BEYOND TIED FOR PUNISHMENT

BY YOCOPYCAT

[ part 2 ]

Bedwetting

I suppose my daughter Jessica was over nine years old when she began wetting her bed. It infuriated my husband Paul, who needs little excuse to take his belt to her bare bottom at the best of time.

He beats her with my full encouragement, of course. Abusing our power over Jessica has become an essential factor in our own lovemaking this last two years or so - when Paul comes straight to my bed from beating 'his' daughter, the results are spectacular, our enjoyment volcanic. I say 'his' because Jessica is not his natural daughter - she is the child of rape, hated by me for it, and deeply resented by Paul. Paul is a dominant, with more than a touch of sadism thrown in, I fancy, and I am a submissive turned on by seeing other people's pain or humiliation. Pity this unfortunate child, then, still at an age when she is under the absolute and total disposal of rogue parents such as Paul and I.

The bedwetting began like this -

Sex between Paul and I was flagging a little at that time. His enthusiasm for fucking me depended entirely on how strongly beating the brat, as we called Jessica, fanned his sexual flames. He had started using his belt on her, but the initial success of this was wearing pretty thin after only a few months. That was quite a disappointment to me, as tying her down to her bed ready for his return from work and laying the belt, ready for his use, neatly upon her flinching little buttocks, did wonders for me. She has a big bed, not a child's bed - how proud she was when we bought it for her.

Having found some fault with her, poor deportment was the easiest, I would march her up the steep stairs to her bedroom by the ear and have her take off her flimsy little apology for a dress. I had not bought her any panties recently, as Paul and I preferred her without them, so the scrap of a dress was all she wore around the house. I kept her room warm at all times as she was so often in it. She would move the pillow down the bed, then lie down arse up with the pillow under her hips to raise her bottom for Paul's convenience and I would secure her ankles to the bedposts. We had put fixtures so that it was easy to do this. We could adjust how wide apart her legs were held, and I preferred her ankles really tight to the posts, allowing Paul a great choice of target. I had noticed that he was getting less shy about where he hit her. Sometimes I also secured her wrists to the top bedposts, which had similar fixtures. The room was at the back of the house, looking out over our extensive back garden and green hills beyond, so noise was not really an issue. There was a paved yard immediately beneath the windows, a long drop. I kept reminding myself to have bars fitted. Nobody to hear if she screamed, but I usually gagged her anyway: I kept a pair of old knickers for that purpose, and tied them in place very securely with ribbon, as I enjoyed how much she hated that. The earlier in the day I did all this, the longer she had to wait, the more it turned me on. We had removed the door from her bedroom, and it was amusing to creep back now and then to see how she jumped, thinking Paul was home.

When he did come home, Paul would come up with me to the bedroom to inspect Jessica. "What has the little brat done this time?" he would say, fingering her she lay there, so vulnerable. "She had the TV on too loud," I would say. Or: "Her hands were dirty." Or: "She dropped crumbs on the carpet." Or whatever triviality I had invented that day. "Let her up," Paul would say, "let me hear from the sniveling little brat." He would sit on the edge of the bed with his legs open so that she could stand between them, hands behind her back. "Well brat," he would say, "is this true?" "Yes Father," would come the tremulous reply. She dare not say anything else! "Please forgive me!" She would lean forward to give him a kiss on the mouth and after pulling her trembling body to him and enjoying her for a while he would push her away violently, so she fell to the floor. "Dirty slit eye!" he would shout. Often he dragged her to her feet by the hair and knocked her down again, sometimes several times, shouting at her about what a useless little bitch she was, not even able to kiss properly.

"Get the little shit ready for punishment," he would say at last. Then I would fix her again as she had been before. He would walk around her and finger her, maybe use the belt a few times, spread her legs a little wider. Then he would make the same joke: "I'll be back later, brat - don't go away!" The only variation was what he called her - he thought of many things worse than brat! This way we got an early rouser and could time her beatings for just before our own bedtime, with spectacular results. It meant that Jess was left tied all night, which gave her more time to reflect on the disadvantages of being naughty and thus added value to her punishment.

Well, one Friday, I put into action a plan I had been brooding on. I kept on giving Jess drinks all that morning. When she refused at last, I slapped her face and shouted at her. "You ungrateful little cow! I made that delicious drink specially for you! Your father will be very very angry!"

I seized her by an ear straight away, and marched her up the stairs, howling. She struggled much more than usual, but I had her prepared and waiting for Paul well before lunchtime. He would not be home until late that evening, and then came the weekend when he would be mine all the time. As would Jessica! I was thinking of her as an object now, not as a daughter. She was almost worth that terrible rape. It was a Japanese gang-bang, something I am still terribly ashamed of. I am afraid her bad ancestry is beginning to show in Jessica - she certainly looks nothing like Paul or I. I had no Motherly thoughts for this strangely exotic little stranger I had so reluctantly carried, never have had. I felt the seed of the man was soiling me more and more as it grew. I very nearly went for an abortion, but it would have been against my religion, everything my parents and the Church had drummed into me. Why do I write down all this stuff now and not earlier in my story? I think it is because I had not faced up to my true feelings for Jessica until her constant punishment got out of hand and I started to wonder what sort of Mother would allow that, never mind encourage it.

Anyway, this Friday I secured her little hands and put in the gag, and found an extra pillow to go under her hips and raise that tender bottom even higher. "Ungrateful little bitch!" I shouted again, slapping that seductive little brown bottom hard enough to get her wriggling. "Just you wait for your father to come home! You are really for it this time young madam, it will be the greatest hiding of your life, you no-good slit-eye little pissbag!"

Your life so far, I added to myself. She had had some pretty fierce beatings already, of course, but I did so hope there was much worse in store for the little monster. Knowing Paul I was pretty sure there would be. It would be revenge on her real father, I thought, if I knew which one of those grinning beasts it had been. Revenge on the Japanese nation, perhaps. Nothing was too bad for her. It had always been me pushing Paul along to become harsher with her, and the time was coming to speed him up a little. So now you know my depravity is that much greater than his. He is a reluctant sadist, needing me to draw him forward, soothe his scruples.

She was already crying when I added a touch I had been thinking of for some time - I masked her eyes and inserted ear plugs. Neat, huh? It made me sopping wet just thinking of the little bitch lying there, hardly able to move, seeing darkness and listening to nothing, unable to speak, very conscious of her exposed and obscenely displayed bottom, spread out and waiting for the first crack of the belt at any moment. And fearing she was to be beaten harder than ever before. The greatest hiding of your life I had said, and I am sure she expected that it would be. For someone who had been beaten as hard as she had, that must be a real scary thought.

Every little while I came in and touched her. How she jumped! There was a lot of wriggling and silent crying as well, which I really like to see.

I wondered how soon she would wet herself. It happened long before Paul was due home. I came in to find her peeing, unable to stop, already drenched in it. I took her earplugs out. "Now!" I said, watching the golden stream spurting out, "now you have really done it! That is absolutely shameful! Your father may well beat you for it every day for a week. Or a month! He might even beat you to death! And good riddance of a dirty little slit-eye who doesn't trouble to control herself, I say. He will be home quite soon now!" She was sobbing as I put the earplugs back.

Of course I would not allow Paul to go that far, the little brat was far too useful alive and healthy. What a triumph, though! I suspected that this would really get him going in a way I had never seen before, and so it did. He glared at the drenched pillows in very genuine outrage. Off the top of the Richter scale, whatever that is. He really thought it was her fault, and I was not about to tell him different, then or later. He is fastidious about hygiene and such matters. Now he had a real reason to let himself go as I truly believe he had always wanted to! Nobody could blame him for belting the child for the unpardonable sin of wetting her bed! I saw the inhibitions flowing out of him and genuine anger flowing in as he picked up the heavy leather belt. He thrashed her just as she was, on and on and on, really savagely, as if she were the bag of shit he had called her, and she could do absolutely nothing except squirm about. The beating seemed to go on for ever - and then - he threw away the belt and wrenched out her gag - seized me - and WOW! our lovemaking on her bed rolling all over her writhing little body was utterly fantastic. Her heart-broken sobbing and moaning was music to our ears, a spur to greater lust.

After a while, we went to our own room to couple again. And again and again. We slept all the better for knowing that the little brat would still be there in the morning, tied down, helpless and waiting for us to carry on where we had left off or do whatever else to her that we chose, nobody to say we should not do this or that to her, and, I hoped, all Paul's inhibitions gone.

After breakfast, we went to look at our handiwork. The beautiful little olive-brown body lay stretched out face down on the bed, still twitching a little. The color of her skin was partly due to the times when I pegged her out in the sun, but I have to admit that she had never been fully white. That was a legacy from her hated Jap blood. An unwanted half-caste slit-eye, that's all this poor creature was to me until she became a valuable spanking toy. She was born with a mop of black hair, and, in retrospect, I think I hated her even then, though I have only begun to admit that to myself recently.

Her bottom was a real mess. I rubbed in some cream that was supposed to banish bruising. It seemed to sting, at any rate it made her wriggle a lot even when I stood back to watch. So I rubbed in some more - it was enough to turn Paul and I on again - we left her as she was while we went back to bed.

It was several hours later when we stood at her bedside again. She was still twitching a little, but the bruising was distinctly less noticeable.

Paul picked up the belt and drew it up the inside of one spread-out leg, then right up the other. She went absolutely tense and started to cry. I find it very erotic when she cries but we hear nothing because of the gag, which I had now replaced.

"Now?" he asked, doubling up the belt, which was a new departure.

I was tempted, but I had a better idea.

"Leave her," I said. "She is healing nicely. Let's see how soon she is clear of bruises."

It was that evening when I went back for her. Her bottom was greatly improved. I released her and removed the gag and earplugs and eye mask. She stood up, a bit wobbly, but she did not try to rub her bottom, just stood to attention. She was learning fast.

"Stop sniveling," I said, slapping her. "Your father has been very lenient with you so far, you ungrateful little bitch. Never be ungrateful again! And never never never wet your bed again, it makes him absolutely furious, you worthless brat. Now, put on your nightie and come down for your supper."

We let her stand to eat, and I made sure to give her my beer, when her father wasn't looking. She did not dare to refuse to drink this time, just slurped it down in a hurry!

"Now, you dirty ungrateful worthless little piece of shit," I said, "off to bed with you and be grateful your father cannot be bothered to beat you tonight - and do NOT wet the bed! Little girls that wet their beds are totally horrible and useless and disgusting and nobody loves them and they get treated the way they deserve! Now, give us each a nice kiss and straight to bed."

When Paul had finished with her, I went upstairs with her, and headed her off from the bathroom. "You can go in the morning," I said. "What an inconsiderate child you are! There's something on TV I don't want to miss." I just slapped her harder when she went on and on about the bathroom. She became very quiet in the end. I fixed her to the bed again, spread out as widely as before or maybe a little bit more so. I put on her eye-mask and gagged her. This time I chose a ball gag - it was just the right size to stop her talking but allowed a little sound out, as sounds of her distress turned me on, and did not distort the look of her cheeky little sliteye face. I left off the earplugs. Sometimes Paul and I say things I want her to hear.

Paul and I slept well and woke late as was usual on a Sunday morning, when time was on our side. We had a leisurely breakfast before visiting Jess. As you can imagine, I was bubbling over with anticipation, but when we opened the door, disappointment. She was dry! Paul, of course, saw nothing unusual in that. "Hey!" he said, feeling her bottom. It was obviously very tender. "This is still a bit bruised, why don't you turn her over?"

Right, I thought. Sounds good. I undid the wrist and ankle cuffs and fixed her face up. It was nice to see her terrified little face for a change instead of her beaten little bottom. The tall bedposts at the foot of the bed had nothing between them, and Paul moved round to stand at the foot of the bed and gaze at the spectacle of her raised bottom and well spread legs. "A little wider, I think!" So I inched her legs further apart. It was like she was doing the splits, almost.

Paul ran his hands up and down the insides of her open thighs once or twice. I saw quiet satisfaction in him at their silky smoothness and perhaps the way she flinched from him. But he was not entirely satisfied. "Try raising the ankle cuffs up the bedposts," he suggested. I did that. We tested various adjustments until he was quite satisfied with his view as he looked down between her legs. He resumed his stroking for a while, then took the belt in one hand and rubbed that against her puffy slit - there was plenty of room to strike between those lovely little legs now. I saw her gazing up at him, saw the convulsive effort she made to close them, but of course she could not. All her frantic contortions just raised her bottom half an inch off the pillows and then it sank back.

"Time for a break," said Paul. He put the belt down and lit a cigarette. "Pity we can't send the brat for some wine."

"I'll fetch us a sherry each," I said.

For a few minutes we sipped our drinks, just savoring the moment and admiring Jess. She was quivering all over, knowing exactly what to expect. She looked at me pleadingly for a moment and I grinned at her. "What a worthless little brat you are, sliteyes," I said. "What a little bastard! And half-caste at that. You don't understand me yet, but one day you will realize what a disgrace you are. In my opinion your father is too soft with you."

At last Paul took up his position at the foot of the bed again. He blew on his cigarette to make the tip red, then mimicked stubbing it out between her legs. Of course he did not do so, though there was more than the hint of a threat in his action. Now he raised his belt and slapped it down at maximum strength on the bed to her left. Then on her right, even harder. "Next one is for you," he hissed. A despairing shriek escaped her gag as he slowly raised the belt. Her whole body convulsed as the blow struck - and the dam burst! A golden torrent jetted fiercely out of her, all over him. He sprang up too late to avoid it, drenched by the pent-up force of it. He was steaming, outwardly as well as inwardly!

"By God!" he thundered, "this is too much! The fucking brat wouldn't even wait five minutes for us to let her go! All she need do was ask. Why didn't she go before she went to bed? Why didn't she ask you this morning?" I nearly pointed to the gag, but decided not to. It was not obtrusive, but obvious enough if he had not been so excited. "Think you can piss on me, do you, you fucking little scumbag whore? Well, here's what I think of you." He urinated all over her. "That's what you are worth, you bloody little shitbag, so expect no mercy from me from now on!" He was raging as he left the room. "By God, she's really for it now!"

Jess lay there shaking with fright. I removed the gag and released her. I slapped her about a bit and told her to clean herself up and then come downstairs in her nightie to be punished. We liked her in that, as it was an old one and didn't come down much beyond her waist. No panties at night, of course.

When she came down I sent her to the corner while we had a snack. I made her stand facing us with her hands on her head. Just seeing her distress as she stood there was a big turn-on. When I called her over she came close very reluctantly. What a glorious hour we had as she stood trembling before us, still with her hands on her head. The sight of her in her nightie was always a turn-on, somehow it made her seem more defenseless than when she was naked. We explained to her at length, once again, with plenty of shouting and slapping, that only worthless little girls wet their beds, that it was dirty and thoroughly disgusting, and that those who did it must be punished real hard. Really really hard, said Paul, because it is your own stupid fault, you are just a fucking little whore and I just found out how to hit a fucking little whore where it hurts, didn't I? She nodded woefully, understanding only too well, and I told her to go and lie on her bed in the position she had been in before. There should be no need to tie you down, I said, just use your hands to hold your legs apart for Paul. She was very good, I have to say. Paul certainly proved that he knew how to punish a whore that night. We only used restraint from about half way through when she ran to the window and tried to jump out. Fortunately Paul grabbed her in time, and now it has bars.

I delighted in her agony. I guarantee she will not piss on Paul again in a hurry! Paul and I reached new heights that night, heights I had not thought possible before, as we listened to the sobbing and wailing from her room that went on and on and on like never before. Paul had said her punishment would be repeated every Saturday night for a whole month, and I think some of the cruel things we had said about her were sinking in. Perhaps she was beginning to realize something of how defenseless against abuse was a despised and unloved child in this household. I almost felt sorry for the poor little sod as she sobbed her heart out. But when Paul and I had had enough of lovemaking and needed peace and quiet, I went and slapped her and told her to shut up, which she did at once. It was gratifying that she had come to fear me as well as Paul.

And, after that night, bedwetting became a habit with Jessica. Once the next week with a little help from me, twice the week after, and then it began to happen without any help at all. It came to happen out of sheer fright of it happening, whether or not she had drunk too much fluid, whether or not she could use the bathroom. The more we increased the severity of the punishment, the more frequently it happened.

Now, Jessica often comes down to breakfast in the morning sobbing with shame and dread. We no longer need excuses to take our pleasure of her. On these days Paul has good reason to beat her. How delicious her good-morning kisses are on those days! And again, redoubled, in the evening! How Paul and I enjoy them! Specially Paul when he lifts her to his mouth with his hands on her much abused buttocks, beneath the very edge of that fetching little dress that scarcely covers them, and she puts her arms round his neck and presses her little lips to his in abject apology. Apparently he has taught her how to use her tongue. That is when he is most glad I stopped buying panties for her, I think. Then, a little later, when he lowers her to the floor and she starts to unzip his trousers, he really gets worked up. I dare say she will stop kissing and start sucking soon. We did cancel a beating one time, at my suggestion, but that was just to give her some hope and encourage her in her frantic efforts. It really turns me on, watching her try to distract Paul and knowing that her pitiful efforts at seduction only inspire him to beat her with fresh relish and renewed vigor and that it is I who will benefit from that.