black Nike gym bag. He stood with the women while the other man, barefoot and clad only in a ragged pair of camouflage shorts, set the camp for what appeared to be a picnic. He set out four folding chairs, a small camp table, and a blanket. He laid out food and drink and plates and utensils from a large picnic basket, then stood silently as the others surrounded him. One of the women whispered something to him. He stripped off his shorts. He knelt, bowed his head, and clasped his hands in front him, as if in prayer.

The picnic arrangement was in the shade of a tree, but there was a large patch of grass directly in front of the chairs flooded with bright sunlight. The kneeling man bent down and kissed the feet of each of the women, then rose and walked to the center of the sunlit grass. He was slender and well-muscled, and his skin was white as milk in the light. Bright red welts criss-crossed his back and the backs of his buttocks and thighs. He laid down on his back and spread his arms and legs. I could see that his pubic hair had been shaved off. The other man opened the bag and took out a set of four thick leather cuffs with d-rings attached. The metal d-rings glinted in the sun as he quickly fastened them around the spread-eagled ankles and wrists of the man on the ground. He then removed a hammer, some rope, and eight tent stakes from the bag. He drove the stakes into the ground, two to each limb, and bound the prone man’s limbs to them, pulling each limb tight as he did so. He rose and returned to one of the chairs, where he poured himself a glass of white wine and sat down.

The three women knelt around the bound man. Two of them caressed him, stroking his chest, ribs, and stomach as the third, a raven-haired beauty built like a ballet dancer, leaned over and whispered into his ear, gently stroking his hair as she did so. I strained to hear what she was saying to him, but I couldn’t. His chest began to heave as his cock stiffened. I felt myself becoming aroused. The dancer pulled back to an upright seated position. She reached into a small white cotton purse at her side and extracted two shining metal clamps, handing one each to her two companions. They each took hold of a nipple, pinching them slightly to attach the clamps. The man on the ground arched his back and I heard him exclaim, “Praise the Goddess!” in a hoarse voice.

The three women stood above him and stepped back, appraising his response. He was panting. He had his eyes squinted shut in the blinding sunlight. The women glided back to the chairs, where the other man poured and served them each a glass of wine. They drank and chatted. I only heard fragments, something about the dressed man’s wife, her birthday coming up, an entertainment. The man on the ground shifted his position several times, trying to get comfortable. He moaned a couple of times early into it, but then he just let out a few big sighs now and then. About twenty minutes later, the dancer drained her glass, rested it on the table and got up. She bent over the prisoner and pulled the clamps off of his tits. He uttered a very brief sharp cry and again proclaimed, “Praise the Goddess!” in a voice more parched than before.

He began to sweat. It was coming up on noon, and flies began to light upon his flesh. I think they were biting him. It seemed to cause him a lot of discomfort. He squirmed in his bonds, trying to shake off the insects: a gesture of futility, really, because he was stretched tightly enough that he could barely move. One of the women, a diminutive redhead, pulled a honey jar out of the picnic basket and bent to her knees at his side. Dipping her fingers into the jar, she smeared honey over his nipples and streaked it down his ribs. She gouged it into his navel.

“Do his cock and balls,” laughed the dancer. “Do his ass crack.” The redhead smeared honey on his exposed cock and balls. His cock was very hard. She rubbed it into his ass. Then she went back to her chair. The man in white gave her a towel and poured her another glass of wine. She rubbed the honey off of her hands carefully, daubing the towel into a bowl of water.

They drank and ate fruit in silence, only occasionally glancing at their captive. The sun was taking its toll on him. I could see that his skin was beginning to burn, the milky-white turning pink. Flies and other insects lit on his flesh, attracted by the honey and the smell of his sweat. He kept flexing and unflexing his muscles. I couldn’t turn away. I’d never even imagined anything like this. Even his occasional groans were turning me on. I’m not cruel by nature, but it was clear that he was enduring this ordeal voluntarily. I’d heard of sado-masochism, of course, but I never gave it much thought. This wasn’t like anything I’d ever heard of. The whole tableau had a weird beauty about it. It didn’t look pornographic, there wasn’t any of the costuming I’d always associated with S&M.

I wondered about the prisoner, who he was, how he came to be here. Was he a slave? If so, whose? Why did he pray to the three women, and why did he say “Praise the Goddess”? Who was the other man? He was very dark, Italian or Greek, maybe an Arab. He was very attractive and poised. Was this some kind of cult thing? I was a little bit frightened and very turned on by it all. The prisoner was okay-looking, average, with wild blonde hair and a few days’ growth of beard. He looked feral. The way he was bound and the ordeal he was enduring transformed him somehow. He became an object of intense lust for me. I wanted to swallow him whole. I wanted him to kiss my feet. I wanted to grind my pussy into his face. I wanted to fuck him.

After about an hour-and-a-half in the sun, he began rolling his head from side to side and ululating softly. I was glad to be in the shade. It was very hot, but watching him suffer in the sun made me feel cool. The little redhead knelt beside him and wiped his forehead with a damp cloth. “We won’t be having any problems with ants on this picnic,” she said. “They’re all over his balls.”

“Clean him off,” the dancer said. “Take your time with his cock. We don’t want him to come.” The redhead poured some fresh water into a bowl and began wiping the honey off the prisoner. He shuddered and groaned as she wiped his chest. His cock looked as if it might burst right out of his skin. When she touched it with the damp cloth, his whole body shook and he gasped. “P-praise the Goddess!” he croaked. “Water,” he begged. “Please. Water. Please.” The redhead looked at the dancer.

“No,” she said. “No water yet. Remain silent. Speak only when spoken to, except to praise the Goddess.” She removed a sort whip, a sort of cat-o’-nine-tails, from the gym bag and handed it to the redhead. “Give him twelve hard across his chest, for begging.” The smaller woman took the whip in her right hand and began whipping the man’s chest. He strained, all of his muscles tense, the tendons in his neck taught and visible, sweat dripping off of him everywhere. His face flushed. He gasped and grunted as the beating continued, each lash harder than the one before. By the ninth, he began to bang his head up and down against the soft grass beneath him, panting like an animal. Then it was over, and he stretched, groaned, and relaxed. In a ragged whisper he said again, “Praise the Goddess!”

The dancer laid the whip on the arm of her chair and reached into the bag. She extracted a folded white cloth, which she handed to the blonde. The blonde rose from her chair and knelt beside the prisoner, unfolding the cloth on the grass. I couldn’t quite see what was in the cloth. She stroked and massaged the man’s nipples. He made a long, low moaning sound, like an animal. He arched his back as much as he could, thrusting his swollen nipples upwards toward her hands. She picked up a plastic packet from the cloth and extracted a large IV needle tip, much bigger than the ones used for routine injections. It was like a horse needle. She pinched his right tit and pushed the needle through the very tip of his nipple. He gasped. “Remain silent,” she said. She repeated the procedure with his left tit. He shuddered and fell back, as if he’d gone into a trance.

She shifted her position and proceeded to stick twelve of them through the skin of his cock, starting just under the head and working her way down the shaft. I was amazed at his erection. It never faltered, even as it was being pierced. He panted, but he didn’t make a sound. When she was finished, she stood up over him, her feet straddling his ribcage, her shadow falling across his face. “Open your eyes and look at me,” she commanded. He squinted, sweat stinging his eyes as he tried to comply. “Who are you?” she demanded. “Speak. Answer me.”

“I am no one,” he croaked. He was parched. “I have no name.”

“What are you called?” she asked.

“I am called ‘slave’ and ‘martyr’,” he replied. “I am called naked, humble, obedient, and suffering.”

“Who do you serve?”

“I serve the Goddess and her priestesses, who are the beloved torturers.”

“How do you serve the Goddess?”

“By suffering. By humbly and gratefully accepting the sacrament of torture.”

He was still perspiring, so sunstroke hadn’t set in yet. The strange, cultish recitation stilled him. He seemed almost in a trance now. There was no twitching, no squirming. His breathing was regular. Amazingly, he was still erect. I began to wonder if he’d been drugged with Viagra or something. The dancer said something to the little redhead, who then took the bowl of water and the cloth and sat beside his head. She soaked the cloth and held it over his mouth. “Drink,” she said softly, squeezing the water out of the cloth. He opened his mouth wide and stuck out his tongue, eagerly catching the drops as they fell. As he drank, the blonde knelt beside him and began extracting the needles, working her way up the shaft of his cock, and then his nipples. Blood mixed with sweat ran freely from his wounds.

The well-dressed man took a small digital camera from the bag and began photographing the prisoner from all angles. “Open your eyes wide and look at me,” he commanded. The prisoner complied, even though the sun must have been blinding.

“Do you find him satisfactory?” asked the dancer.

“Very,” replied the man. “His capacity for submission and suffering is impressive. Most masochists are too high-maintenance. I think she’d like him well-tanned. He’ll be indoors for this. Keep the beard just as it is. He looks like a surfer: she likes that type.”

“When do you want him delivered?” She spoke of him as if he were a box of chocolates or flowers.

“Friday night, about 7:00. Bread and water until Wednesday, then water only. No sleep, beginning Thursday.”

“Very good. Is there anything further you would inflict upon him today?”

The well-dressed man looked directly at me. “I’d like to see what that young lady over there would like to do with him. Come out, we won’t hurt you. Have a glass of wine with us.”

I had no idea how to respond. I was embarassed at being caught spying, and I must have blushed, being even more embarassed by my own state of arousal. I stumbled out from behind the deadfall in a daze.

“Don’t be afraid,” the dancer said. She handed me a cool glass of white wine. “We knew you were there all along. Relax.”

The wine was exquisite. I looked down at the prisoner, and his eyes met mine. His face was full of fear and longing. Cowper’s fluid dripped in a steady stream from his bloody cock, little rivulets of dried blood ran from his nipples. He was covered in sweat, every muscle in his body tight and visible. My own nipples tightened under my sports bra, and my pussy was so wet that I feared I might stain my khaki hiking shorts.

I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do with him, but I knew I wanted to do something with this gorgeous, pitiful martyr. I asked for another glass of wine, to help me decide. His fate, for now, was in my hands. It was the single most delicious moment of my life, so far. I was going to turn him inside out, starting with his mouth. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do, but he wouldn’t be thirsty.













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