I set up camp, then attended to the slave.  Taking off her pumps,
I saw that she hadn’t suffered any lasting damage, though I don’t
think so could have gone much further.  That suited me, since
if she managed to get loose I didn’t want her going far.  Of
course she was thirsty. Probably hungry, too, since she didn’t
eat any dinner, but it would be a long time before Patricia would
be hungry enough for the hunger to subvert her will.  Thirst would
work a lot sooner. I took a nice long drink while she watched.
“Oh, pardon my manners, would you like some ?”, I asked.  She
just glared at me. Well, it would work eventually, though I
decided now that I’d have to be careful to see to it that she got
some fluids, this woman just might be proud and stubborn enough
to end up dehydrated if she would have to earn her water from me,
which had been my intention.  Now that I knew what a tough
customer she was, my plans would have to be a bit more fluid, so
to speak.

After I’d set up the tent, which I would need for shelter from
the sun, there were six stakes left over, so I staked Patricia
out spreadeagle.  The two extra stakes were placed near her head.
I removed the ball gag, which had done it’s job well, and
Patricia couldn’t get her jaw working immediately, which gave me
time to insert two loops inside her mouth and fasten them to the
stakes on either side of her head before she started telling me off.
I sort of liked it when she did tell me off, but I wanted her to
stay frustrated.  Now she couldn’t move her head, and though she
could make lots of noise – something she wasted no time in proving –
she wasn’t getting out much that was intelligible. I proceeded to
thoroughly explore my prize. I ran my fingers along the inside of
her thighs.  There was just enough slack for me to see her legs
jerk at my touch.  I skipped over her groin and began making
little patterns on her stomach and pinching her sides.  I
hopefully tickled her belly and sides, without result.  “What a
pity you’re not ticklish, PV”.  I cupped her breasts and began to
rub them softly.  She pretended to ignore me, but she was
breathing hard. “Your nipples are so nice and hard, slave”, I
said.  I fingered them softly, then harder.  “I love they way
they stand up”, I said.  I squeezed each nipple hard between my
thumb and forefinger and pulled upwards until her breasts had
stretched as far as they would stretch and Patricia’s shoulders
began to lift from the ground, but both of us were sweating and
she was screaming and squirmimg and she slipped out of my grasp.
I repeated the process a couple times with the same results. Her
nipples were still hard and erect.  “I REALLY love the way your
nipples stand up”, I told her as I reached for my bag.  “Do you
know the Japanese proverb about the nail that stands up ?  By the
way, do you like Japanese bondage ?  Some wonderfully cruel and
imaginative ropework and suspensions in that stuff.  Anyway, we
won’t hammer those pretty nips”, I assured her, as I pulled out
the needle-nose pliers. “AGGHHGGH-NNNN-MMMM”, she said when she
saw them.  I got a good grip on her left nipple and twisted it
hard.  “AAA-YYYYEEE-OOO”, she said, her voice an octave or two
higher than before.  I twisted it again. “EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEYY !”.
Her face was getting red and I saw the beginning of a tear and I
just had to have it. I put the plier on her right nipple and gave
it a hard 360 degree turn. “EEEEEEEEEEEEOOOWWWWWYYYEEE-
-UGH-ARG-EHH-OOOH”, exploded from her as her head jerked up and
her whole body contracted, all four limbs pulling hard against
their bonds while those precious tears began to trickle out.  I
reversed the pliers, adjusted my grip, and turned it 360, maybe
450 degrees around the other way. She was screaming and bucking,
her ass pounding the hard ground as she pulled at all the ropes.
Her fists were opening and closing as her wrists turned in the
ropes and she tried yanking them side to side when pulling them
straight in proved to no effect, but the stakes holding her
wrists didn’t budge and the tears of pain and frustration were
pouring down her flushed face. I was enthralled by the show of
her red, wet face and heaving chest, and the arms flailing within
their narrow range of movement, so much so that I was shocked
when her heel hammered into the side of my knee. “OW!
SONOFABITCH!”, I shouted as I rolled away and staggered to my
feet, limping about to walk off the pain.  I hoped I could walk
it off; if she’d broken something in my knee the chance of
walking out of this place was pretty thin.  I saw that she’d
pulled the stake holding her right leg out of the ground and was
trying to free the other leg.  Even if she got those strong legs
free it’d be hard for her to get up, since with her head staked
down she wouldn’t be able to turn over so she could use them to
pull the arm stakes up, but I wouldn’t be able to have much fun
with her then. I dove onto her right leg; it was twisting and
thrusting wildly like a loose high pressure hose, she got it
under me and thrust her knee into my crotch and I rolled free and
crawled away gasping for breath. I couldn’t take much time to
recover, though, so I crawled over and got the cattleprod and,
still crawling, pushed it into the spot between and just below
her breasts.  She gasped loudly and convulsed, but kept
struggling, though much less energeticly.  I zapped her right
thigh three times and the leg’s movement was reduced to twitching.
I made it to my feet, though I couldn’t straighten up yet, and went
for the hammer.  I came back as quickly as I could in my bent over
condition. I’d thought of a lot of movies when I considered the
things I was going to do to Patricia, including “The Hunchback of
Notre Dame” – love the boot, been trying to build or buy one, so
far without success – but I’d never cast myself this way.  This
“anything can happen” wasn’t quite the thrill it had seemed.  I
hammered the left stake, which was nearly free, deep into the
ground, then got the right, yanked it till the leg was good and
taut, and hammered it down.  I tapped down the other stakes as a
precaution, and withdrew to the tent to lick my wounds –
figuratively, please, I’m not flexible enough to do so for real
and, anyway, that’s one of the few kinks I don’t have.

When it seemed everything had recovered but my pride, I came back.
Patricia was tugging on the ropes, but without her previous
energy or success.  “You know, slave, when I was a child I had
trouble remembering which one was Quasimodo and which one was
Torquemada.  You may have thought you knew which one I was, but
you were wrong”, I sputtered at her.  She was looking at me like
I was mad, and for the first time I had the pleasure of seeing
fear in her eyes.  Fear in a helpless woman’s eyes always got me
hard.  Unfortunately, I wasn’t as fully recovered as I had
thought, and the experience was not quite as pleasant as usual.
Something else to make her to pay for. I took the horsewhip and
went to lay into her, then stopped long enough to free her head; I
wanted to hear this.  I started on her legs, moving around her so I
could hit the inside as well as the top of her thighs, the tip of
the whip sometime coming very close to but never touching her
labia, then moved up and covered her belly and sides with
stripes.  I skipped over her breasts to work on her shoulders and
to crack the whip into her armpits.  Throughout this she was
screaming and writhing and struggling with renewed vigor.  She
found many things to say to me, but to her credit “I’m sorry”
wasn’t one of them.  The closest she had come to a plea was when
she started shouting “Yes ! Yes !”.  At first I thought she was
getting off on the whipping, but then I realized she had thought
to try our “safeword”. ” ‘Yes’, eh slave ?  Yes, you can have
some more”, I told her, and she went back to questioning my
parentage and family relationships.