Short Stories of Sadistic Candaulism

[Pontrop12]

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The author of this story has read and accepted the rules for posting stories. They guarantee that the following story depicts none of the themes listed in the Forbidden Content section of the rules.

The following story is a work of fiction meant for entertainment purposes only. It depicts nonconsensual sexual acts between adults. It is in no way meant to be understood as an endorsement of nonconsensual sex in real life. Any similarities of the characters in the story to real people are purely coincidental.
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Index:

• Chapter 1
• Chapter 2

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Title: Pantie Roulette: Crimson Agony
Author: Add author of the story here
Chapter Tags: Add story tags specific to the opening chapter of your story here if you want to.
Content Warnings: Add here further content warnings you would like to make your readers aware of.
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Mark’s secret photos of prude wife Elaine ignite a sadistic game.
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Pantie Roulette: Crimson Agony





Mark and Elaine’s marriage was a veneer of suburban normalcy, cloaking Mark’s hidden desires. At 50, Mark was the quintessential average Joe—medium build, balding, an accountant whose kindness was his hallmark: mowing the lawn, brewing Elaine’s coffee, always gentle. Elaine, 47, was a commanding corporate manager, her strict demeanor ruling a Fortune 500 department. Her curvy body—wide hips, a phat ass straining her tailored skirts, and massive 32K tits concealed under modest blouses—clashed with her prude nature. Sex with Mark was rare, lights-off, strictly vanilla.
Mark’s secret vice began years ago: sneaking photos of Elaine in vulnerable moments—post-shower, towel slipping to reveal heavy breasts, nipples stiff in the chill, or bent over, thick ass cheeks parted as she sorted laundry. He blurred her face meticulously before posting to “Curvy Confessions,” a seedy online forum where voyeurs traded pics of unaware partners. Comments like “Those udders need milking” or “I’d bury myself in that fat ass” fueled his fantasies, stroking himself as strangers lusted over his wife’s body.
One Tuesday evening, while Elaine worked late, a private message from “SadistPrime” pinged Mark’s laptop. The profile was barren—black avatar, bio: “No limits. Women are toys to break.” The message chilled him: “Elaine’s pics are prime. That lanyard in the February post? Shows her company logo, her name. Found her LinkedIn, her office. Want her colleagues to see her slutted out?”
Mark’s heart pounded. A careless shot had captured her lanyard between her cleavage, text faint but traceable. His error, now a threat. Furious, terrified, he typed: “Who are you? Delete it.” SadistPrime was unmoved: “Play my game, or I dox her. Every curve to her boss, her friends. Ruin her.”
Fear mixed with perverse arousal—exposure’s danger hardened him. After tense hours, he agreed, ensnared.
SadistPrime’s game was “Pantie Russian Roulette,” a cruel twist on the deadly classic. “Buy lye pellets—caustic soda, online chemical suppliers, ‘drain cleaner’ grade. Our bullets, her panties the chambers.” Three players: Mark, the stranger, and oblivious Elaine. Weekly, Mark photographed her pantie drawer—neat rows of cotton briefs, a few lace thongs—and sent it. SadistPrime rolled a virtual d6 (screenshotted) for 1-6 pellets, choosing panties to load, distributing for max chance or damage, specifying placement: ass (crack), cunt lips (gusset sides), or clit (center). Mark crushed pellets into powder, applied per instructions, filmed everything—drawer pic, crushing, placement—and returned the panties. Elaine chose blindly. Safe pair? Stranger loses; Mark removes the load, waits a week. Loaded pair? Mark notifies SadistPrime immediately and films the burn—lye reacting with moisture, corroding her flesh—for the stranger’s voyeuristic thrill.
Mark ordered the pellets, a small jar arriving discreetly. He hid it in his toolbox, guilt battling arousal. He timed games for weekends, keeping Elaine home, her reactions raw.
Week 1: Saturday night, drawer pic sent—12 pairs, pastels folded neatly. Roll: 3. “Two panties: blue cotton (two on cunt lips), white lace (one on clit).” Mark crushed pellets in the garage, powder clinging like lint, filming shakily. Sunday, Elaine—post-shower, tits swaying under a robe—picked pink. Safe. Mark reported; SadistPrime typed, “Lucky bitch. Next.”
Week 2: Roll: 5. “All on black thong: three clit, two lips.” Mark sprinkled heavily, cock twitching as he filmed. She chose beige. Safe.
Week 3: Roll: 2. “Gray boyshorts (one ass), floral bikini (one lips).” She picked white. Safe. SadistPrime snapped: “Her luck’s running out.”
Week 4: Saturday night, Mark sent the drawer pic, her favorite red lace thong prominent. Roll: 6. “Max load: all six on red lace—four clit, two lips. That prude cunt’s gonna scream.”
Mark crushed the pellets in the garage, powder thick—four heavy doses where her clit would press, two along the lips’ seams. Folded back, it looked innocent. Video sent, his breath ragged.
Sunday morning, Mark feigned reading in bed, hidden phone cam angled at the bedroom. Elaine, fresh from the shower, toweled her curves—water beading on her massive tits, ass jiggling as she bent to the drawer. She hummed, fingers grazing… then picked the red lace thong. Mark’s pulse surged. She slid it on, fabric snug against her shaved mound, powder nestling intimately. Yoga pants and a loose tee followed for a cozy day.
He texted SadistPrime instantly: “She picked it.” Reply: “Fuck yes. New rule, real-time: Pretend to call paramedics when it hits. Say it’s urgent. My crew’s ready.”
Fifteen minutes later, Elaine was in the kitchen, slicing fruit. She shifted, tugging her waistband. “This thong’s itchy,” she muttered. The lye, mixing with her warmth and sweat, began dissolving—hydroxide ions attacking skin.
By 30 minutes, agony struck. In the living room, she gasped, clutching her crotch, and collapsed to the floor. “Mark! It’s burning… oh God!” Tears streamed, her body cramping, legs splayed, phat ass arched. Her clit, under four pellets’ assault, swelled grotesquely—reddening, forming painful blisters, skin peeling to reveal raw, weeping subdermis consistent with second-degree burns. Cunt lips fared no better: majora swollen and blistered, minora inflamed and oozing clear fluid, the entire vulva throbbing with fiery pain. She writhed, sobbing hysterically, hands pressing her mound uselessly.
Mark knelt, feigning panic. “Elaine, hold on! I’m calling paramedics!” He dialed SadistPrime’s contact, voice shaking. “Emergency—my wife’s in pain, down there, bad!”
Fifteen minutes later—45 minutes into the burn—a knock echoed through the house. Four “paramedics” entered—SadistPrime’s goons, clad in shoddy uniforms: mismatched navy jackets with peeling badges, ill-fitting pants, their appearances sleazy with unkempt greasy hair, stubbled chins, and leering eyes that flicked hungrily over Elaine’s writhing form. Elaine, curled fetal on the living room carpet, her face contorted in scarlet-flushed agony, didn’t register their unprofessional demeanor; the pain was a blinding inferno, consuming every thought. “Please… help me… it’s like fire down there!” she begged, her voice hoarse from screams, massive tits heaving with each ragged breath.
The men exchanged subtle smirks, spreading out around her like predators circling prey. The lead one, a burly figure with a crooked name tag reading “Medic Jones,” knelt first, his rough hands grasping her shoulders. “Ma’am, we’re here to help. Stay calm—we need to assess the injury.” His voice was gruff, laced with false concern, as another “paramedic”—slender, with a tattoo peeking from his sleeve—pulled out a “medical” bag, its zipper rasping open to reveal hidden high-res cameras nestled among props. They activated discreetly, lenses zooming in for vivid closeups: Elaine’s vulva, already a vivid crimson landscape of torment, her clit a swollen, cherry-red nub dotted with translucent blisters that shimmered under the room’s light, weeping clear fluid that trickled down her inner thighs; her cunt lips puffy and mottled purple-red, the majora ballooned like overripe fruit, minora glistening with oozing plasma, the whole area pulsing with each heartbeat.
“First, we gotta expose the site fully,” Jones grunted, nodding to his partner. The slender one tugged down her yoga pants slowly, the fabric whispering against her skin, revealing her thick thighs quivering. Elaine whimpered, too pained to protest, as he peeled the red lace thong away—sticky with fluids, it clung briefly before snapping free, eliciting a sharp cry from her. The air hit her ravaged flesh, cooling yet stinging, making the blisters on her clit throb anew, their surfaces taut and shiny, threatening to burst.
“Looks bad—severe inflammation,” Jones said, his fingers—ungloved at first, then slipping on latex with a snap—probing the edges of her vulva. Elaine arched, a guttural moan escaping, her phat ass cheeks clenching against the carpet fibers. They held her legs apart, one goon on each thigh, their grips firm, thumbs digging into soft flesh, spreading her wide for the cameras. The hidden lenses captured every detail in high-res color: the clit’s angry red hue deepening to burgundy at the base, blisters like tiny pearls of agony, some already splitting to ooze yellowish serum; lips a mosaic of scarlet and violet swelling, fluid beading like dew on inflamed skin.
“Start with ice to numb the swelling,” Jones ordered, fishing out a handful of ice cubes from a small cooler in the bag. He selected one, crystalline and dripping, holding it up to the light before pressing it deliberately to her blistered clit. The cold shock was immediate—Elaine’s body bucked violently, a piercing scream tearing from her throat as the ice met the hot, damaged tissue. “Hold still, ma’am—it’ll help,” he lied, rolling the cube slowly in circles, the melting water mixing with her weeping fluids, trickling in icy rivulets down her cleft. The blisters reacted horrifically, contracting then expanding, one popping with a faint wet sound, releasing more serum that turned the ice pinkish. Her clit swelled further under the assault, turning a deeper crimson, veins visible beneath the thinned skin. She thrashed, tears carving salty paths down her flushed cheeks, her massive tits jiggling wildly under the tee as cramps wracked her core.
They lingered on this for minutes, rotating cubes—one after another, each press drawing fresh sobs, her ass grinding futilely against the floor in escape attempts. The cameras zoomed closer, capturing the glistening interplay of ice-blue against fiery red flesh, blisters fracturing like delicate glass.
Next, the slender goon produced a tube of “analgesic balm”—menthol paste, thick and white like cream. “This’ll cool it deeper,” he murmured, squeezing a generous dollop onto his gloved fingertip, the scent sharp and minty filling the air. He smeared it methodically across her clit first, the paste coating the blistered nub in a glossy layer, sinking into cracks. At first, a deceptive coolness, but then the menthol ignited the chemical burns, amplifying the fire to white-hot intensity. Elaine howled, her body convulsing, legs straining against their holds as the paste turned her clit into a throbbing beacon of agony, swelling even more, the blisters bubbling subtly under the assault. He continued to her lips, rubbing the paste along the swollen majora and minora, fingers tracing the puffy ridges, the white cream contrasting starkly against the purple-red inflammation, seeping into oozing areas and heightening the sting. Her vulva pulsed visibly, fluids now tinged green from the menthol, dripping onto the carpet as she begged incoherently, “Stop… please… it’s worse!”
They drew this out, reapplying paste in slow strokes, the room echoing with her cries, cameras feasting on the colorful degradation: mint-white streaks on crimson blisters, her skin flushing deeper scarlet with each pass.
Then, a new “treatment”—the burly one pulled a syringe from the bag, filled with clear saline. “We need to flush the toxins internally,” he explained gruffly, “Inject saline to dilute the irritant and reduce pressure.” Elaine’s eyes widened in terror through her haze, but pain overrode resistance. He aimed the needle at her clit first, the tip glinting silver under the lamp. With deliberate slowness, he pierced the swollen base—her scream pierced the air, body arching like a bowstring as the saline flooded in, enlarging the already grotesque nub further. It ballooned visibly, turning a mottled plum-purple, blisters stretching taut over the added volume, some bursting in slow-motion pops, serum mixing with injected fluid in pinkish streams. She cramped harder, phat ass lifting off the floor, tits bouncing as sobs racked her.
He repeated on her cunt lips—multiple pricks along the majora and minora, each injection methodical, the saline plumping the inflamed tissue like overfilled balloons, the lips swelling to grotesque proportions, a vivid tapestry of deep red and bruised violet, oozing more profusely now, fluids pooling beneath her. The enlargement intensified every sensation, nerves screaming as the cameras captured the needle’s gleam against wet, colorful flesh, her degradation in high-definition hues.
More torments followed: A “flush” with “saline” spray—actually diluted vinegar, misted in fine droplets that fizzed on contact with residual lye, worsening the blisters on her clit, turning them a angry scarlet as they wept copiously. She howled, body trembling. Another “probed for infection,” his menthol-laced gloved fingers inserting slowly into her hole, stretching the now-enlarged lips with agonizing pulls, the camera zooming on the prude entrance clenching in futile resistance, inner walls contracting around the intrusion. A third clamped a “compress” too tightly over her vulva, the fabric bruising the blistered, saline-swollen flesh, squeezing out more plasma in yellowish beads. The fourth “monitored vitals,” his hands slipping under her tee to pinch her nipples through the bra, twisting the erect peaks—dark pink against her pale skin—making her massive tits bounce rhythmically as fresh tears fell.
One hour climaxed: burns at peak—clit a throbbing, blistered ruin, second-degree damage with large, fluid-filled blisters bursting to expose raw subdermis, now grotesquely enlarged from saline; lips swollen to twice their size, covered in weeping blisters, plasma mixing with blood in crimson rivulets. Elaine begged incoherently.
The lead “paramedic” spoke: “Ma’am, this is a severe allergic reaction—likely your new laundry detergent, causing a histaminic cascade and caustic inflammation. Medical studies show orgasm releases endorphins, acting as natural analgesics and vasodilators to soothe the area. It’s non-invasive, effective in ER cases.”
Elaine, shame warring with pain, balked. “No… that’s indecent!” But agony surged, her body cramping. “Okay… please, stop it!”
Climax was torturous—her body resisted. They “helped”: one rubbing her blistered clit with lubed, menthol-laced fingers, blending pain with forced arousal. Another fingered her hole, stretching swollen lips. A third kneaded her tits, twisting nipples. The fourth filmed—closeups of her degradation: face contorted, ass grinding, phat cheeks spreading as she humped air. Her moans turned to cries, prude resolve crumbling. Orgasm hit: convulsions, squirt mixing with burn fluids, endorphins dulling the edge. She collapsed, humiliated.
They “stabilized” her with placebo pills, advising rest. Elaine, exhausted, bought the detergent-allergy story, no suspicion of sabotage, trusting Mark’s concern.
Aftermath: The crew sold the video—her torture, forced climax—on dark web markets, splitting profits with Mark. He pocketed his share, guilt drowned by arousal, as SadistPrime teased: “Next weekend, we reload.” Elaine healed with scars, oblivious, while Mark’s addiction deepened.

End of chapter 1
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I enjoy the theme of sadistic candaulism and have many stories to share if there is interest. Let me know what you think in the comments.

[Claire]

@Pontrop12 Welcome to the forum! Before you post another story, please take 5 minutes to read the Quick Guide to Posting Stories and the Tag Guidelines. Your story was missing 3 of the 4 mandatory tags and used 8 optional despite those being limited to 6. I fixed the tags for you this time, but please make sure to do it yourself next time.

You also used the story template which is great! But you kept a lot of the placeholder text. I would encourage you o edit your post, choose a nice teaser for your story, and get rid of the content warnings line in case there is nothing to warn your readers about.

[skuttrusk]

Good story, very well written. The vivid description of blisters etc was slightly off-putting to me but at the same time I loved the sheer cruelty of it. I look forward to more stories but might prefer a younger victim without scars!

[JTCK]

An interesting story, I really like the setting… with middle-aged, everyday people. But towards the end it gets a bit too brutal for my taste – especially the scars, that’s kind of a turn-off for me. Still, thanks a lot for posting!

[Blue]

@Pontrop12