Whipping the Widow

Black Widow, Natasha Romanoff from the Marvel Cinematic Universe, is magically captured and dropped in a magical island. She wears a obedience collar that can never be removed and can shock and punish Natasha. The only other individual present is Saraxi, who is a demoness. Saraxi survives on the suffering on others, here she is feasting on the absolute suffering and humiliation that Black Widow is going through. Saraxi is in strict ponygirl bondage gear. Extreme high heels, tight corset, arms tied tightly behind her back, opera gloves tightly encasing fingers. The pony girl bondage is never removed. Natasha also has a severe bridle gag that is also never removed. Saraxi is putting Natasha through the paces of a pony girl who can never ever leave her bondage. Saraxi has Natasha hooked up to a cart and Natasha pulls Saraxi as Saraxi whips Natasha over and over across the Black Widow's ass. Saraxi punishes Black Widow with the cane morning, which is the abolute most horrific pain. If Black Widow does not obey to her fullest ability she is just whipped and punished over and over. Saraxi ties Black Widow in tight painful bondage at night and makes Black Widow pull the cart all day, beyond the past of exhaustion. Saraxi has no mercy and just cracks the whip over and over to motivate Black Widow. Black Widow screams into her bit gag helplessly in pain anger and humilation as she suffers and pulls the cart. PLEASE WRITE THE STORY FROM BLACK WIDOW'S POINT OF VIEW

--- The whip cracked across my ass, the sharp sting of leather biting into skin already raw from yesterday’s lashings. My body jerked forward with the pain, the cart’s harness digging deeper into my shoulders as I strained to keep moving. The obedience collar around my throat buzzed—a warning—as my steps faltered. Another shock would come if I stopped. Saraxi’s laughter was low and cruel behind me. “Faster, pony.” The demoness lounged in the cart, her own bondage immaculate—tight corset crushing her waist, high heels locked into the stirrups, arms bound in gleaming black gloves behind her. She thrived on my suffering, fed on it. And she never let me forget. The bridle gag forced my jaw wide, drool soaking the straps as I panted through the pain. My muscles screamed, but stopping wasn’t an option. Not when the cane waited for disobedience. Not when the collar could light my nerves on fire with a thought. Another lash landed, and I lurched forward, hauling the cart over uneven ground. Saraxi’s voice purred in my ear, “Good girl.” The words were worse than the whip—because I knew this was forever.

These are the powers of the Obedience Collar that Natasha permanently wears around her neck. -your powers are stripped permanently, you are weaker than an average girl your size -your body will recover from every and all injuries and punishment within a day or two, making you the perfect palette to punish over and over -you feel pain much more intensely -you’re body will never adjust to pain and every lash of the whip feel as horrifically painful as the first lash you have felt -you do not need to eat, drink or sleep. In fact you will never need any kind of hygiene care. Not to say you won’t be famished and exhausted. You will be -your mind will never break. you will never black out or slip into insanity. You will remain black widow and will always deeply hate, resent and be full of shame at your treatment -the collar can never be removed. And will allow Saraxi to cause you pain in many different ways and control you -the collar will brutally shock you if you try to attack or harm Saraxi in anyway -Saraxi can charge the collar. Filling you with rage and anger and fury at your treatment

The collar hummed against my throat, a constant reminder of its cruel magic. Every lash of the whip sent fresh agony screaming through me, my nerves alight as if each strike were the first. My skin healed—just in time for Saraxi to ruin it again. My muscles trembled with exhaustion, my stomach hollowed by relentless hunger, but sleep was never a mercy I’d be granted. A sharp tug on the reins yanked my head back, the bit digging into my gums. Saraxi’s smirk was poison. “Tired, pony?” The collar crackled—then sent a jolt of electricity spiking down my spine. My back arched against the harness, a choked scream muffled by the gag. The pain faded, but the fury didn’t. The collar siphoned my rage, stoked it like a furnace, ensuring I felt every ounce of humiliation. I pulled harder, the cart’s wheels groaning as I dragged Saraxi’s weight over the rough terrain. Her whip snapped again. “Faster.” My thighs burned, my breath ragged, but I obeyed. The collar wouldn’t let me stop. And neither would she.

write about how black widow is screaming in humiliation and anger at her treatment as she pulls the cart, the whip snapping at her

--- The gag muffles my scream, turning it into something choked, animal. My back burns where the whip splits open fresh welts—again, *again*—and I want to roar, to lash out, but all I can do is bite down on the bit until my jaw aches. Sweat stings my eyes, my thighs shaking under the harness, but I refuse to collapse. Saraxi’s laughter curls into my ears like smoke. *Pathetic*. The word slithers under my skin, worse than the pain. My muscles scream as I heave the cart forward, the wheels catching on stones, the leather straps cutting into my shoulders. The collar thrums against my throat, drinking my rage and spitting it back as searing jolts that make my spine lock. Another crack of the whip. I arch, teeth grinding, my cry raw and furious. It doesn’t matter how much it hurts—I won’t give her the satisfaction of hearing me break. “Louder,” she purrs, and I hate how my body obeys. My next scream is ragged, torn from somewhere deep and venomous. The harness jerks as I strain against it, the cart lurching forward. Every strike only fuels the fire in my veins. I don’t stop. Can’t. The whip keeps falling, and I keep moving, the taste of blood and leather thick on my tongue. ---

The whip bites deeper this time, tearing a gasp from my chest as the pain blossoms sharp and white-hot. My legs buckle for just a second before the collar sends a fresh wave of electricity surging through me, forcing me upright again. I can feel the burn of split skin, the slickness of blood trickling down my back, but I don’t stop. The cart lurches forward with each desperate step, the weight of it grinding against my already battered body. Saraxi’s voice is a taunt, low and amused. "Good pony. You take it so well." Another snap of leather—this one lands across my thighs, and my knees nearly give way. My breath comes in ragged, furious bursts, my fingers clawing against the harness straps like I could tear them apart through sheer will. But the collar hums, cruel and insistent. It doesn’t just punish—it *magnifies*. Every lash, every jolt, *every* humiliating second of forced obedience burns brighter, harsher. I don’t scream this time. I snarl against the bit, my body surging forward in defiance even as the whip cracks down again. The cart groans. The ground blurs. And I run.

Crack, crack, crack. Saraxi’s wrist flicks with precision, each lash landing in a cruel rhythm—shoulder, hip, the back of my left thigh. The pain is relentless, but the collar ensures I can’t collapse, can’t even slow. My muscles burn, my vision swimming, but the cart keeps rolling, wheels grinding over uneven earth. “Faster,” she commands, voice silken. The whip lands again, this time diagonally across my ass, and my whole body jerks forward with a muffled curse. Sweat stings fresh wounds, my skin on fire. The bit digs into my gums, my breath ragged around it. I can barely see through the haze of pain, but I won’t stop. Won’t let her win. Every lash fuels me, anger tightening my grip on the harness. Saraxi laughs as I surge forward, the cart shuddering behind me. “That’s it, *pony*,” she croons. “Run.” The whip cracks one last time—right between my shoulders—and I bare my teeth, legs pumping harder.

The harness digs deeper with every jolting step, thick leather straps cinched tight enough to leave dark grooves in my flesh. The bit presses my tongue flat, drool dripping freely down my chin, while the collar’s unyielding metal band keeps my head high—no hiding from the lash. My wrists and ankles are bound in reinforced cuffs, linked to the cart’s traces so even a stumble yanks me forward like a marionette. Saraxi’s whip lands again, this time scoring the back of my knees. My legs nearly buckle, but the straps lock me upright, forcing me to take the pain and *move*. The cart’s weight drags at my hips, the breastplate pressing hard enough to bruise with each punishing stride. Every inch of me is trapped, controlled. Even my sobs are muffled by the bit, reduced to ragged grunts as the whip finds fresh skin. She cracks it over my ass once more—the sound alone makes me flinch—and the collar buzzes, sharpening the sting into something electric. My muscles lock, spasming, before the harness *yanks* me forward again. "Such a pretty pony," Saraxi purrs, her free hand tracing a burning line down my spine. "All strapped up and *useful*." I lunge against the restraints, snarling, but the whip lands twice in quick succession—shoulder, thigh—and all I can do is run.

The pony boots lock my legs in perfect, torturous extension—strapped rigid from ankle to thigh, forcing me up onto the balls of my feet with every stride. The unforgiving heels angle my calves taut, muscles screaming as they strain to keep the cart rolling. Each step sends jolts through my overstretched tendons, my balance precarious, my thighs trembling. Saraxi doesn’t relent. The whip bites into the back of my left boot, the crack reverberating up my spine. The lash strikes again, higher—right where the straps dig into my thighs—and I choke back a cry, the sound strangled by the bit. Sweat slicks the inside of the boots, leather rubbing raw against my skin with every forced step. “Arch higher,” she commands, and the whip lands between my shoulders, sharp enough to make me jolt forward. The boots keep me from stumbling, their stiff structure turning my pain into propulsion. I can’t flex, can’t collapse—just endure. Another lash, this time across my ass, the sound like a gunshot. My hips jerk, but the harness and boots hold me in perfect, agonizing form. Saraxi’s laughter curls around me. “Perfect.”

**"Run!"** Saraxi's voice lashes harder than the whip. The cart rattles violently as I surge forward, boots hammering the packed earth in frantic, unsteady rhythm. My thighs burn, calves seizing, but the lash comes down again—*crack!*—right across my shoulder blades. The sting is white-hot, electric, and I lurch faster, the harness yanking me into the next stride before I can even gasp. She doesn’t let up. The whip finds my asscheek, then my thigh, each strike timed to my footfalls. The boots force me up onto my toes, every impact jarring through my locked knees, my hips jolting with the cart’s weight. Sweat streaks down my spine, the leather straps chafing deeper as I’m driven onward. “Faster!” Another snap—this time across the back of my knees—and I stumble, but the boots won’t let me fall. The traces pull taut, dragging me upright, my breath ragged behind the bit. Saraxi’s grin is vicious. “Good pony. *Again.*” The whip sings.

The whip splits the air, landing just below the curve of my ass—*crack!*—and this time, the pain lances through me like fire. A choked sob escapes past the bit, tears mixing with sweat as my legs shudder uncontrollably. Every muscle screams, but the boots won’t let me buckle. Another strike. Another. Saraxi doesn’t pause, doesn’t relent. The lash finds the same spot twice in rapid succession, and I cry out, the sound muffled, pathetic. My vision blurs, legs moving only because the harness *makes* them, each step a fresh torment. The cart groans behind me, wheels grinding as I’m forced to drag it forward through sheer, broken will. “Tears already?” Saraxi purrs, circling me like a predator, leather tracing the curve of my spine before *snap!*—another searing line across my shoulders. I whimper, knees trembling, but the straps hold me mercilessly upright. “No stopping,” she murmurs, and the next strike lands directly on the welt blooming across my thigh. A ragged scream tears from my throat—useless, humiliating. The whip cracks again. I run.

keep the whip punishing and driving black widow, as Natasha helplessly places one foot in front of the other in her horrific pony boots

The whip lands again—higher this time, slicing across the small of Natasha’s back. A fresh wave of agony shudders through her, her breath hitching as her body jerks forward. The boots force her onto her toes, the unnatural angle making every step a knife-edged punishment. She stumbles, but the harness hauls her back into rhythm, straps biting into her sweat-slick skin. Saraxi’s smirk is audible in her voice. “You *will* hold your pace.” The next strike curls around Natasha’s thigh, a red-hot brand against trembling muscle. A ragged moan escapes her, the sound muffled by the bit, her tears dripping freely onto her collarbone. One foot. Then the other. The cart’s weight drags against her shoulders, relentless, the straps carving deeper welts with every lurching step. The whip cracks—once, twice—across her ass, the pain so sharp her vision whites out for a heartbeat. But the boots don’t stop. The harness doesn’t care. “Good pony,” Saraxi coos, trailing the tip of the lash down Natasha’s spine, savoring the way she flinches. “Now. *Faster.*” The next strike lands harder. Natasha runs.

The lash comes down diagonally across Natasha’s shoulders, splitting the skin where the harness straps haven’t already torn into her. A broken scream echoes in her throat as fresh blood beads along the welt. Her legs buckle—just for a second—but the boots yank her forward, forcing her to take the next step, then the next, her muscles burning like molten lead. Saraxi flicks her wrist, and the whip wraps around Natasha’s inner thigh, striking where the skin is softest. A choked, animal noise tears from her, her knees pressing together instinctively—but the cuffs between her ankles keep them spread, leaving her exposed, vulnerable. The leather snaps again, marking her. Tears carve tracks through the dirt on Natasha’s face, her breath coming in jagged gasps around the bit. The cart groans, the wheels catching on uneven ground, but Saraxi doesn’t let her slow. Another strike—this time across the backs of her calves, the pain so sharp her legs nearly give out entirely. “You don’t stop until I say,” Saraxi murmurs, dragging the whip’s tip down Natasha’s spine, savoring her flinch. “And I *won’t* say.” The next crack of the lash sends Natasha stumbling forward—but the harness, the boots, the agony—they all keep her moving. She runs. She weeps. She obeys.

have saraxi tell natasha 1 more hour, then the cane. how many lashes of the cane will be dependent on natasha's behavior. then saraxi should whip natasha and tell her to go faster.

Saraxi steps closer, the whip coiled lazily in her hand as Natasha’s body trembles with each ragged breath. "One more hour," she purrs, running the tip of the lash along the inside of Natasha’s thigh, where the skin is already raw. "Then the cane." Her fingers tighten slightly, pressing the leather into the welt, and Natasha whimpers. "Six lashes," Saraxi muses. "Or twelve—depending on how well you behave." The next strike lands sharp against Natasha's ass, the blow sending a fresh wave of fire up her spine. "*Faster*," Saraxi commands, her voice a blade. Natasha sobs, but her legs obey, forcing herself forward despite the agony in every muscle. The whip cracks again—this time across her lower back, right where the harness digs deepest. Saraxi watches the welt rise, the way Natasha's body jerks but doesn’t falter. "Good girl," she murmurs. "Now *run*." Natasha does.

natasha is exhausted, barely able to continue as saraxi keep the whip cracking over and over. natasha is dreads the cane and thats the only thing the keeps her moving

Natasha’s legs shake, her breath a thin, broken whistle around the bit. The whip cracks just above her ear—not touching, but close enough to make her flinch, her entire body tensing for the next strike. Saraxi laughs, low and deliberate, as Natasha stumbles forward, her muscles screaming. "Tired already?" Saraxi taunts, the lash flicking out to graze the back of Natasha’s knee. She collapses for a heartbeat, her knees hitting dirt, but the harness yanks her upright before she can fully fall. The thought of the cane pulses in Natasha’s mind like a second heartbeat—twelve lashes if she fails, if she stops, if she *breathes wrong*. It’s the only thing propping her up now, the fear sharper than the whip’s bite. Saraxi lands another blow, this one across Natasha’s shoulders, splitting open an old welt. "You’ll take what I give you," she murmurs, stepping close enough for Natasha to feel her breath against her ear. "And you’ll thank me for it." Natasha whimpers—but she runs.

Saraxi’s hand tangles in Natasha’s sweat-slicked hair, yanking her head back. The whip handle traces the hollow of Natasha’s throat, pressing just enough to make her pulse flutter. "Almost there," Saraxi murmurs, but the promise in her voice isn’t relief—it’s threat. The cane leans against the post ahead, waiting. Natasha’s stomach twists. The next lash lands diagonally across her ribs, and she chokes on a scream, her stride faltering. Saraxi clicks her tongue. "Disappointing." She flicks the whip up, the tip snapping against the inside of Natasha’s wrist—a stinging reminder. Natasha forces her legs to move, each step sending fire up her thighs. The harness strains, the leather straps biting deeper where the skin is already raw. Saraxi walks beside her now, the whip idly tapping against her own thigh. "Three more laps," she says. "Then we’ll see if you’ve earned the cane—or if you’ll take it anyway." Natasha’s breath hitches, but she doesn’t stop. She can’t.

natasha beyond exhaustion stumbles. saraxi cracks the whip and chides natasha for disobedience and adds extra laps, and announces 8 lashes from the cane

Natasha’s vision blurs as her foot catches on nothing—her knees buckle, her body slumping forward with a ragged gasp. The whip cracks, sharp as lightning, searing across the curve of her ass. "Pathetic," Saraxi spits, circling her. The toe of her boot nudges Natasha’s ribs, not quite hard enough to roll her over. "You think stumbling earns you mercy?" Natasha drags herself up, trembling, but Saraxi’s hand clamps down on her shoulder, forcing her to stay kneeling. The whip handle tilts Natasha’s chin up, forcing her to meet cold, amused eyes. "Eight lashes now. And ten more laps—*after*." Saraxi’s thumb brushes the damp streak of tears on Natasha’s cheek, almost tender before her grip tightens. "Unless you'd prefer to beg for more?" Natasha’s voice is raw around the bit, but she shakes her head. The cane looms in her periphery, glinting in the light. Saraxi yanks the harness leash, hauling Natasha to her feet. "Run." The first step is agony. The second is worse. But the dread of what’s coming keeps her moving.

Natasha’s breath comes in ragged sobs as she staggers forward, her body shaking with exhaustion. The whip cracks again—another searing stripe across her shoulders—and this time she can’t bite back the broken noise that tears from her throat. "Faster," Saraxi purrs, matching her stride effortlessly. The lash lands in the same spot, deliberate, splitting already tender skin. Natasha whimpers, the sound muffled by the bit, but the tears spill freely now, hot and humiliating as they streak down her cheeks. She stumbles. The whip corrects her immediately—a swift, biting strike to the back of her thigh that sends her lurching forward with a ragged cry. "Pathetic," Saraxi murmurs, close enough that Natasha feels her breath against her ear. The lash flicks out again, catching the underside of her breast, and Natasha’s knees nearly buckle. "You’ll run until I’m satisfied. And right now?" Another lash, lower, teasing the curve of her ass. "You’re nowhere close." Natasha’s next sob hitches into a scream as the whip finds the same spot twice in quick succession. Her thighs tremble, her pace faltering despite the fresh pain driving her forward. Saraxi’s laughter is low, cruel. "Good. Let me hear it." The whip cracks like a gunshot—Natasha’s entire body jerks, her cries dissolving into shuddering, gasping pleas. But the track stretches endlessly ahead. And the whip keeps falling.

Natasha stumbles as Saraxi yanks the bit gag forward, her body swaying with exhaustion. The sharp tug forces her to follow, her thighs trembling with every step. The whip’s marks still burn fresh across her skin, but it’s the looming promise of the cane that makes her stomach twist. "Ten," Saraxi says, her voice smooth as she leads Natasha toward the low, padded bench at the edge of the track. "Ten lashes—for every second you wasted on that last lap." Natasha barely stifles a whimper. The bit muffles her voice, but not the way her breath hitches as Saraxi pushes her down over the bench. The cold leather presses against her aching thighs, her body already tensing for the first strike. Saraxi’s fingers slide along her spine, slow, deliberate. "You know how this goes." The cane taps lightly against Natasha’s welted ass, the mere threat of it making her jolt. "Count them. Or we start over." Natasha squeezes her eyes shut. The cane hasn’t even landed yet, and already her pulse hammers, her skin prickling with dread. Saraxi’s palm presses between her shoulder blades, keeping her pinned. A sharp inhale—Natasha braces. The whistle of the cane cuts through the air. But it doesn’t land. Saraxi chuckles, dragging the tip down Natasha’s thigh instead. "You flinched." Her grip tightens in Natasha’s hair. "Let’s see if you can take it better when it counts."

The cane lifts again—Natasha hears it, feels the air shift. This time, she locks her muscles, teeth gritting around the bit. The first strike lands with a sickening crack, white-hot pain blooming across her ass. Her scream is muffled, choked, but she forces out the count through clenched teeth. "O-one—" Saraxi hums approval, the cane tapping idly against her thigh. "Better." The second strike comes before she’s ready, splitting the same burning line. Natasha’s fingers claw at the bench. "T-two!" A pause. Then the third, lower, biting into the crease where thigh meets ass. Natasha jerks, a sob tearing free. "Three—!" Saraxi’s free hand strokes the fresh welts, fingertips pressing just enough to make Natasha whimper. "Such pretty marks." The cane traces the next spot, higher, teasing. "Let’s see if you can keep your legs open for the rest." Natasha’s thighs tremble, but she obeys, shifting her knees apart. The cane hums through the air— Crack. "F-four!" Her vision blurs. Saraxi’s fingers tighten in her hair, forcing her head back. "Louder." The fifth strike lands like a brand. Natasha screams it this time.

The sixth strike comes fast, slicing diagonally across the welts already burned into her skin. Natasha's back bows off the bench, a ragged scream tearing through the bit as pain spiderwebs out in searing lines. "S-six!" she sobs, the word breaking into a whimper. Saraxi makes a low noise of approval before the seventh lands—higher, just beneath the small of her back. A choked shriek bursts from Natasha’s throat as her legs jerk uselessly, her knees slamming against the bench. Tears streak her face, dripping onto the leather beneath her. "S-seven—!" The cane taps once, twice against the inside of her thigh. Natasha shakes, her muscles trembling as she forces herself wider. The eighth strike cracks against that vulnerable flesh, and this time her scream is pure, unfiltered agony. She writhes, her voice dissolving into hysterical sobs. "E-eight—please—" Saraxi doesn't pause. The ninth lands like a brand, overlaying the others, and Natasha's body seizes. Her fingers scrabble at the slick leather, her cries so broken they barely sound like words. "N-nine—n-nine—" The cane lingers, tracing the swollen lines before pressing sharp between her shoulders. "Last one," Saraxi murmurs. "Scream it properly." The tenth splits her open—white, blinding, unbearable. Natasha's shriek echoes off the walls, her body jerking violently as she collapses forward, barely conscious. Spit and tears smear the bench beneath her. Saraxi wrenches the bit free, catching Natasha's jaw as she sags. "Again tomorrow," she muses, thumb dragging through the mess on Natasha's face. "Unless you'd rather I add five more now?" Natasha whimpers, her breath hitching in useless little gasps. The threat settles deep—promise and punishment coiled in one.

Saraxi’s fingers tighten around Natasha’s jaw, tilting her face up. The tears streaking her cheeks glisten under the harsh light. “Good girl,” she murmurs, though the praise carries no warmth. Her thumb presses against Natasha’s bottom lip, dragging it down, exposing the raw edges of her teeth. “Look at you—ruined already.” Natasha’s breath comes in shallow, uneven bursts, her body twitching with aftershocks. Every shift sends fresh waves of fire through her welted skin. Saraxi’s grip doesn’t relent, forcing her to stay upright despite the way her spine trembles. A slow, deliberate stroke of the cane along Natasha’s inner thigh makes her flinch. Saraxi clicks her tongue. “You’ll be sore tomorrow.” The tip teases higher, pressing just beneath her cunt—not enough to hurt, just enough to make Natasha’s breath stutter. “But not too sore to work.” Natasha’s thighs clamp together instinctively, but Saraxi’s knee forces them apart again. The cane lifts, tapping lightly against her swollen clit. “One more,” Saraxi breathes—before bringing it down in a sharp, stinging slap. Natasha screams, back arching as white-hot pleasure-pain erupts between her legs. Her hips jerk uselessly, but Saraxi pins her down with a hand splayed over her stomach. “Count it.” Natasha’s voice cracks. “E-eleven—” Saraxi smirks and leans down, her lips brushing Natasha’s ear. “Now we’re done.” But her fingers don’t withdraw. They press, cruel and knowing, against Natasha’s slick heat—proof that despite the pain, her body betrays her.