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Paraponera Clavata

"While you wait to be sodomized," Mistress told me a few days later, "I have another special treat for you, boy."

I sighed, and Mistress laughed. She allowed me an occasional sigh, since a sigh indicated resignation, but Mistress drew the line at any more emphatic expressions of my emotions.

"Do you know the meaning of 'formicophilia'?"

"No, Mistress."

"You will," she declared, "soon enough."

I had just finished scrubbing the kitchen counters, and I was still wearing the frilly pink lace apron that I am required to don when doing household chores. Otherwise, I must be naked.

"Remove your apron, boy," Mistress ordered.

The fact that Mistress insists upon calling me "boy," despite the fact that I am twenty five and she is but nineteen irks me to no end, which is why, of course, Mistress insists upon calling me "boy."

Reaching behind me, I pulled one end of the apron string, which I'd earlier tied in a bow, and the apron parted in the back. I slipped out of the garment and hung it on the wooden peg inside the pantry, before following Mistress into the living room.

"Lie down, on your tummy," Mistress ordered.

I obeyed, assuming the position on the leather couch.

Running her hand lightly over my ass, Mistress observed, "Your bottom is healing nicely."

The caning she'd administered to my buttocks just four days ago had been intense—so intense, in fact, that, when she'd allowed me a choice between receiving the remaining two of the thirteen strokes she'd decreed I must accept for defying her earlier in the day, despite the involuntary nature of my resistance, or surrender my virginity and be sodomized by a stranger with a cock three times the size of my own, I opted, reluctantly, for the latter option. Mistress had given me a week to recover, which left me three more days.

I heard her do something, above and behind me, but I couldn't see her without looking over my shoulder, which might earn me another session with the cane, a whip, a paddle, or a razor strop, so I lay still, awaiting Mistress' pleasure, whatever it might be.

"Look closely at these beauties, boy," Mistress told me.

She held up a capped vial. Inside, ants crawled up the transparent plastic walls. In addition to the ones on the sides of the vial, twenty or more, at the bottom of the container, scrambled to get a foothold on the cylindrical surface.

I swallowed, and I must have looked dismayed, for Mistress chuckled.

She shook the vial, and the ants went mad, hurrying and scurrying over each other and up and down the walls of their transparent prison. "Bullet ants, they're called."

Each was reddish-brown, with a long, narrow body divided into three segments, counting the proportionately oversize head, which boasted an impressive set of mandibles, and a long waist connected the insect's second segment—the "chest"—and the third segment—its ass-end. Three long legs projected from either side of the ant's "chest," and two antennae extended from its "skull." (Later, Mistress gave me an anatomy lesson, and I learned that the second segment is called the thorax, the third the gaster, and the tiny "waist" connecting them, the petiole.)

"What do you think of my pretties?" Mistress asked.

I am forbidden to speak except in answer to a question, and, even then, I must be careful; I must pick my words wisely—Mistress is easily angered, and her instruments of discipline are always close to hand. Moreover, Mistress has a talent for cruelty.

"They look—" I paused, not wanting to offend her.

"Fierce?"

"Yes, Mistress," I admitted.

She laughed. Sounding pleased, she set the vial of ants on the end table, where I could see them climbing up and down the interior of the vial. "I will educate you, boy. The scientific name for these ants is paraponera clavata. They are indigenous to the rainforests of Nicaragua, Honduras, and Paraguay. Mine were imported, at some cost, I don't mind saying, from Nicaragua. They have the most painful sting of any other hymenopteran, a fancy word, boy, for a member of an order of insects which includes the ant. In fact, the agony that their stings cause is off the chart—the chart being the Schmidt Sting Pain Index, invented by entomologist Justin O. Schmidt."

I gulped. There was a reason, I knew, that Mistress was lecturing me about these painful ants, and part of her plan, whatever it was, included the psychological discomfort she was creating simply by imparting this information about bullet ants, rainforests, and the Pain Index.

"The pain produced by the bullet ant's sting is so terrific that it surpasses even that of the tarantula hawk wasp," Mistress continued, much to my chagrin. "Its venom contains poneratoxin, a paralyzing neurotoxic peptide that has some very interesting properties."

The words Mistress said sounded strange and ominous, and I shivered.

Mistress patted me lightly upon the buttocks. "Yes, your bottom has begun to heal quite nicely," she said. "Most of the purple has faded; the lacerations have closed; and the stripes in the flesh are almost gone now. Your derriere will make a nice canvas, indeed." She gave it another playful pat, which, instead of being reassuring was terrifying, knowing, as I do, Mistress' talent for cruelty. Any gesture of tenderness is always a pretense, and the violence and pain that follows is a certainty. "Don't you think so, boy?"

"Yes, Mistress," I managed to croak.

She patted my ass again, gently, and, inwardly, I flinched. "You're such an ignorant boy," Mistress said. "You've never even heard of the Satere-Mawe people of Brazil, have you?"

"No, Mistress."

I thought that, most likely, neither had she, until recently, but I dared not state my suspicion aloud.

"Like many primitives," she informed me, "they subject their adolescent males to an initiation rite to mark their transition to manhood, as they are inducted into the tribe's warrior cult. Bullet ants are part of these rites."

I gazed at the fierce-looking insects tumbling over one another in their never-ending, frantic scurrying about. To me, they had the appearance of tiny monsters.

"To render the ants unconscious, the men of the tribe submerge them in a natural sedative. Then, hundreds of the ants are woven into a glove made of leaves. It resembles a large, open cunt. The ants' stingers face inward. When, awakening, the ants become active again, a boy slips the makeshift glove onto his hand, where it remains for ten long, torturous minutes, with agonizing—indeed, incapacitating—effects." Mistress gave my bottom another gentle pat. "At the end of his ordeal, the boy finds his hand and forearm paralyzed, but only temporarily, and he shakes violently for several days."

I myself felt quite paralyzed, just listening to Mistress, and my stomach felt queasy.

"To complete his initiation, the boy must endure the same ordeal nineteen times more, over a period of months or even years, so there is quite a lot in store for you to enjoy, boy, as you are subjected to our own version of the rite, with the difference, of course, that you will remain a boy at the end, without ever attaining the status of a man and most definitely never becoming a 'warrior.'"

I stared at the squirming ants in the vial.

She tossed something onto my back. "Put those on, boy," she ordered.

Standing, I stepped into the diapers she'd flung at me. Designed for adults, the garment, I saw, was full of the same type of ants as those in the plastic vial. The insects were motionless, though, which suggested that Mistress had steeped them in the same stupefying substance as the Satere-Mawe people used to sedate the bullet ants used in their initiation rites. Reluctantly, I donned the diaper.

"Lie back down, boy," Mistress ordered, with a grin. "When the effect of the sedative wears off, the ants will awaken—and, then, the fun shall begin!"

I did as I was told, lying back down on the couch, on my stomach. I felt like an absolute idiot—a grown man, wearing diapers! I knew better than to protest or whine, though; Mistress would not tolerate any sass, and my poor ass had only begun to heal from the last caning she'd administered.

For a while, I felt nothing but embarrassment, and, then, the first twitches began to occur, as the ants, awakening from their sedated state, began to twitch. One by one, first a few, then several, and, finally, all, the ants began to crawl, this way and that, over and across and up and down my bottom. The sensation was bizarre! Tiny prickles, almost but not quite tickling, seemed to swarm my ass. I could feel the insects wriggle and scamper over my buttocks and along the deep cleavage between them.

Involuntarily, my hips shifted, and I heard Mistress shout, "Stay still, boy!"

I froze.

"That's better," Mistress approved. "Stay that way."

The ants scurried in every direction, all over my ass, and their feet both scratched and tickled. Again, I squirmed, unable to help myself.

Instead of Mistress' swatting my behind, as I expected, however, she grabbed the seat of my diaper and shook it.

I was curious as to why Mistress had chosen to shake my diaper rather than to strike my butt, but my curiosity was soon satisfied, as a tremendous jolt of pain exploded within my left buttock. I convulsed, screaming, tears flooding my eyes.

"Lie still!" Mistress commanded, but I could not; I couldn't even try to obey. So intense was the pain that all I could do was shriek and writhe.

My agitation agitated the ants, and I felt another terrible sting, and another, and another, as the fierce insects injected me, one after another, with their venom. Each time another struck, it felt to me as if I had been shot with the blast of a gun, so powerful was their sting. (Later, Mistress would inform me, it was just this sensation that had resulted in their being called "bullet ants.")

Laughing at my pain, Miss gave the seat of my diaper an even greater shaking, and the ants redoubled their attack upon my defenseless bottom, stinging and stinging and stinging, again and again, until I felt as if I must die of the agony that seized my ass. The pain swept through my buttocks like fire or molten lava, seeming to sear muscle as well as flesh, and I shrieked, screamed, moaned, and shook, my ass trembling and bucking under the ants' mighty, combined assault.

Mistress laughed, as if my reactions were the most amusing spectacle she'd ever witnessed.

The cheeks of my ass throbbed, relentlessly, and more explosions of fiery agony erupted within my derriere.

The ants swarmed over my buttocks, stinging and stinging; as I twisted, rolled, tossed, and turned, the insects became increasingly agitated, and stung me more. Tears streamed down my face, which was a red mask of anguish, smeared with saliva, tears, and mucus.

An eternity seemed to have passed; still, the ants attacked.

The pain inside my bottom consumed me. It became me; the anguish and I melded together, and we were one.

Through my tears, I wheezed and gasped, between screams and moans, quivering and miserable, as full of despair as I was of agony.

Mistress unfastened the diaper, baring my ass. I stared behind me, in horror, at the mass of angry red welts among the ants swarming the inflamed cheeks of my beleaguered ass.

"Go shower, boy," Mistress said, and she laughed as I charged from the room.

Inside the steaming stall, I washed and rinsed the ants from my bottom, remaining under the downpour of hot water as long as I was allowed.

Mistress soon called, however, ordering my return.

I went to her, as always, naked.

My ass looked, she said, as she examined the stings, as if it had been burned in fire and punched with nails.

At her command, I looked upon the reddened flesh and saw, upon the twin, sleek mounds, numerous raised bumps, all red, surrounded by a blazing discoloration akin to a rash.

"It is, in its own way, quite as beautiful," Mistress remarked, "as the decorations of my bamboo cane." She smiled. "If the poor boys of the Satere-Mawe must endure twenty encounters with paraponera clavata, before they are considered warriors, I see no reason that you, boy, should be spared an additional nineteen such encounters, before I declare that, these ordeals notwithstanding, you are most decidedly not a man. Do you?"

I wanted, with all my heart, to disagree, but I could not. The many sessions during which Mistress had dominated me had reduced me to a level of subservience and submission that was so complete as to have left me without a will of my own. I was incapable of having, much less of expressing, any opinion different from her own. "Yes, Mistress," I agreed.

"And so you shall be, boy, so you shall be."

She sent me, then, to fetch my diary, a pink volume, complete with a lavender ribbon as its bookmark and a brass lock to which only Mistress has a key. She also told me to bring the dictionary she keeps on the stand beside the great desk in her library.

When I returned, Mistress bade me to lie upon the floor, at her feet, and to write out, in my diary, the definition of the word "formicophilia," that I might learn its meaning, and this is what I copied from the lexicon:

Formicophilia: n. A form of zoophilia involving, as a sexual interest, the subjecting of one's genitals or other body parts to the crawling, nibbling, or attack of such insects as ants, crickets, or bees in order to experience tickling or painful sensations or to inflict psychological distress upon another person."While you wait to be sodomized," Mistress told me a few days later, "I have another special treat for you, boy."

I sighed, and Mistress laughed. She allowed me an occasional sigh, since a sigh indicated resignation, but Mistress drew the line at any more emphatic expressions of my emotions.

"Do you know the meaning of 'formicophilia'?"

"No, Mistress."

"You will," she declared, "soon enough."

I had just finished scrubbing the kitchen counters, and I was still wearing the frilly pink lace apron that I am required to don when doing household chores. Otherwise, I must be naked.

"Remove your apron, boy," Mistress ordered.

The fact that Mistress insists upon calling me "boy," despite the fact that I am twenty five and she is but nineteen irks me to no end, which is why, of course, Mistress insists upon calling me "boy."

Reaching behind me, I pulled one end of the apron string, which I'd earlier tied in a bow, and the apron parted in the back. I slipped out of the garment and hung it on the wooden peg inside the pantry, before following Mistress into the living room.

"Lie down, on your tummy," Mistress ordered.

I obeyed, assuming the position on the leather couch.

Running her hand lightly over my ass, Mistress observed, "Your bottom is healing nicely."

The caning she'd administered to my buttocks just four days ago had been intense—so intense, in fact, that, when she'd allowed me a choice between receiving the remaining two of the thirteen strokes she'd decreed I must accept for defying her earlier in the day, despite the involuntary nature of my resistance, or surrender my virginity and be sodomized by a stranger with a cock three times the size of my own, I opted, reluctantly, for the latter option. Mistress had given me a week to recover, which left me three more days.

I heard her do something, above and behind me, but I couldn't see her without looking over my shoulder, which might earn me another session with the cane, a whip, a paddle, or a razor strop, so I lay still, awaiting Mistress' pleasure, whatever it might be.

"Look closely at these beauties, boy," Mistress told me.

She held up a capped vial. Inside, ants crawled up the transparent plastic walls. In addition to the ones on the sides of the vial, twenty or more, at the bottom of the container, scrambled to get a foothold on the cylindrical surface.

I swallowed, and I must have looked dismayed, for Mistress chuckled.

She shook the vial, and the ants went mad, hurrying and scurrying over each other and up and down the walls of their transparent prison. "Bullet ants, they're called."

Each was reddish-brown, with a long, narrow body divided into three segments, counting the proportionately oversize head, which boasted an impressive set of mandibles, and a long waist connected the insect's second segment—the "chest"—and the third segment—its ass-end. Three long legs projected from either side of the ant's "chest," and two antennae extended from its "skull." (Later, Mistress gave me an anatomy lesson, and I learned that the second segment is called the thorax, the third the gaster, and the tiny "waist" connecting them, the petiole.)

"What do you think of my pretties?" Mistress asked.

I am forbidden to speak except in answer to a question, and, even then, I must be careful; I must pick my words wisely—Mistress is easily angered, and her instruments of discipline are always close to hand. Moreover, Mistress has a talent for cruelty.

"They look—" I paused, not wanting to offend her.

"Fierce?"

"Yes, Mistress," I admitted.

She laughed. Sounding pleased, she set the vial of ants on the end table, where I could see them climbing up and down the interior of the vial. "I will educate you, boy. The scientific name for these ants is paraponera clavata. They are indigenous to the rainforests of Nicaragua, Honduras, and Paraguay. Mine were imported, at some cost, I don't mind saying, from Nicaragua. They have the most painful sting of any other hymenopteran, a fancy word, boy, for a member of an order of insects which includes the ant. In fact, the agony that their stings cause is off the chart—the chart being the Schmidt Sting Pain Index, invented by entomologist Justin O. Schmidt."

I gulped. There was a reason, I knew, that Mistress was lecturing me about these painful ants, and part of her plan, whatever it was, included the psychological discomfort she was creating simply by imparting this information about bullet ants, rainforests, and the Pain Index.

"The pain produced by the bullet ant's sting is so terrific that it surpasses even that of the tarantula hawk wasp," Mistress continued, much to my chagrin. "Its venom contains poneratoxin, a paralyzing neurotoxic peptide that has some very interesting properties."

The words Mistress said sounded strange and ominous, and I shivered.

Mistress patted me lightly upon the buttocks. "Yes, your bottom has begun to heal quite nicely," she said. "Most of the purple has faded; the lacerations have closed; and the stripes in the flesh are almost gone now. Your derriere will make a nice canvas, indeed." She gave it another playful pat, which, instead of being reassuring was terrifying, knowing, as I do, Mistress' talent for cruelty. Any gesture of tenderness is always a pretense, and the violence and pain that follows is a certainty. "Don't you think so, boy?"

"Yes, Mistress," I managed to croak.

She patted my ass again, gently, and, inwardly, I flinched. "You're such an ignorant boy," Mistress said. "You've never even heard of the Satere-Mawe people of Brazil, have you?"

"No, Mistress."

I thought that, most likely, neither had she, until recently, but I dared not state my suspicion aloud.

"Like many primitives," she informed me, "they subject their adolescent males to an initiation rite to mark their transition to manhood, as they are inducted into the tribe's warrior cult. Bullet ants are part of these rites."

I gazed at the fierce-looking insects tumbling over one another in their never-ending, frantic scurrying about. To me, they had the appearance of tiny monsters.

"To render the ants unconscious, the men of the tribe submerge them in a natural sedative. Then, hundreds of the ants are woven into a glove made of leaves. It resembles a large, open cunt. The ants' stingers face inward. When, awakening, the ants become active again, a boy slips the makeshift glove onto his hand, where it remains for ten long, torturous minutes, with agonizing—indeed, incapacitating—effects." Mistress gave my bottom another gentle pat. "At the end of his ordeal, the boy finds his hand and forearm paralyzed, but only temporarily, and he shakes violently for several days."

I myself felt quite paralyzed, just listening to Mistress, and my stomach felt queasy.

"To complete his initiation, the boy must endure the same ordeal nineteen times more, over a period of months or even years, so there is quite a lot in store for you to enjoy, boy, as you are subjected to our own version of the rite, with the difference, of course, that you will remain a boy at the end, without ever attaining the status of a man and most definitely never becoming a 'warrior.'"

I stared at the squirming ants in the vial.

She tossed something onto my back. "Put those on, boy," she ordered.

Standing, I stepped into the diapers she'd flung at me. Designed for adults, the garment, I saw, was full of the same type of ants as those in the plastic vial. The insects were motionless, though, which suggested that Mistress had steeped them in the same stupefying substance as the Satere-Mawe people used to sedate the bullet ants used in their initiation rites. Reluctantly, I donned the diaper.

"Lie back down, boy," Mistress ordered, with a grin. "When the effect of the sedative wears off, the ants will awaken—and, then, the fun shall begin!"

I did as I was told, lying back down on the couch, on my stomach. I felt like an absolute idiot—a grown man, wearing diapers! I knew better than to protest or whine, though; Mistress would not tolerate any sass, and my poor ass had only begun to heal from the last caning she'd administered.

For a while, I felt nothing but embarrassment, and, then, the first twitches began to occur, as the ants, awakening from their sedated state, began to twitch. One by one, first a few, then several, and, finally, all, the ants began to crawl, this way and that, over and across and up and down my bottom. The sensation was bizarre! Tiny prickles, almost but not quite tickling, seemed to swarm my ass. I could feel the insects wriggle and scamper over my buttocks and along the deep cleavage between them.

Involuntarily, my hips shifted, and I heard Mistress shout, "Stay still, boy!"

I froze.

"That's better," Mistress approved. "Stay that way."

The ants scurried in every direction, all over my ass, and their feet both scratched and tickled. Again, I squirmed, unable to help myself.

Instead of Mistress' swatting my behind, as I expected, however, she grabbed the seat of my diaper and shook it.

I was curious as to why Mistress had chosen to shake my diaper rather than to strike my butt, but my curiosity was soon satisfied, as a tremendous jolt of pain exploded within my left buttock. I convulsed, screaming, tears flooding my eyes.

"Lie still!" Mistress commanded, but I could not; I couldn't even try to obey. So intense was the pain that all I could do was shriek and writhe.

My agitation agitated the ants, and I felt another terrible sting, and another, and another, as the fierce insects injected me, one after another, with their venom. Each time another struck, it felt to me as if I had been shot with the blast of a gun, so powerful was their sting. (Later, Mistress would inform me, it was just this sensation that had resulted in their being called "bullet ants.")

Laughing at my pain, Miss gave the seat of my diaper an even greater shaking, and the ants redoubled their attack upon my defenseless bottom, stinging and stinging and stinging, again and again, until I felt as if I must die of the agony that seized my ass. The pain swept through my buttocks like fire or molten lava, seeming to sear muscle as well as flesh, and I shrieked, screamed, moaned, and shook, my ass trembling and bucking under the ants' mighty, combined assault.

Mistress laughed, as if my reactions were the most amusing spectacle she'd ever witnessed.

The cheeks of my ass throbbed, relentlessly, and more explosions of fiery agony erupted within my derriere.

The ants swarmed over my buttocks, stinging and stinging; as I twisted, rolled, tossed, and turned, the insects became increasingly agitated, and stung me more. Tears streamed down my face, which was a red mask of anguish, smeared with saliva, tears, and mucus.

An eternity seemed to have passed; still, the ants attacked.

The pain inside my bottom consumed me. It became me; the anguish and I melded together, and we were one.

Through my tears, I wheezed and gasped, between screams and moans, quivering and miserable, as full of despair as I was of agony.

Mistress unfastened the diaper, baring my ass. I stared behind me, in horror, at the mass of angry red welts among the ants swarming the inflamed cheeks of my beleaguered ass.

"Go shower, boy," Mistress said, and she laughed as I charged from the room.

Inside the steaming stall, I washed and rinsed the ants from my bottom, remaining under the downpour of hot water as long as I was allowed.

Mistress soon called, however, ordering my return.

I went to her, as always, naked.

My ass looked, she said, as she examined the stings, as if it had been burned in fire and punched with nails.

At her command, I looked upon the reddened flesh and saw, upon the twin, sleek mounds, numerous raised bumps, all red, surrounded by a blazing discoloration akin to a rash.

"It is, in its own way, quite as beautiful," Mistress remarked, "as the decorations of my bamboo cane." She smiled. "If the poor boys of the Satere-Mawe must endure twenty encounters with paraponera clavata, before they are considered warriors, I see no reason that you, boy, should be spared an additional nineteen such encounters, before I declare that, these ordeals notwithstanding, you are most decidedly not a man. Do you?"

I wanted, with all my heart, to disagree, but I could not. The many sessions during which Mistress had dominated me had reduced me to a level of subservience and submission that was so complete as to have left me without a will of my own. I was incapable of having, much less of expressing, any opinion different from her own. "Yes, Mistress," I agreed.

"And so you shall be, boy, so you shall be."

She sent me, then, to fetch my diary, a pink volume, complete with a lavender ribbon as its bookmark and a brass lock to which only Mistress has a key. She also told me to bring the dictionary she keeps on the stand beside the great desk in her library.

When I returned, Mistress bade me to lie upon the floor, at her feet, and to write out, in my diary, the definition of the word "formicophilia," that I might learn its meaning, and this is what I copied from the lexicon:

Formicophilia: n. A form of zoophilia involving, as a sexual interest, the subjecting of one's genitals or other body parts to the crawling, nibbling, or attack of such insects as ants, crickets, or bees in order to experience tickling or painful sensations or to inflict psychological distress upon another person.

paraponera   clavata  

May 9, 2018 in bdsm

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