My hands go to the wooden crossbeam before me, as though drawn my a puppeteer's strings. Only the rest of my body shakes now. I want so much to scre...m out, to ruin this all by pleading for it all to end. My hands on the wood, worn smooth as leather with age and use, (I feel as though placed in stocks). My buttocks shove themselves backward - I have no method of control, no illusion of resistance. My ankles are now digging their sides into the hard wood underneath the s**ttering of hay. . ?? Whenever he hit mynipples (which come to think of it, was always at the end), that was like the"peak". That hurt the most, but provided by far the most pleasurewhen I rubbed off afterwards.? They werethe most sensitive part he hit.? To thisday, I squeeze the nipples until they hurt when I masturbate. Over the years hedid this certainly more than 100 times, and probably several hundred.? Less that a thousand though.?? I never counted and I didn't keep a diary.? I also never told anybody. It. More

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