He took up the cane
not for my pain
but for color, for
heat, the rain of blows
restrained, traveling the
lane from the mounds
of my butt
down wincing thighs,
back to the blush of
white turned to pink
burnt to red.
"It hurts,"
I cried. "Daddy,
you're hurting me!"
I whined, as the
flow down my thighs
betrayed to his fingers
the truth of my need.
Showing posts with label butt plug. Show all posts
Showing posts with label butt plug. Show all posts
Sunday, November 2, 2014
Thursday, September 4, 2014
Saturday, October 26, 2013
Power to the butt plug
You would think he had hypnotized me.
Or cast a wizard's spell.
Or came from another planet
and transformed me with intergalactic vibrations.
But no.
Nothing so exotic.
Nothing more than plastic.
A little knob of purple silicone
shoved up my well-oiled ass.
It's not even that big, you know.
My little purple butt plug.
You've seen it.
You've read about it.
I've always liked it.
But now he's smitten with it.
Smitten with its power.
It turns me to jelly.
He orders me up onto the bed. On my hands and knees, head facing the head of the bed. Back arched to best present my little puckered ass hole to him. My little puckered ass hole which he swears is pink although it really doesn't look that young and pink to me but if that is how it appears to him who am I to argue because then he'll just beat me till I agree.
So I present my PINK butt hole, and (it seems) he coats a finger with K-Y and plunges it in and out of me to prepare me for entry and coats the pretty purple plug with more K-Y and pushes a few times till it pops past the stubborn outer gate and then thrusts hard so it is wedged inside me and then cranks it around as if he were truly screwing me and then fucks me with it and meanwhile I'm descending into I'm not sure where but it's somewhere I usually mustn't be because I must be alert and focused and thinking only of serving him and his cock and his pleasure but when he fucks me with the butt plug I am to give myself to the sensation and to its power which is his power and sometimes he sort of hits at it which doesn't actually hurt but instead nails it into me, intrudes on me, pounds a little and I feel each little thud of impact in my womb and I sink and I sink and if he kept it up I'd be flying so high he could torture me to death and I would welcome it and smile and thank him as my life slipped away.
But instead he eventually stops and raises me to my feet and I stand naked before him and raise my face towards his and offer my mouth and as we both know because it happens every time my mouth is so damn soft you'd think my lips were a mound of whipped cream but warm and moist and soft and yielding and right there is a testament to the beauty of his power and I look up into his eyes because he always wants my eyes and my eyes are glowing and he sees into me deeper than I even can see into myself and Yes. It was always thus. Butt plug or no. He has always seen into me and knows what I need and knows what I want and knows who I am and knows how to make the most of that and knows - as we both know - that I am dripping, melting, sopping wet.
And then he is inside me.
Or cast a wizard's spell.
Or came from another planet
and transformed me with intergalactic vibrations.
But no.
Nothing so exotic.
Nothing more than plastic.
A little knob of purple silicone
shoved up my well-oiled ass.
It's not even that big, you know.
My little purple butt plug.
You've seen it.
You've read about it.
I've always liked it.
But now he's smitten with it.
Smitten with its power.
It turns me to jelly.
He orders me up onto the bed. On my hands and knees, head facing the head of the bed. Back arched to best present my little puckered ass hole to him. My little puckered ass hole which he swears is pink although it really doesn't look that young and pink to me but if that is how it appears to him who am I to argue because then he'll just beat me till I agree.
So I present my PINK butt hole, and (it seems) he coats a finger with K-Y and plunges it in and out of me to prepare me for entry and coats the pretty purple plug with more K-Y and pushes a few times till it pops past the stubborn outer gate and then thrusts hard so it is wedged inside me and then cranks it around as if he were truly screwing me and then fucks me with it and meanwhile I'm descending into I'm not sure where but it's somewhere I usually mustn't be because I must be alert and focused and thinking only of serving him and his cock and his pleasure but when he fucks me with the butt plug I am to give myself to the sensation and to its power which is his power and sometimes he sort of hits at it which doesn't actually hurt but instead nails it into me, intrudes on me, pounds a little and I feel each little thud of impact in my womb and I sink and I sink and if he kept it up I'd be flying so high he could torture me to death and I would welcome it and smile and thank him as my life slipped away.
But instead he eventually stops and raises me to my feet and I stand naked before him and raise my face towards his and offer my mouth and as we both know because it happens every time my mouth is so damn soft you'd think my lips were a mound of whipped cream but warm and moist and soft and yielding and right there is a testament to the beauty of his power and I look up into his eyes because he always wants my eyes and my eyes are glowing and he sees into me deeper than I even can see into myself and Yes. It was always thus. Butt plug or no. He has always seen into me and knows what I need and knows what I want and knows who I am and knows how to make the most of that and knows - as we both know - that I am dripping, melting, sopping wet.
And then he is inside me.
Tuesday, October 22, 2013
Pain and joy and submission.
Nothing much to report.
Bruises are fading, though still dramatic.
And I wrote the first draft of a poem.
It's been a while.
The poem.
And it felt good.
A relief.
The spanking.
The whipping.
The hair brush that broke after just a few swats.
The hard slaps to my face that did not leave a mark.
I can never understand why they don't leave a mark.
And I hate...
I hate that I respond to it.
See? I guess there is something to report...
There have been changes during these many quiet months. The relationship has evolved over time. Deepened. Survived more of our usual crises. Survived crises in our other lives. In what you might think to call the real world but to me only the hours we spend together are the real world and the rest is the illusion that provides a structure of practicality within which our real world exists.
I won't talk about the complications of his life except to say that there was no way they couldn't affect our own interactions. As for me, my mom had a stroke a year and a half ago and finally died late last June. It was time. And a relief. My dad is still alive, edging towards a hundred, with creeping dementia. He's become a lot sweeter though, and I know I'll mourn him when he's gone. I even wish I lived closer, which is a first. So few years of a good relationship. Too few years. But better than nothing.
I became unhappy at my job, because my department head was micromanaging me until I couldn't breathe. And now - poof! - he was forced out. Happy me! No guarantee how things will turn out, but at least one sure bad thing will be gone in a week and a half. And so. I repeat. Happy me.
Happy pet.
Which goes back to last weekend.
Punishment.
Correction.
Training.
I did something quite bad.
Thoughtless.
Explainable.
But he doesn't take explanations.
And anyway, I should have known better.
The bad thing happened last July.
We're slowly working our way back.
And then I...
It doesn't matter really.
A small thing but a telling thing.
So the whipping.
And all the rest.
Punishment and correction and training.
And eventually just for his pleasure.
In the end, it worked. Not just to convey the lesson, but also to cleanse me. To center me. To beat out of me all the accumulated emotional debris as well as the dust bunnies and fog clouding my (his words) beautiful brain.
A deepening of my submission.
An appreciation.
Because the beauty, the glory, the transcendence of such an abuse of my body is not the pain - although I do admit that up to a point (quickly reached) there is some measure of pleasure in it and - here comes the part that always embarrasses me and perhaps some of you as well - I grow sloppy wet as he beats and pinches and whips and slaps and... But the true beauty of it all, the part that feels best of all, is the submission. The offering. The acceptance. So that even as he brings his whipping belt down hard (for me) on the sensitive, vulnerable, screaming tissues of my sweet pink pussy, I try ever so hard to keep my legs open and accept whatever his own pain and desire drive him to do to me. And later, after, lying close and soft and warm next to his sated body, listening to the murmurings of his for-now eased mind, I feel the joy of having yielded to him everything I am. Of having given him everything in irrational and unlimited trust.
And my reward is the safety and comfort of the sadly not physical cage in which he keeps me, and the hours lying beside him with his collar around my neck.
PS - No. He most certainly did not allow me to cum, although he deliberately brought me very close.
Bruises are fading, though still dramatic.
And I wrote the first draft of a poem.
It's been a while.
The poem.
And it felt good.
A relief.
The spanking.
The whipping.
The hair brush that broke after just a few swats.
The hard slaps to my face that did not leave a mark.
I can never understand why they don't leave a mark.
And I hate...
I hate that I respond to it.
See? I guess there is something to report...
There have been changes during these many quiet months. The relationship has evolved over time. Deepened. Survived more of our usual crises. Survived crises in our other lives. In what you might think to call the real world but to me only the hours we spend together are the real world and the rest is the illusion that provides a structure of practicality within which our real world exists.
I won't talk about the complications of his life except to say that there was no way they couldn't affect our own interactions. As for me, my mom had a stroke a year and a half ago and finally died late last June. It was time. And a relief. My dad is still alive, edging towards a hundred, with creeping dementia. He's become a lot sweeter though, and I know I'll mourn him when he's gone. I even wish I lived closer, which is a first. So few years of a good relationship. Too few years. But better than nothing.
I became unhappy at my job, because my department head was micromanaging me until I couldn't breathe. And now - poof! - he was forced out. Happy me! No guarantee how things will turn out, but at least one sure bad thing will be gone in a week and a half. And so. I repeat. Happy me.
Happy pet.
Which goes back to last weekend.
Punishment.
Correction.
Training.
I did something quite bad.
Thoughtless.
Explainable.
But he doesn't take explanations.
And anyway, I should have known better.
The bad thing happened last July.
We're slowly working our way back.
And then I...
It doesn't matter really.
A small thing but a telling thing.
So the whipping.
And all the rest.
Punishment and correction and training.
And eventually just for his pleasure.
In the end, it worked. Not just to convey the lesson, but also to cleanse me. To center me. To beat out of me all the accumulated emotional debris as well as the dust bunnies and fog clouding my (his words) beautiful brain.
A deepening of my submission.
An appreciation.
Because the beauty, the glory, the transcendence of such an abuse of my body is not the pain - although I do admit that up to a point (quickly reached) there is some measure of pleasure in it and - here comes the part that always embarrasses me and perhaps some of you as well - I grow sloppy wet as he beats and pinches and whips and slaps and... But the true beauty of it all, the part that feels best of all, is the submission. The offering. The acceptance. So that even as he brings his whipping belt down hard (for me) on the sensitive, vulnerable, screaming tissues of my sweet pink pussy, I try ever so hard to keep my legs open and accept whatever his own pain and desire drive him to do to me. And later, after, lying close and soft and warm next to his sated body, listening to the murmurings of his for-now eased mind, I feel the joy of having yielded to him everything I am. Of having given him everything in irrational and unlimited trust.
And my reward is the safety and comfort of the sadly not physical cage in which he keeps me, and the hours lying beside him with his collar around my neck.
PS - No. He most certainly did not allow me to cum, although he deliberately brought me very close.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Forced masturbation; the torture of pleasure (2)
Continued from yesterday's post, a slightly edited version of the day's correspondence; day devoted to orgasm-less masturbation, every 2 hours. An activity meant to submerge me in my service as my Master's sex slave.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I am feeling chained by this schedule, my Lord. The frequency of my duties pulls on my leash every 2 hours. I both resent and crave it and, most of all, feel your ownership.
This time, my Lord, I pulled off my jeans and left them lying on the floor by my bed. Only my plain white cotton panties were pushed down below my knees as I lay in the bed. My body knew what it wanted. What it needed. I felt its desperation. It wasn't content to passively receive the vibrations. First my need commanded my hand to move the little device back and forth over my clit. Then it ordered my body to thrust back and forth under the silicone, seizing the stimulation it craved while knowing that its real desire would go unfulfilled.
For the first time today, I wanted to shove the instrument of your torment inside me. I reached down to spread my lips and came across the Tampax string. Oh well... Yet another stage in the torture.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I'm feeling crazed, my Lord.
Desperate.
Imprisoned.
Frantic.
Tortured.
That pleases you.
Doesn't it, my Lord...
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
(Please, my Lord. May I use an edited version of my reports, plus your initial assignment, in a blog post? Not the [xxx] part, though. That's private. Thank you, my Master.)
My Master.
Yes.
Very much that.
You are exercising your power today, my Lord.
Reminding me of how powerless I am.
Reminding me that everything I do - everything - is for you.
Reminding me how I rejoice in my suffering as you choke me with your chain.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
[As the signal arrived for the next masturbation session]
Again?!
Already??!!!
Yes, my Lord...
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
You may [post the reports], but make sure you give me a special session of torment for the next one.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
[sent from my cell phone as I was masturbating]
Torment.
Right now, my Lord.
I've wedged the little vibrator between my legs.
Between my lips.
The tip is making my anus buzz.
I see nothing but scenes of torture...
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
My eyes are glazed with the pain of pleasure of pain of pleasure... I'm no longer sure where one leaves off and the other begins... it's a wave... flowing.... a stream of pleasure and pain pouring from my womb, propelled in a green river as the pump contracts with sharp stabs...
"Beg me, my pet."
Your words are sweet, gentle, honey tinged with poison.
"Please, my Lord..."
I can barely get out the words.
"Please, please, may I cum? Please may I cum... for you..."
"And what will you give me if I let you cum, my pet?"
"Everything, my Lord. Everything and more."
You seize the chain clasped tightly around my neck and drag me to the coffee table. You shove a pillow under my belly and tightly bind my wrists and ankles to the table legs.
I hear the match strike.
I smell the sulphur.
I sniff the singeing of the wick, the melting of the wax.
I see you take a paper clip from your pocket.
I watch you bend it.
I observe your hand close around the pliers.
I watch the thin metal rise in the air and approach the candle flame.
I do not look away as the silver turns to red.
I breathe deeply and and give thanks for my unbearable arousal.
I gasp as you press the tiny brand against my butt cheek.
I feel the tears rise in my throat.
I do not yet see the tiny letter you have seared into my skin.
But I know it is there.
I cry with pain and joy.
I forget about cumming.
I belong to you.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
My pussy lips are red and swollen, my Lord.
They hurt.
I am stunned and dazed, my Lord.
For you, my Lord...
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Now you may post.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Thank you, my Lord.
And thank you for allowing me to distract you all day.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Time for another round, my Lord.
My pussy now exists only for you.
And so I suffer more pleasure.
All for you.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
My body is desperate to cum, my Lord.
My brain is firing wildly.
Image after image bounced off the walls of my mind.
You force me to live like this for the rest of my life.
Every 2 hours for the rest of my life.
I am restrained and touched and prodded and bombarded with stimuli.
You take me to the casino, controlling a vibrator embedded in my pussy. At first you administer pulses here and there but soon it is going non-stop and I'm wriggling and moaning as you scold me for not concentrating on the craps game.
We are up in the hotel room.
The one at the casino.
Or the one with white linens.
The images move swiftly.
I'm on my belly.
Or bent over.
You flog me.
Cane me.
Beat me with the hairbrush.
The pain isn't in the images.
I don't relive the pain.
I just see you.
And the implement
coming down on my butt.
And then man after man
using me
fucking me
from behind
always from behind
ramming his cock into my poor abused butt hole.
My body and mind have joined forces, my Lord, to say how much I need to cum.
I know it won't make any difference, my Lord.
I know it is forbidden.
The next time I touch myself, my Lord, we will be watching The Borgias together.
And you will feel my agony...
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
And so, my Lord.
The last time.
I reclined back on my pillows as I watched The Borgias from my bed. Naked, the chain clipped tight around my left ankle, the butt plug firmly in place - all these things as they still are. I was distracted, my Lord. The phone rang twice during the first half hour - calls from my parents that I didn't answer as they very belatedly returned my call from earlier in the evening. I was distracted. I searched for the sense of you with me and I couldn't find you.
The warning came at 10:25. The 5 minute warning to once again touch the pussy you hold captive for my torment and your pleasure. I held the little purple vibrator in my hand until the 5 minutes passed, then turned it on and settled it gently against my tired tissues.
Tired.
My pussy was tired.
My pussy was tired and the armies were preparing for war.
This time, the little device didn't make me crazy.
Instead, it settled me down.
It calmed my distraction.
It brought me home to you.
I belong to you, my Lord.
I belong to you, my Master.
I am yours in a way that is far greater than these titles,
these modes of address,
these rituals of my devotion can possibly convey.
I am deeply and truly yours, my Lord.
My Master.
We are both, perhaps, slaves to that.
I love you, my Lord.
And my body yearns for yours.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I am feeling chained by this schedule, my Lord. The frequency of my duties pulls on my leash every 2 hours. I both resent and crave it and, most of all, feel your ownership.
This time, my Lord, I pulled off my jeans and left them lying on the floor by my bed. Only my plain white cotton panties were pushed down below my knees as I lay in the bed. My body knew what it wanted. What it needed. I felt its desperation. It wasn't content to passively receive the vibrations. First my need commanded my hand to move the little device back and forth over my clit. Then it ordered my body to thrust back and forth under the silicone, seizing the stimulation it craved while knowing that its real desire would go unfulfilled.
For the first time today, I wanted to shove the instrument of your torment inside me. I reached down to spread my lips and came across the Tampax string. Oh well... Yet another stage in the torture.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I'm feeling crazed, my Lord.
Desperate.
Imprisoned.
Frantic.
Tortured.
That pleases you.
Doesn't it, my Lord...
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
(Please, my Lord. May I use an edited version of my reports, plus your initial assignment, in a blog post? Not the [xxx] part, though. That's private. Thank you, my Master.)
My Master.
Yes.
Very much that.
You are exercising your power today, my Lord.
Reminding me of how powerless I am.
Reminding me that everything I do - everything - is for you.
Reminding me how I rejoice in my suffering as you choke me with your chain.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
[As the signal arrived for the next masturbation session]
Again?!
Already??!!!
Yes, my Lord...
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
You may [post the reports], but make sure you give me a special session of torment for the next one.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
[sent from my cell phone as I was masturbating]
Torment.
Right now, my Lord.
I've wedged the little vibrator between my legs.
Between my lips.
The tip is making my anus buzz.
I see nothing but scenes of torture...
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
My eyes are glazed with the pain of pleasure of pain of pleasure... I'm no longer sure where one leaves off and the other begins... it's a wave... flowing.... a stream of pleasure and pain pouring from my womb, propelled in a green river as the pump contracts with sharp stabs...
"Beg me, my pet."
Your words are sweet, gentle, honey tinged with poison.
"Please, my Lord..."
I can barely get out the words.
"Please, please, may I cum? Please may I cum... for you..."
"And what will you give me if I let you cum, my pet?"
"Everything, my Lord. Everything and more."
You seize the chain clasped tightly around my neck and drag me to the coffee table. You shove a pillow under my belly and tightly bind my wrists and ankles to the table legs.
I hear the match strike.
I smell the sulphur.
I sniff the singeing of the wick, the melting of the wax.
I see you take a paper clip from your pocket.
I watch you bend it.
I observe your hand close around the pliers.
I watch the thin metal rise in the air and approach the candle flame.
I do not look away as the silver turns to red.
I breathe deeply and and give thanks for my unbearable arousal.
I gasp as you press the tiny brand against my butt cheek.
I feel the tears rise in my throat.
I do not yet see the tiny letter you have seared into my skin.
But I know it is there.
I cry with pain and joy.
I forget about cumming.
I belong to you.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
My pussy lips are red and swollen, my Lord.
They hurt.
I am stunned and dazed, my Lord.
For you, my Lord...
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Now you may post.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Thank you, my Lord.
And thank you for allowing me to distract you all day.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Time for another round, my Lord.
My pussy now exists only for you.
And so I suffer more pleasure.
All for you.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
My body is desperate to cum, my Lord.
My brain is firing wildly.
Image after image bounced off the walls of my mind.
You force me to live like this for the rest of my life.
Every 2 hours for the rest of my life.
I am restrained and touched and prodded and bombarded with stimuli.
You take me to the casino, controlling a vibrator embedded in my pussy. At first you administer pulses here and there but soon it is going non-stop and I'm wriggling and moaning as you scold me for not concentrating on the craps game.
We are up in the hotel room.
The one at the casino.
Or the one with white linens.
The images move swiftly.
I'm on my belly.
Or bent over.
You flog me.
Cane me.
Beat me with the hairbrush.
The pain isn't in the images.
I don't relive the pain.
I just see you.
And the implement
coming down on my butt.
And then man after man
using me
fucking me
from behind
always from behind
ramming his cock into my poor abused butt hole.
My body and mind have joined forces, my Lord, to say how much I need to cum.
I know it won't make any difference, my Lord.
I know it is forbidden.
The next time I touch myself, my Lord, we will be watching The Borgias together.
And you will feel my agony...
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
And so, my Lord.
The last time.
I reclined back on my pillows as I watched The Borgias from my bed. Naked, the chain clipped tight around my left ankle, the butt plug firmly in place - all these things as they still are. I was distracted, my Lord. The phone rang twice during the first half hour - calls from my parents that I didn't answer as they very belatedly returned my call from earlier in the evening. I was distracted. I searched for the sense of you with me and I couldn't find you.
The warning came at 10:25. The 5 minute warning to once again touch the pussy you hold captive for my torment and your pleasure. I held the little purple vibrator in my hand until the 5 minutes passed, then turned it on and settled it gently against my tired tissues.
Tired.
My pussy was tired.
My pussy was tired and the armies were preparing for war.
This time, the little device didn't make me crazy.
Instead, it settled me down.
It calmed my distraction.
It brought me home to you.
I belong to you, my Lord.
I belong to you, my Master.
I am yours in a way that is far greater than these titles,
these modes of address,
these rituals of my devotion can possibly convey.
I am deeply and truly yours, my Lord.
My Master.
We are both, perhaps, slaves to that.
I love you, my Lord.
And my body yearns for yours.
Monday, May 9, 2011
Masturbation mania (6) - submitting to the Fun Factory Bootie
As you can see from the photograph, responses to part 1 of my adventures with the Bootie butt plug inspired me to boil my little purple pal. Afterwards, I figured that I shouldn't have worried about the pot remaining suitable for cooking, as it would have been sterilized by the boiling. I ended up tossing in the other plug as well - although neither was betraying any hint of unwelcome perfume.
I only wish I had cleaned the stove first. Oh well. At least my butt plugs are spotless, even if my kitchen isn't.
Towards the end of yesterday's post, I gave a first hint of how my use of and intense reaction to the Bootie affected the sadist. I'll rewind my story a bit and then go on from there, as his response led to what happened to me the following day - and is why, a week later, my body still displays spots of green.
We were e-mailing back and forth during the hours of anal invasion.
me:
What do you want to do to me, my Lord?
Right now?
If I were naked before you right now?
Invaded and chained....
He:
Violate and degrade you.
me:
yes, my Lord.
i feel very small now, my Lord...
... and subdued.
a small, subdued, whimpering pet...
He:
I am going to take a brief nap now, and dream of degrading you. Keep the plug in until I awake.
And later, after his nap, after he ordered me to remove the plug:
He:
You will have it available for me when I visit. You may not use it unless authorized by me.
me:
Yes, my Lord.
You are sounding very stern, my Lord.
Hard.
Commanding.
You have gone to a certain place, also, I think...
He:
I have, my pet. And I may remain there until Tuesday.
me:
oh.
i see, my Lord.
from the thought of a butt plug, my Lord?
or rather, from the thought of my little butt hole being violated?
He:
All of it, including your reactions, have fueled my fire.
The beast was awake and on the prowl.
And it came to pass just as he predicted. His hunger didn't abate, and I felt the beast breathing on my neck all through Monday. I was prepared to be hurt. And I knew he would want to use the butt plug. The difference, though, was that, rather than being punished, I would be serving his sadistic side, which I don't often get to do because of how he protects me from his worst. And I didn't suffer his worst. Not at all. He continued to protect me, and for that I am always grateful.
I won't go into all the details of what he did that day, as they don't really relate to this review. What is important to note is the major impact (ahem...) this particular item had on both of us.
I've said that we don't play, and that is true. Everything we do is very real, very much an integral part of our relationship, even as there are things done and endured for my Master's pleasure. However, some of our interactions are more light-hearted than others. I don't feel it is inappropriate to refer to my vibrators as sex toys. But I just can't see calling this butt plug a toy of any sort.
And yes, he did whack at my butt with the cane.
He flogged me and spanked me
and twisted my nipples.
Some of that hurt like hell.
Some of it came after he aroused me
and was part of his new project
to forge a link between pleasure and pain.
Then I felt the impact
but it didn't hurt
and I begged for more.
Except for when he spanked my inner thigh.
That hurt like hell,
arousal or no.
He'll remember that for sure...
But back to the butt plug.
He ordered me to bring it to him.
To lube it up and bring it to him.
I slathered it with lube, remembering how it had hurt going in when I inserted it, and afraid of how it would feel when he rammed it through my little hole. I probably put on too much, because it wasn't quite as securely inside me as it had been on Sunday.
He ordered me down on the floor before him, on my hands and knees. He didn't insert the plug. He shoved it in. I think it took him but one false try before he got it inside me. Easier for someone else to do it, as he wasn't holding back in response to the immediate feedback of discomfort.
My memory becomes a little fuzzy here, but perhaps it was right after this that he started fucking my ass with the little hunk of purple silicone. Or, to use my Master's preferred terminology, butt fucking me. And here we hit one of the few weaknesses in the Bootie. It's great as a butt plug, it's great for long-term wear. It's comfortable yet... inspiring, and it stays solidly in. But because of the curve, it's not that good for butt fucking. Still. Nothing's perfect. And the sadist did a pretty good job with it anyway.
I was still on my hands and knees before him, the plug being moved back and forth in my ass, when suddenly he shoved two fingers into my pussy. Now I was being fucked in two holes at once.
Coldly.
Purposefully.
I was aroused as hell.
And I started feeling...
demeaned.
It surprised me.
I should be used to ambivalence by now.
I told him.
I told him how I felt.
Aroused and demeaned.
Humiliated by what felt like an old fantasy.
A fantasy we shared.
I'm starting to float away now as I recall it... what it felt like... and what it brought to mind... being forced down on one strange guy's cock while another one fucked me in the ass. Friends of his. While he watch and enjoyed seeing me used. Objectified...
Very powerful.
And then he had me where he wanted me.
Dripping wet.
Time for the next activity.
That's when he spanked me.
Harder and harder
and it didn't even hurt
but only made me want more.
There were other things that afternoon. But this is supposed to be a butt plug review. So I'll leave it there. Except to say that he allowed me to leave the butt plug in as long as I wanted and I only removed it because I really needed to poop.
I do love the Bootie.
I really do the Bootie.
And I think it will contribute to many more intense adventures for me and my beloved, sadistic Master.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Masturbation mania (5) - testing the Fun Factory Bootie
What can you say about a little curved piece of purple silicone?
I love it.
I love love love it.
I cannot imagine a better butt plug.
I cannot imagine a better butt plug than Fun Factory's Bootie.
Well yes, I know, I should modify that with my usual disclaimer that, whether holding forth on sex toys or relationships, I can only speak for myself. It may be that the shape or size of your ass hole and the canal beyond are such that the bulbous tip and curved body of the Bootie won't suit you. But for me - oh my goodness. Just what I needed.
Butt plugs get to me on a very deep level. There's something very primal about them. As soon as one goes in, it sends me to that place...
My prior experience was very limited. I have one sweet little purple butt plug that the philosopher got for me. The Tantus Little Flirt. It's actually a very nice starter plug, long and thin with a slim end for easy insertion. I had 2 main problems with it. The end was so slim that it tended to bend out of the way when I tried to force it into my tight little puckered orifice. And the bulge in the middle wasn't quite big enough to keep it from slipping out. This was a definite concern as I considered the sadist's plans for me.
From perhaps the day after he found me, my Master has spoken of a particular public outing he intends to take me on. Recently, he said he wanted me wearing a butt plug as well as my dress that buttons (or unbuttons) from top to bottom. No panties, of course. Meaning it would be wise to have a butt plug that wouldn't pop out as I walked across the stone floor.
So when my contact at EdenFantasys asked what I wanted to be sent to review this month, I was pretty strongly inclined towards a butt plug. The sadist firmly agreed. And everything I read about the Bootie made me think it could be the solution to my problem.
As usual with the items I've been receiving from EdenFantasys, my new toy attracted little interest from the cats. Not enough plastic. Ketzel did enjoy the cardboard shipping box from the US Postal Service, as well as the paper stuffing.
But I had to sweet talk Marko into posing long enough for me to take some shots of him with the Bootie in its little box, which has a form-fitting plastic container inside the cardboard display carton.
As you can see, the Bootie is both adorable and unusual, with its bulbous tip and curious curve. Not as easy to spot is the design of the base, which is both curved and tapered to fit comfortably between any set of butt cheeks, which is one of the features that makes it ideal for long wear. However, as I eyed this cutest addition to my growing toy collection, I started to be concerned about that bulbous head. Would I really be able to get it through my tiny hole? I remembered the problems the Irishman had jamming his cock up my ass, and started to get decidedly nervous.
The package arrived on Saturday, April 30. The next morning, as the sadist and I were exchanging e-mails, he suddenly asked after it.
me: I can try it today if you wish, my Lord. It's an unusual shape, and somewhat daunting, as the insertion end is rather large and rounded...
He: Yes, I would like you to try it. Send me a report, of course.
me: Of course, my Lord. [...] May I wait an hour or two, Sir? [...] Perhaps I could wear the smaller butt plug a bit before inserting the new one, my Lord? It is suddenly making me very nervous...
Of course, he denied my request. I was given an hour. I arranged for e-mail reminders.
me: The first butt plug reminder just arrived, my Lord.And then it was time.
I suppose I have to start preparing myself...
Picture it, my Lord.
The large, purple bulb
forcing its way into the little, brown puckered hole,
before continuing past the sphinctral guards...
The little moans of discomfort...
The pleasure at being invaded and possessed.
And all for you, my Lord.
All for you, my Owner and Master.
I will share with you now my experience with the Bootie on that day, and tomorrow will tell you about how the sadist abused me with it 2 days later.
The following comes from my e-mails to the fiend, with a few comments from him:
Which he did.
me: First I said Ow.
Then I said Wow...
It hurt going in, my Lord.
It definitely hurt going in.
My tight little anus was very resistant.
And the end is very bulbous.
I was becoming worried it wouldn't make it
despite all the K-Y
and then suddenly -
POP.
And it was in.
At which point... it's perfect, my Lord. Just perfect. The way it curves keeps it perfectly embedded, and the base is beautifully designed to nestle between the cheeks. Definitely - and thoughtfully - designed for extended wear.
As for how it actually feels - I think it will take a while for me to find the right words for how a butt plug makes me feel, my Lord. Especially this one, which fits so perfectly. It's very intense... my ass is a highly erogenous zone, my Lord... the plug is stuffed into my little butt hole but I feel it in my womb... and... it makes me feel short of breath, my Lord.
No.
Not quite right.
It takes my breath away.
A tightness in my chest...
as if my whole body were gasping...
I feel very aroused, my Lord.
And very submissive.
[...]
I eased myself into a lying down position on the couch, my Lord. And... The effect... Suddenly very powerful...
He: Leave it in until further notice
me: Yes, my Lord.
And thank you.
I feel even closer to you, my Lord... Chained and aroused and tortured and serving... All at the same time...
He: Detail the pain of insertion, as I may be placing it in you myself on occasion.
me: It just wouldn't go in, my Lord.
My anus was closed up tight.
And I'm used to sticking things up there,
as I take migraine meds in the form of suppositories.
I rarely need them now, which is good,
but I always found the act of insertion to be very pleasurable.
I'm having trouble describing what inserting the butt plug felt like... it was irritating, in a painful way... the discomfort was right at the point of desired entry, and I really was afraid it wouldn't go in. I think, my Lord, that the little hole had to be brought to realize it had to submit. The thing wasn't going away. And then suddenly - POP. It was just like that. It went in. And then it didn't hurt at all.
Talking about it is making me very aware of its presence, my Lord - arousing me again - making me feel a certain measure of discomfort... and pressure... especially as now I am sitting up on the couch, cross-legged, with the computer on my lap, so I'm increasing the pressure.
There's also the question of angle, my Lord. You'll see... there's this curve...
You will enjoy raping me with it, won't you, my Lord...
It keeps making me think of being tortured, my Lord.
Especially of being flogged.
He: With the butt plug in place, and locked in the chain I think you need a mark to complete your serving dress.
me: What do you want to do to me, my Lord?
Right now?
If I were naked before you right now?
Invaded and chained....
He: Violate and degrade you.
Two days later.
That first day, my first experience with the Bootie, the plug was in for around 4 hours or so before I received permission to remove it.
me: I felt a certain sadness as I went to remove it, my Lord.And now it is time for me to put it in again. Because we will be watching The Borgias together. Miles apart, but together. I will be, as always, naked, with the chain clipped tight around my left ankle. But since the Sunday I've just described, I must also wear the butt plug.
And then cried OW! as I pulled it out.
It hurt coming out, my Lord.
Though not as much as when I tried to get it in.
And now I feel weepy...
He: You will have it available for me when I visit. You may not use it unless authorized by me.
I watch feeling very owned, very contained, and very constrained.
And he feels me kneeling beside him:
naked, chained, and invaded.
Lovely.
Note: being silicone, the Bootie may be used with water soluble lubricants only. Clean-up is very easy, as you can wash it with soap and water, and it may also be boiled. But... well, I have a housemate, and besides... do any of you readers boil your butt plugs? And if so, do you have a dedicated pot for that function? I can't see boiling the Bootie and then using the same little pot for making a hard-boiled egg.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Hugging the pain to myself
And then he came
with a mighty cum
and said it was the best service
my mouth had ever given
which is saying quite a lot.
And then I lay my head on his lap
and he stroked my hair
and I swam in his ownership
and embraced the pain
that I was only then
truly starting to feel.
And I felt very close to him.
He is
my
Master.
And I am content.
with a mighty cum
and said it was the best service
my mouth had ever given
which is saying quite a lot.
And then I lay my head on his lap
and he stroked my hair
and I swam in his ownership
and embraced the pain
that I was only then
truly starting to feel.
And I felt very close to him.
He is
my
Master.
And I am content.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
The beast breaks loose
When hanging out with a predator, always keep one eye in the back of your head.
Things had been so beautifully intense the last few days.
Not that they aren't always intense.
In one way or another.
But these few days it was in the beautiful way.
Sensual, sexual, and very intimate.
Intense longing.
Intense arousal.
He called my surprising (to him) delight in certain music "endearing."
Lovely.
We e-mailed a bit this morning. It felt as if we were spending the Sunday morning together. He said how the sweet, sexy messages I had sent him last night pleased him. I wrote about the music I was listening to on his Rhapsody account, and the article I was reading in the Sunday New York Times. (Kenneth Branagh as director of a big budget summer movie. In 3-D yet!) He updated me about a possible night together in a few weeks.
And then he said: "I read your email about the butt plug but can't seem to find it again. Have you tried it yet? Are you planning to do anything with it today?"
The new butt plug.
My latest sample for review from EdenFantasys.
It arrived yesterday.
Which I reminded him.
And asked if he wanted me to try it today.
He did.
So I did.
It...
affected me.
As I reported.
Which...
affected him.
Through the letters on the screen, I could hear his voice.
It changed.
It became hard.
Hungry.
Controlling.
A hand closing around my neck.
He had gone to his other place, it seemed.
"I have, my pet. And I may remain there until Tuesday."
I feel the hot breath of the beast on my neck...
Things had been so beautifully intense the last few days.
Not that they aren't always intense.
In one way or another.
But these few days it was in the beautiful way.
Sensual, sexual, and very intimate.
Intense longing.
Intense arousal.
He called my surprising (to him) delight in certain music "endearing."
Lovely.
We e-mailed a bit this morning. It felt as if we were spending the Sunday morning together. He said how the sweet, sexy messages I had sent him last night pleased him. I wrote about the music I was listening to on his Rhapsody account, and the article I was reading in the Sunday New York Times. (Kenneth Branagh as director of a big budget summer movie. In 3-D yet!) He updated me about a possible night together in a few weeks.
And then he said: "I read your email about the butt plug but can't seem to find it again. Have you tried it yet? Are you planning to do anything with it today?"
The new butt plug.
My latest sample for review from EdenFantasys.
It arrived yesterday.
Which I reminded him.
And asked if he wanted me to try it today.
He did.
So I did.
It...
affected me.
As I reported.
Which...
affected him.
Through the letters on the screen, I could hear his voice.
It changed.
It became hard.
Hungry.
Controlling.
A hand closing around my neck.
He had gone to his other place, it seemed.
"I have, my pet. And I may remain there until Tuesday."
I feel the hot breath of the beast on my neck...
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
No dildos today - hooray!
I have been given a reprieve.
At least as far as shoving phalloid items up my pussy.
My pussy is sore.
Very sore.
All that self-fucking.
My aging vaginal innards are just not up to it.
At least not all at once.
Nearly three years ago, I wrote this post (do read it) about the importance of regular masturbation for protecting one's cunt as one grows older. Especially masturbation with some sort of long, fat object inserted. For maintaining elasticity and all.
Well, obviously, what with Daddy keeping tight control of my orgasms, and my normal mode of masturbating being more clitoral anyway, I haven't been doing much in the way of regular cunt maintenance.
So after shoving that disgustingly fat purple dildo up my cunt 2-3 times a day, for just a very few days, Daddy's poor pussy is very, very sore.
I asked nicely if I could please take a little break. Because I'm afraid of it becoming infected. For real. I promised to work with my little purple butt plug instead, and on how to convey to my audience what having it inserted in my tight little ass does to me.
It makes me whimper...
So he agreed.
And said he spoils me.
Which, relative to the way he treats the rest of his human positions, I suspect he does. I don't know for sure. But I suspect he does.
Because
I
am
his
treasure.
At least as far as shoving phalloid items up my pussy.
My pussy is sore.
Very sore.
All that self-fucking.
My aging vaginal innards are just not up to it.
At least not all at once.
Nearly three years ago, I wrote this post (do read it) about the importance of regular masturbation for protecting one's cunt as one grows older. Especially masturbation with some sort of long, fat object inserted. For maintaining elasticity and all.
Well, obviously, what with Daddy keeping tight control of my orgasms, and my normal mode of masturbating being more clitoral anyway, I haven't been doing much in the way of regular cunt maintenance.
So after shoving that disgustingly fat purple dildo up my cunt 2-3 times a day, for just a very few days, Daddy's poor pussy is very, very sore.
I asked nicely if I could please take a little break. Because I'm afraid of it becoming infected. For real. I promised to work with my little purple butt plug instead, and on how to convey to my audience what having it inserted in my tight little ass does to me.
It makes me whimper...
So he agreed.
And said he spoils me.
Which, relative to the way he treats the rest of his human positions, I suspect he does. I don't know for sure. But I suspect he does.
Because
I
am
his
treasure.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Masturbation Report
My orgasms are no longer mine. They are doled out by the sadist, sometimes upon request and sometimes in a transient fit of generosity, or as a reward for an especially pleasing performance.
I don't often ask for one. It doesn't occur to me. They are no longer a regular part of my life, a situation I accept as appropriate with only a minimum of sighs. Our relationship is inherently unequal. We are not lovers, there is no expectation that we each work to maximize the other's sexual pleasure. My position in my Master's life is defined and enabled by my ability to provide him with pleasure. The satisfaction that I experience from serving him and pleasing him in the manner he requires is a bonus, not a goal.
It feels really weird to write this, and I find it even weirder to hear these words from someone else - but truly, the mere fact that he wants me and owns me is enough. Serving him, being controlled by him, pleasing him, submitting to him, even being punished by him so that I will remember to follow his directions as demanded... all this is making me happier than I have ever been.
The urgency of my need for an orgasm is usually triggered either by hormones or by a period of intense creativity as I write for his pleasure and amusement. When I act as his Anaïs Nin, as I did on Friday night, he is not the only one who gets stimulated by my kinky scenarios. By Saturday, I was in a state of virtually painful arousal.
I requested an orgasm.
I pleaded.
I described my desperation.
My Master granted permission
with the usual proviso
that I submit a report,
which follows below -
again,
as always,
with his permission.
Sometimes I feel that it is only with his permission that I breathe. And sometimes, in fact, that is exactly the case.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Losing ownership of my orgasms has lost me the luxury of leisurely mid-day masturbation. I usually think to ask late, and receive permission even later. Knowing that cumming will put me to sleep, I delay my self-indulgence till bedtime, when I'm struggling to hold on to consciousness. I'm aware of the time, I'm aware of the need to be alert in the morning, and I polish things off pretty fast. Touch, arouse, cum, cry, sleep. When I wake up, the haze of satisfaction is gone.
Ah, but this time, my Lord... I had time for anticipation. Exercising, grocery shopping, snarfing down a 5 o'clock lunch of chicken fresh from the rotisserie... I knew what was ahead. My mind kept making brief visits to the stories I sent you last night, and to all the tempting memories that remain from earlier times... the Phantom, your kisses, lying beside you on the bed, on the futon, cumming for you, sobbing for you...
I made my preparations, freshly washing the little purple butt plug, taking out the K-Y jelly, the blue vibrator, the Astroglide, a condom. Ketzel sensed that I was coming back to bed, and was already in place at the foot. Waiting for me.
She wouldn't stay long.
I'm not sure that I've ever masturbated with the butt plug on my own. Once at the most. It was a present from the philosopher and therefore the smallest size of the series. An appropriate gift from a man who was so risk averse.
I inserted it first thing.
I wanted to feel inhabited.
Claimed.
Owned.
In tribute to you, my Master, I took the position you had taught me and poked away with the tip until I was able to get it past the tight guardian of my anal passage. Somehow, I hadn't gotten the lube on the very tip, so it was even harder to insert than it should have been. I was grateful that my colon had taken the initiative to clean itself out that morning.
It hurt going in.
I'll admit to that.
There were moments when it was definitely painful.
Does that please you, my Lord?
And then I opened a little further, and the lubed part transferred its grease to my ass hole, and it was in and...
So intense.
I started whimpering.
I started crying.
I'm going somewhere else now as I write about it. I can't really come up with appropriate words for how it felt except to say - intense. It didn't feel great. There was a sense of discomfort, both in the immediate passage and all the way up through my digestive system, with the sense of pressure traveling all the way to my belly. But it was intense, my Master, and the tears were a form of orgasm.
I kept it in, having deliberately avoided over-lubing so it wouldn't pop out. I slid my naked, plugged body between the sheets and found that I was still whimpering. I passed my fingers through my public hair, lightly touching my clit, and realized that I was saying "no... no..." out loud.
And now my memory gets a little confused. I realize now that I forgot my intention to play with my nipples. I wouldn't have hurt them as much as you do. But I did mean to hurt them. I wanted pain to remind me of your sadism.. I wanted pain to remind me of you.
Next time, my Master.
Next time...
I lay on my back, hoping the butt plug would be obedient and stay in place. I twiddled my twat, rubbing my fingers gently over my clit. I tried to hold back, I tried to delay it, but the effect of the pale purple plug was stronger than my will. I came.
I came and I cried.
But I wasn't done.
I reached for the vibrator, already sheathed in latex. I squeezed on Astroglide like mustard onto a hot dog. It's a fairly fat thing, so it took some work to get it inside - I really should use it at least once a week to keep the muscles elastic. I admit [sigh - bad girl] that I've mostly been forgetting to do my Kegel exercises, and I should use the vibrator sometimes when I do them, even if I'm not turning it on and using it for pleasure.
Finally, it made it in. I kept it turned off, and clenched my muscles around it again and again. Clench, hold for 10 seconds, and release. Exercising my pussy the way I earlier exercised other parts at the health club. If only they had machines there for our cunt muscles the way they do for our pecs and abs!
Finally, I felt I had earned the right to turn it on. I kept it wedged deep inside and let a low level of vibrations move through me. I must have started contracting, because the butt plug popped out. I accepted the anal statement and returned it to the bedside table.
Now I started fucking myself. I moved the artificial cock in and out, slowly, deliberately, enjoying the sensation despite the fact that the thing is a little too big. I changed the angle so it pressed against my clit.
My clit smiled.
My clit said thank you.
My clit demanded more.
All this time, I was feeding myself X-rated mental movies. But my mind was restless and unfocused, and I never stayed on any one thing very long. I flitted through the different scenarios I had offered you last night, especially lying naked on the equally bare barmaid while you flogged me, and being brought to the biker/thug bar, where you showed me off and invited them to touch me, to hurt me, to use me. I thought of your spankings, I thought of your canings, my buttocks remembering the awful, horrible, painful sensation of the strip of cherry wood landing on my ass - which for some reason I appreciate even though there is no way I could say I like it.
Why, my Master?
Why do I want you to hurt me like that when I really don't enjoy it?
Why do I want you to hurt me?
I turned up the speed on the vibrator, pulled it out of my canal, and held it against my clit. The vibrations almost numbed that greedy little finger of flesh, but I went higher and higher and the tension built and my mind...
We were at the bar with 5 of your friends. One had a house not far away. You all adjourned there, taking me with you. You wanted me to be truly debauched, humiliated, not at all as a human being, merely as a conduit of perverted pleasure.
The house was modern, and the living room had a lowered, heavy wooden beam running across it. You tossed a long rope over it, tied my hands with one end, and then used the other to pull me up till I was stretched and exposed. My feet were bound to cinder blocks that had been brought in beforehand, keeping my legs spread but with enough give to allow me to squirm a little for your amusement.
One by one, the men removed their belts. I screamed and writhed and dripped as the beat me on my ass and thighs. And then I felt the burning slice of the cherry strip landing right across both buttocks.
And that's when I came.
I cried long and hard and slept for about 45 minutes, lazing about for a while afterwards, feeling very drained and sated and grateful.
It's hard to write this without the freedom to masturbate again. But in fact I love no longer having control over my own orgasms. It's another of those odd things that makes me feel safe and secure and very very owned.
Thank you, my Master.
Thank you for letting me masturbate.
Thank you for allowing me to cum.
Thank you for controlling my life.
I don't often ask for one. It doesn't occur to me. They are no longer a regular part of my life, a situation I accept as appropriate with only a minimum of sighs. Our relationship is inherently unequal. We are not lovers, there is no expectation that we each work to maximize the other's sexual pleasure. My position in my Master's life is defined and enabled by my ability to provide him with pleasure. The satisfaction that I experience from serving him and pleasing him in the manner he requires is a bonus, not a goal.
It feels really weird to write this, and I find it even weirder to hear these words from someone else - but truly, the mere fact that he wants me and owns me is enough. Serving him, being controlled by him, pleasing him, submitting to him, even being punished by him so that I will remember to follow his directions as demanded... all this is making me happier than I have ever been.
The urgency of my need for an orgasm is usually triggered either by hormones or by a period of intense creativity as I write for his pleasure and amusement. When I act as his Anaïs Nin, as I did on Friday night, he is not the only one who gets stimulated by my kinky scenarios. By Saturday, I was in a state of virtually painful arousal.
I requested an orgasm.
I pleaded.
I described my desperation.
My Master granted permission
with the usual proviso
that I submit a report,
which follows below -
again,
as always,
with his permission.
Sometimes I feel that it is only with his permission that I breathe. And sometimes, in fact, that is exactly the case.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Losing ownership of my orgasms has lost me the luxury of leisurely mid-day masturbation. I usually think to ask late, and receive permission even later. Knowing that cumming will put me to sleep, I delay my self-indulgence till bedtime, when I'm struggling to hold on to consciousness. I'm aware of the time, I'm aware of the need to be alert in the morning, and I polish things off pretty fast. Touch, arouse, cum, cry, sleep. When I wake up, the haze of satisfaction is gone.
Ah, but this time, my Lord... I had time for anticipation. Exercising, grocery shopping, snarfing down a 5 o'clock lunch of chicken fresh from the rotisserie... I knew what was ahead. My mind kept making brief visits to the stories I sent you last night, and to all the tempting memories that remain from earlier times... the Phantom, your kisses, lying beside you on the bed, on the futon, cumming for you, sobbing for you...
I made my preparations, freshly washing the little purple butt plug, taking out the K-Y jelly, the blue vibrator, the Astroglide, a condom. Ketzel sensed that I was coming back to bed, and was already in place at the foot. Waiting for me.
She wouldn't stay long.
I'm not sure that I've ever masturbated with the butt plug on my own. Once at the most. It was a present from the philosopher and therefore the smallest size of the series. An appropriate gift from a man who was so risk averse.
I inserted it first thing.
I wanted to feel inhabited.
Claimed.
Owned.
In tribute to you, my Master, I took the position you had taught me and poked away with the tip until I was able to get it past the tight guardian of my anal passage. Somehow, I hadn't gotten the lube on the very tip, so it was even harder to insert than it should have been. I was grateful that my colon had taken the initiative to clean itself out that morning.
It hurt going in.
I'll admit to that.
There were moments when it was definitely painful.
Does that please you, my Lord?
And then I opened a little further, and the lubed part transferred its grease to my ass hole, and it was in and...
So intense.
I started whimpering.
I started crying.
I'm going somewhere else now as I write about it. I can't really come up with appropriate words for how it felt except to say - intense. It didn't feel great. There was a sense of discomfort, both in the immediate passage and all the way up through my digestive system, with the sense of pressure traveling all the way to my belly. But it was intense, my Master, and the tears were a form of orgasm.
I kept it in, having deliberately avoided over-lubing so it wouldn't pop out. I slid my naked, plugged body between the sheets and found that I was still whimpering. I passed my fingers through my public hair, lightly touching my clit, and realized that I was saying "no... no..." out loud.
And now my memory gets a little confused. I realize now that I forgot my intention to play with my nipples. I wouldn't have hurt them as much as you do. But I did mean to hurt them. I wanted pain to remind me of your sadism.. I wanted pain to remind me of you.
Next time, my Master.
Next time...
I lay on my back, hoping the butt plug would be obedient and stay in place. I twiddled my twat, rubbing my fingers gently over my clit. I tried to hold back, I tried to delay it, but the effect of the pale purple plug was stronger than my will. I came.
I came and I cried.
But I wasn't done.
I reached for the vibrator, already sheathed in latex. I squeezed on Astroglide like mustard onto a hot dog. It's a fairly fat thing, so it took some work to get it inside - I really should use it at least once a week to keep the muscles elastic. I admit [sigh - bad girl] that I've mostly been forgetting to do my Kegel exercises, and I should use the vibrator sometimes when I do them, even if I'm not turning it on and using it for pleasure.
Finally, it made it in. I kept it turned off, and clenched my muscles around it again and again. Clench, hold for 10 seconds, and release. Exercising my pussy the way I earlier exercised other parts at the health club. If only they had machines there for our cunt muscles the way they do for our pecs and abs!
Finally, I felt I had earned the right to turn it on. I kept it wedged deep inside and let a low level of vibrations move through me. I must have started contracting, because the butt plug popped out. I accepted the anal statement and returned it to the bedside table.
Now I started fucking myself. I moved the artificial cock in and out, slowly, deliberately, enjoying the sensation despite the fact that the thing is a little too big. I changed the angle so it pressed against my clit.
My clit smiled.
My clit said thank you.
My clit demanded more.
All this time, I was feeding myself X-rated mental movies. But my mind was restless and unfocused, and I never stayed on any one thing very long. I flitted through the different scenarios I had offered you last night, especially lying naked on the equally bare barmaid while you flogged me, and being brought to the biker/thug bar, where you showed me off and invited them to touch me, to hurt me, to use me. I thought of your spankings, I thought of your canings, my buttocks remembering the awful, horrible, painful sensation of the strip of cherry wood landing on my ass - which for some reason I appreciate even though there is no way I could say I like it.
Why, my Master?
Why do I want you to hurt me like that when I really don't enjoy it?
Why do I want you to hurt me?
I turned up the speed on the vibrator, pulled it out of my canal, and held it against my clit. The vibrations almost numbed that greedy little finger of flesh, but I went higher and higher and the tension built and my mind...
We were at the bar with 5 of your friends. One had a house not far away. You all adjourned there, taking me with you. You wanted me to be truly debauched, humiliated, not at all as a human being, merely as a conduit of perverted pleasure.
The house was modern, and the living room had a lowered, heavy wooden beam running across it. You tossed a long rope over it, tied my hands with one end, and then used the other to pull me up till I was stretched and exposed. My feet were bound to cinder blocks that had been brought in beforehand, keeping my legs spread but with enough give to allow me to squirm a little for your amusement.
One by one, the men removed their belts. I screamed and writhed and dripped as the beat me on my ass and thighs. And then I felt the burning slice of the cherry strip landing right across both buttocks.
And that's when I came.
I cried long and hard and slept for about 45 minutes, lazing about for a while afterwards, feeling very drained and sated and grateful.
It's hard to write this without the freedom to masturbate again. But in fact I love no longer having control over my own orgasms. It's another of those odd things that makes me feel safe and secure and very very owned.
Thank you, my Master.
Thank you for letting me masturbate.
Thank you for allowing me to cum.
Thank you for controlling my life.
Monday, August 11, 2008
The Branding
I wrote this for the philosopher at his command. There were in fact supposed to be two stories, one about branding and one about a tattoo. In my mind, the tattoo story would have been a sweet one. It never got written. My dark fantasies about branding seized my mind and possessed it until the following story was written. Or perhaps "wrote itself" would be a more accurate description. It was so dark that I couldn't shake it for days afterwards, and the philosopher was, I think, disturbed by what had crawled out of the mud of my soul. He didn't want me to share it. This was for him alone. But he doesn't own me any more. He sent me away. And I took my stories with me. This seems a good time to reveal what festers below.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
You approach the cage where she cowers hopefully. Wordlessly, you unlock the door, reach in, and haul her out by her hair. She scrambles after you, tears springing to her eyes from the pain. There is always pain. But she doesn’t complain. This is her lot. And this is her joy. This is her safety.
“Get dressed, slave. Today you will be branded.”
There is in fact no need for words. No requirement for explanation. But you play her emotions like a freshly-tuned harp. You like the fear that springs to her eyes.
You push her towards the bed, where you have laid out the day’s clothes. A tight pink t-shirt, stretchy and clingy. Tight clingy jeans with a thick hard seam that will cut into her cunt as she walks without the protection of panties. Sandals. Once she has clothed her nakedness (damn those public indecency laws), you replace her cold metal choke chain with the black leather band embossed with Celtic knots. Hooking a leash to the collar’s O-ring, you wrap the chain around your fist and with close control almost drag her out of the house and towards the car. You know such brutality is unnecessary. Just addressing her as “slave” sends her so deeply into subspace that she would do anything. But there is something dark in each of you that needs to be nourished, and you have both become addicted to the intensity.
Unquestioningly, she assumes her place in the driver’s seat. There is an odd irony to the fact that you don’t drive, but the power is always yours as she guides the machine.
For safety’s sake, you address her as “kitten” when you give her the directions. Her consciousness is too far depressed when you call her “slave” for her to be trusted behind the wheel.
You arrive at a featureless warehouse. One of many. Again, you use more force than necessary to remove her from the car and push her towards the door. You don’t need to knock. They are expecting you.
As the door is opened, a scream of such terror and pain issues forth that you almost regret the decision to come. But you harden your heart, and your cock hardens, too. You know it is time. This is the final test.
Scream aside, you are greeted with a business-like cordiality due any customer. At the reception desk, your reservation is confirmed and your credit card taken. You have elected to perform the procedure yourself. You are given a sheet of instructions, which are reviewed as she trembles by your side. You don’t look at her. You just sense her trembling. Again, a small part of you tries to cry out its doubts, but you quickly gag it. As you will gag her.
You are ushered into a medium-size room. Something about the rough wood lining the walls gives it the atmosphere of a stable stall. It is unadorned save for the assortment of implements hanging from wrought iron hooks. You can tell that she has caught sight of the display by the way she quickly lowers her head and drops her eyes. She had returned to subspace as soon as you removed her from the car, you had sensed it immediately, and now the potential for torture is sending her even further. Good. When she is that far away, she is protected from the worst of the pain. You like to hurt her. She wants you to hurt her. But there is a line you never want to cross. The damage to her soul could be worse than to her flesh. You’re just not sure where that line is.
In the middle of the room stands something between a sawhorse and a massage table. The top is padded; the legs are slightly splayed, with O-rings at the base of each one. A rectangular space is cut out of the top towards one end.
“Strip, slave.”
She obeys with despatch. Wearing so little, she is done in seconds. You propel her towards the table and with an extra little shove push her face down. She lies still. You know that she would hold position for whatever you chose to do, and the absoluteness of her submission thrills you. But it is imperative that she remain perfectly still for what is to come, and there is something in the act itself that makes you want to see her bound in place.
From your messenger bag you take a set of four shackles. No soft leather bands today. You snap the shackles around her wrists and ankles, run short chains between the rings on the metal bands and those on the table legs, and with a sharp snap secure each limb with a lock. The locks are another excess, another symbolic demonstration of her helplessness. You are getting off on all the symbolism. Your mind is cold. Your cock is hard. Your resolve is firm.
Her breasts are hanging down through the opening in the tabletop. Sliding under the table, you adjust her tits so they are perfectly placed. You twist each nipple, pleased to find them already erect. Fear drives her arousal. In your hand you hold a set of Japanese clover clamps. Dispassionately, as if connecting jumper cables, you attach one end to each nipple, then give a sharp tug on the chain to drive the clamps deeper into the tender flesh. She gasps, but does not cry out.
You aren’t done. You want to impress on her how owned she is, how helpless, how subject to torture and invasion. Your casual claiming of her every hole will inspire the sense of humiliation which is yet another trigger for her submission.
The bag yields a butt plug, a dildo, a ball gag, and a blindfold. Silent all this time, you now accompany your actions with the words that you know will destroy whatever is left of her spirit and dignity.
“Look at you, slave. Your cunt is dripping. What a pain slut you are. Well, there will be plenty of pain for you soon enough. The only lube this butt plug will get is what it can scoop out of your slut-hole.”
You fuck her cunt roughly with the butt plug, then spread her ass checks and drive it into her anus. A few strokes with the dildo are followed by dire warnings of what will happen if she lets it drop.
You walk around to the front of the table and yank her head up by the hair.
“I love to hear you scream with pain, slave. I love to hear you scream. But today I will gag you, slave. You hate to be gagged. And so I will gag you. I will gag you so there will be no doubts. I will gag you, slave, because you are mine.”
And so you do.
There’s only one thing left. One thing left to drive her deeper inside herself until she completely floats away. And so you blindfold her.
It’s almost time. You walk back to the foot of the table and contemplate her ass. At first, you thought you’d brand her right cheek, at the fleshiest part, but then thought better of it. You want it somewhere that will be safe from your hand and your belt and the cane. So you choose a spot on the upper thigh, where it is still padded but unlikely to be struck. You eye your canvas, fixing the image in your mind before you change it forever. Then you walk to the wall and press a buzzer next to the door.
A man appears and hands you a rod of iron. It is the brand. If you strike within the next minute, it will be the scientifically determined temperature to inflict enough damage to leave a perfect impression without risking a trip to the emergency room and the dangers of the questions that would raise.
The brand was designed to your specifications. Now seen in reverse, the blunt simplicity of its form mirrors the simple brutality of the way you treat your slave. Two plain letters. One vertical line serving them both. This is your hallmark. She is your creation. But it is not purity that will be guaranteed by this stamp. Your hallmark is a sign of the depth of debauchery to which you both have sunk. A purity of sorts, perhaps, for nothing mars the strength of the bonds which, you must admit, enslave you as much as they do her.
But no time for introspection. You must, in truth, strike while the iron is hot. Resisting the temptation to soothe her hair and whisper assurances, you take your position behind her, raise the iron rod, take a breath, and press the glowing tip down into her soft flesh.
Your slave’s skin sizzles, a steak on the grill.
A muffled cry of torment issues from behind the gag as her body jerks slightly despite the tight bondage. You count off the recommended number of seconds as the odor of burning meat rises off the table. You choke back a wave of nausea.
In seconds it is done. The brand is removed. You stand there with the implement in your hand, swollen with power. Then tossing the iron to the ground, you stride around to your slave’s head. Wordlessly, you tear off the blindfold. Wordlessly, you unbuckle the gag. Wordlessly, you unzip your pants, and with cock in one hand and her hair in the other, plunge your heated erection down her throat.
You are beyond holding back. The rape is short and savage. It is one more act of claiming.
She is yours.
You hold her head to your crotch as you subside, your fingers still entwined in her hair. And as the fever passes, your grasp eases into caresses. Gently, you disengage her jaws from your wet, soft cock. Keeping one hand on her body at all time, you reach under the table and remove one nipple clamp and then the other, massaging each screaming nub as it is released. Continuing to the back, still in constant contact, you slide out first the butt plug and then the dildo, smiling with wry reassurance at the juices that drip from her cunt. Finally, you unlock the shackles from the table and remove them from her limbs.
She has started to shake. With sobs and with shock. You gather her in your arms and whisper words of love and bemusement.
“What a pain slut you are, slave.
What a cock whore.
What an obedient little cunt.
I own you, slave.
I own you.
Your body bears my initials.
Your flesh bears my brand.
There is no escape.
You are my kitten.
You are my slave.
You are my selkie.
You are whatever I want you to be.
You are mine.”
19 April 2008
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
You approach the cage where she cowers hopefully. Wordlessly, you unlock the door, reach in, and haul her out by her hair. She scrambles after you, tears springing to her eyes from the pain. There is always pain. But she doesn’t complain. This is her lot. And this is her joy. This is her safety.
“Get dressed, slave. Today you will be branded.”
There is in fact no need for words. No requirement for explanation. But you play her emotions like a freshly-tuned harp. You like the fear that springs to her eyes.
You push her towards the bed, where you have laid out the day’s clothes. A tight pink t-shirt, stretchy and clingy. Tight clingy jeans with a thick hard seam that will cut into her cunt as she walks without the protection of panties. Sandals. Once she has clothed her nakedness (damn those public indecency laws), you replace her cold metal choke chain with the black leather band embossed with Celtic knots. Hooking a leash to the collar’s O-ring, you wrap the chain around your fist and with close control almost drag her out of the house and towards the car. You know such brutality is unnecessary. Just addressing her as “slave” sends her so deeply into subspace that she would do anything. But there is something dark in each of you that needs to be nourished, and you have both become addicted to the intensity.
Unquestioningly, she assumes her place in the driver’s seat. There is an odd irony to the fact that you don’t drive, but the power is always yours as she guides the machine.
For safety’s sake, you address her as “kitten” when you give her the directions. Her consciousness is too far depressed when you call her “slave” for her to be trusted behind the wheel.
You arrive at a featureless warehouse. One of many. Again, you use more force than necessary to remove her from the car and push her towards the door. You don’t need to knock. They are expecting you.
As the door is opened, a scream of such terror and pain issues forth that you almost regret the decision to come. But you harden your heart, and your cock hardens, too. You know it is time. This is the final test.
Scream aside, you are greeted with a business-like cordiality due any customer. At the reception desk, your reservation is confirmed and your credit card taken. You have elected to perform the procedure yourself. You are given a sheet of instructions, which are reviewed as she trembles by your side. You don’t look at her. You just sense her trembling. Again, a small part of you tries to cry out its doubts, but you quickly gag it. As you will gag her.
You are ushered into a medium-size room. Something about the rough wood lining the walls gives it the atmosphere of a stable stall. It is unadorned save for the assortment of implements hanging from wrought iron hooks. You can tell that she has caught sight of the display by the way she quickly lowers her head and drops her eyes. She had returned to subspace as soon as you removed her from the car, you had sensed it immediately, and now the potential for torture is sending her even further. Good. When she is that far away, she is protected from the worst of the pain. You like to hurt her. She wants you to hurt her. But there is a line you never want to cross. The damage to her soul could be worse than to her flesh. You’re just not sure where that line is.
In the middle of the room stands something between a sawhorse and a massage table. The top is padded; the legs are slightly splayed, with O-rings at the base of each one. A rectangular space is cut out of the top towards one end.
“Strip, slave.”
She obeys with despatch. Wearing so little, she is done in seconds. You propel her towards the table and with an extra little shove push her face down. She lies still. You know that she would hold position for whatever you chose to do, and the absoluteness of her submission thrills you. But it is imperative that she remain perfectly still for what is to come, and there is something in the act itself that makes you want to see her bound in place.
From your messenger bag you take a set of four shackles. No soft leather bands today. You snap the shackles around her wrists and ankles, run short chains between the rings on the metal bands and those on the table legs, and with a sharp snap secure each limb with a lock. The locks are another excess, another symbolic demonstration of her helplessness. You are getting off on all the symbolism. Your mind is cold. Your cock is hard. Your resolve is firm.
Her breasts are hanging down through the opening in the tabletop. Sliding under the table, you adjust her tits so they are perfectly placed. You twist each nipple, pleased to find them already erect. Fear drives her arousal. In your hand you hold a set of Japanese clover clamps. Dispassionately, as if connecting jumper cables, you attach one end to each nipple, then give a sharp tug on the chain to drive the clamps deeper into the tender flesh. She gasps, but does not cry out.
You aren’t done. You want to impress on her how owned she is, how helpless, how subject to torture and invasion. Your casual claiming of her every hole will inspire the sense of humiliation which is yet another trigger for her submission.
The bag yields a butt plug, a dildo, a ball gag, and a blindfold. Silent all this time, you now accompany your actions with the words that you know will destroy whatever is left of her spirit and dignity.
“Look at you, slave. Your cunt is dripping. What a pain slut you are. Well, there will be plenty of pain for you soon enough. The only lube this butt plug will get is what it can scoop out of your slut-hole.”
You fuck her cunt roughly with the butt plug, then spread her ass checks and drive it into her anus. A few strokes with the dildo are followed by dire warnings of what will happen if she lets it drop.
You walk around to the front of the table and yank her head up by the hair.
“I love to hear you scream with pain, slave. I love to hear you scream. But today I will gag you, slave. You hate to be gagged. And so I will gag you. I will gag you so there will be no doubts. I will gag you, slave, because you are mine.”
And so you do.
There’s only one thing left. One thing left to drive her deeper inside herself until she completely floats away. And so you blindfold her.
It’s almost time. You walk back to the foot of the table and contemplate her ass. At first, you thought you’d brand her right cheek, at the fleshiest part, but then thought better of it. You want it somewhere that will be safe from your hand and your belt and the cane. So you choose a spot on the upper thigh, where it is still padded but unlikely to be struck. You eye your canvas, fixing the image in your mind before you change it forever. Then you walk to the wall and press a buzzer next to the door.
A man appears and hands you a rod of iron. It is the brand. If you strike within the next minute, it will be the scientifically determined temperature to inflict enough damage to leave a perfect impression without risking a trip to the emergency room and the dangers of the questions that would raise.
The brand was designed to your specifications. Now seen in reverse, the blunt simplicity of its form mirrors the simple brutality of the way you treat your slave. Two plain letters. One vertical line serving them both. This is your hallmark. She is your creation. But it is not purity that will be guaranteed by this stamp. Your hallmark is a sign of the depth of debauchery to which you both have sunk. A purity of sorts, perhaps, for nothing mars the strength of the bonds which, you must admit, enslave you as much as they do her.
But no time for introspection. You must, in truth, strike while the iron is hot. Resisting the temptation to soothe her hair and whisper assurances, you take your position behind her, raise the iron rod, take a breath, and press the glowing tip down into her soft flesh.
Your slave’s skin sizzles, a steak on the grill.
A muffled cry of torment issues from behind the gag as her body jerks slightly despite the tight bondage. You count off the recommended number of seconds as the odor of burning meat rises off the table. You choke back a wave of nausea.
In seconds it is done. The brand is removed. You stand there with the implement in your hand, swollen with power. Then tossing the iron to the ground, you stride around to your slave’s head. Wordlessly, you tear off the blindfold. Wordlessly, you unbuckle the gag. Wordlessly, you unzip your pants, and with cock in one hand and her hair in the other, plunge your heated erection down her throat.
You are beyond holding back. The rape is short and savage. It is one more act of claiming.
She is yours.
You hold her head to your crotch as you subside, your fingers still entwined in her hair. And as the fever passes, your grasp eases into caresses. Gently, you disengage her jaws from your wet, soft cock. Keeping one hand on her body at all time, you reach under the table and remove one nipple clamp and then the other, massaging each screaming nub as it is released. Continuing to the back, still in constant contact, you slide out first the butt plug and then the dildo, smiling with wry reassurance at the juices that drip from her cunt. Finally, you unlock the shackles from the table and remove them from her limbs.
She has started to shake. With sobs and with shock. You gather her in your arms and whisper words of love and bemusement.
“What a pain slut you are, slave.
What a cock whore.
What an obedient little cunt.
I own you, slave.
I own you.
Your body bears my initials.
Your flesh bears my brand.
There is no escape.
You are my kitten.
You are my slave.
You are my selkie.
You are whatever I want you to be.
You are mine.”
19 April 2008
Friday, July 25, 2008
Submitting to my Submission
i’m going about this all wrong.
i was down in the dungeon this morning, sitting on the floor by my master’s chair, watching cautious Marko eat his breakfast, when i realized i've been going about this all wrong.
i’ve been moaning and groaning and crying and sighing and playing for pity and trying to make him feel guilty.
all together now:
"poor kitten…"
i’ve been a very bad slave.
i’ve been focusing on the hurt of his wanting to break up with me for the fourth time in less than a year and a half, and i’ve forgotten that i am a slave and i have a task. a self-imposed task of supreme submission, surrendering my own obsessive needs to his very real ones.
BAD KITTEN.
i OFFERED this silence.
i said i love you so much,
i will give you whatever you need,
short of giving up.
here.
here is the peace you need.
i will demand nothing.
do what you need to do.
so i have to stop this kvetching. i have to undertake this task in a spirit appropriate to a slave, not to mention a woman in love. there are 5 and a half more weeks to go, and i will pass them cheerfully and obediently, in a way that will make you proud.
i offer this post as a ritual. i am writing naked, as you have commanded me to.
naked.
i am wearing nothing but the slave chain around my ankle,
those 9 linked paper clips that mark me as yours.
and the choke chain around my neck. pulled tight.
and the little slave kitten earrings.
and the little purple butt plug
inserted with as little lube as i could manage.
i am sitting up naked on the bed, the computer on my lap. i would have liked to be sitting in the dungeon, naked on the floor beside your chair, but there is always the danger that my almost-never-here nearly-ex-housemate will come home and be horrified by her kinky landlady.
so i sit here on the bed
wearing the visual signs of my slavery
and offering my obedience with patience and love.
and with trust.
you own me, John.
you do.
you know you do.
i was down in the dungeon this morning, sitting on the floor by my master’s chair, watching cautious Marko eat his breakfast, when i realized i've been going about this all wrong.
i’ve been moaning and groaning and crying and sighing and playing for pity and trying to make him feel guilty.
all together now:
"poor kitten…"
i’ve been a very bad slave.
i’ve been focusing on the hurt of his wanting to break up with me for the fourth time in less than a year and a half, and i’ve forgotten that i am a slave and i have a task. a self-imposed task of supreme submission, surrendering my own obsessive needs to his very real ones.
BAD KITTEN.
i OFFERED this silence.
i said i love you so much,
i will give you whatever you need,
short of giving up.
here.
here is the peace you need.
i will demand nothing.
do what you need to do.
so i have to stop this kvetching. i have to undertake this task in a spirit appropriate to a slave, not to mention a woman in love. there are 5 and a half more weeks to go, and i will pass them cheerfully and obediently, in a way that will make you proud.
i offer this post as a ritual. i am writing naked, as you have commanded me to.
naked.
i am wearing nothing but the slave chain around my ankle,
those 9 linked paper clips that mark me as yours.
and the choke chain around my neck. pulled tight.
and the little slave kitten earrings.
and the little purple butt plug
inserted with as little lube as i could manage.
i am sitting up naked on the bed, the computer on my lap. i would have liked to be sitting in the dungeon, naked on the floor beside your chair, but there is always the danger that my almost-never-here nearly-ex-housemate will come home and be horrified by her kinky landlady.
so i sit here on the bed
wearing the visual signs of my slavery
and offering my obedience with patience and love.
and with trust.
you own me, John.
you do.
you know you do.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
purrrr… the satisfied sound of a well-used sex slave
i’ve been purring for a couple of days now. purring and glowing. well ok, some of the slightly floaty out-of-it feeling could confirm my impression that the cold i thought i had banished has come back with extra troops. but mostly, i think – no, i KNOW – it stems from Friday night.
i was with my master Friday night.
now, normally this is the sort of statement which, on other blogs, makes me want to puke. first of all, i hate that term “master.” it sounds so forced, so presumptuous, so outright dumb! “master?” give me a break!
and yet… i address him as master. or sir. i refer to him as the philosopher. i rarely call him by his given name. J--- feels forced. weird. unconnected with the truth of this man i came to know only through his words and his soul. “master” is an honorific. a convention. more significantly, it is a tribute to the way we play, the scaffolding of our relationship, and the corset with which the man who owns and loves me corrects the posture of my life.
so yes. i address him as “master.” and that’s ok – as long as i don’t think about it. the same way i’m ok referring to God as long as i don’t think too much about what the word means. or doesn’t. then i get squirmy.
yes, then. i was with my master Friday night.
i can see having problems with “with.” for of course, he was 250 miles away. but it’s not that outrageous to say that i spent the evening “with” him considering we were on the phone for 2 hours. at least we had the sound of each other’s voice to feed the impression of being in each other’s presence. i could quibble about “with” but i’ll let that one pass.
my master fucked me Friday night.
now that one. that one just doesn’t fly. when someone speaks of having been fucked, i do expect there was some measure of bodily proximity. say you had phone sex, say you had electronic sex, say he stimulated you with his words, told you how to touch yourself, ordered you to fill your cunt with some plastic approximation of the penis which he was at that very moment surrounding with his fist. but don’t say he fucked you.
my master fucked me Friday night.
i stand by my statement. for surely, mere masturbation could never make me feel the way i have been feeling since that night. cold or no.
i’ve always been a champion masturbator. enthusiastic. desperate, as my hormones ran rampant while my marriage became an escalating insult to the name. i’ve been developing techniques and fantasies since before i was 5. the sexual fantasies surely came later than that, but i do remember rocking on my pillow and calling it “playing horsey.” i even taught my little sister. just as i taught her how to read before she hit kindergarten.
so it’s not as if i needed someone to teach me how to masturbate. and i was managing perfectly acceptable orgasms on my own. more than acceptable.
but there’s no question that what i did – what we did – on Friday night was in no way masturbating. and i will duly try to remember that the next time i am tempted to sneer at some other sub’s description of long-distance erotic activities in terms that suggest physical contact.
i was thoroughly possessed Friday night. with the impending threat of a new housemate limiting future screaming orgasms, i was fucked and threatened into cumming so completely that the afterglow has lasted 2 days. so far.
he phoned. no introductory pleasantries.
“take off your clothes, kitten.”
i was ordered down to the dungeon, soon alas to be restored to its alter ego as family room. i was given a list of implements to take with. i ended up bringing the whole box – meaning everything but the ropes and the cane. (there’s not that much, mind you. we are both afflicted with limited funds. i do have fantasies of a joint visit to a NYC toy store…)
i took my place on the futon, masquerading as a couch. (the futon was masquerading. i was obediently naked and hence ill-equipped to masquerade as anything.)
the pretty little purple butt plug entered my ass. push push pop oh! the philosopher made me walk around. very odd. it’s small, the butt plug. it didn’t feel all that invasive, i loved the feel of it going in, but walking around made me feel very strange. partly as if i needed to poop, an insistent turd knocking at the door and saying “let me out! let me out!” but also… my mind was starting to slip its moorings. and i felt very very owned…
the beloved blue and yellow vibrator caressed my nipples and nestled between my breast.
the purple monster dildo was forced into my mouth. it is huge, straining my lips to hold it in and rapidly banishing any ideas of using it for deep throat practice. it is huge and it tastes awful. but the orders to allow neither this invader nor the sweet little butt plug to escape their respective orifices inspired me to brace the harness end of the monster against the back of the futon couch while my tormentor reminded me to breathe through my nose.
finally, the vibrator, encondomed and lubed, was allowed entry to my cunt. not a lot of lube. just the tip, with that absurd little empty nipple to catch its cum. not a lot of lube because of course i was by then slurpy and swollen.
and so he fucked me. he drove into me. he set up house in my slippery subterranean abysss. he ordered me to fuck him from inside, clasping his cock, gripping his girth, squeezing and releasing in a burst of the Kegel exercises that i really should be performing every day.
the order to cum.
the threat of punishment – both as warning and as inspiration. i felt him standing over me, first with cane in hand, then the brand. the room filled with the smell of red-hot iron.
at last, permission to turn on the vibrator.
the count-down, stretched out with more threats to give me the time i need because i do need more training to achieve orgasms-on-command.
and then i came. as i always eventually do. well, almost always. and yes, it was loud and i sobbed. very satisfactory as far as my master was concerned.
oh – and the butt plug did pop out, and i had been allowed to remove the purple monster from my mouth so he could better hear my moans and frantic yes-sir’s. but he did take me in all my holes, which was his plan.
and yet that is mere mechanics. for it all comes down to this.
he fucked me.
he possessed me.
he took me and held me inside and out.
he sent me down into subspace and flushed out the detritus from the week that was, and left me cleansed and fresh and adoring and calm.
perhaps that’s why having sex is a double mitzvah on the Sabbath…
i was with my master Friday night.
now, normally this is the sort of statement which, on other blogs, makes me want to puke. first of all, i hate that term “master.” it sounds so forced, so presumptuous, so outright dumb! “master?” give me a break!
and yet… i address him as master. or sir. i refer to him as the philosopher. i rarely call him by his given name. J--- feels forced. weird. unconnected with the truth of this man i came to know only through his words and his soul. “master” is an honorific. a convention. more significantly, it is a tribute to the way we play, the scaffolding of our relationship, and the corset with which the man who owns and loves me corrects the posture of my life.
so yes. i address him as “master.” and that’s ok – as long as i don’t think about it. the same way i’m ok referring to God as long as i don’t think too much about what the word means. or doesn’t. then i get squirmy.
yes, then. i was with my master Friday night.
i can see having problems with “with.” for of course, he was 250 miles away. but it’s not that outrageous to say that i spent the evening “with” him considering we were on the phone for 2 hours. at least we had the sound of each other’s voice to feed the impression of being in each other’s presence. i could quibble about “with” but i’ll let that one pass.
my master fucked me Friday night.
now that one. that one just doesn’t fly. when someone speaks of having been fucked, i do expect there was some measure of bodily proximity. say you had phone sex, say you had electronic sex, say he stimulated you with his words, told you how to touch yourself, ordered you to fill your cunt with some plastic approximation of the penis which he was at that very moment surrounding with his fist. but don’t say he fucked you.
my master fucked me Friday night.
i stand by my statement. for surely, mere masturbation could never make me feel the way i have been feeling since that night. cold or no.
i’ve always been a champion masturbator. enthusiastic. desperate, as my hormones ran rampant while my marriage became an escalating insult to the name. i’ve been developing techniques and fantasies since before i was 5. the sexual fantasies surely came later than that, but i do remember rocking on my pillow and calling it “playing horsey.” i even taught my little sister. just as i taught her how to read before she hit kindergarten.
so it’s not as if i needed someone to teach me how to masturbate. and i was managing perfectly acceptable orgasms on my own. more than acceptable.
but there’s no question that what i did – what we did – on Friday night was in no way masturbating. and i will duly try to remember that the next time i am tempted to sneer at some other sub’s description of long-distance erotic activities in terms that suggest physical contact.
i was thoroughly possessed Friday night. with the impending threat of a new housemate limiting future screaming orgasms, i was fucked and threatened into cumming so completely that the afterglow has lasted 2 days. so far.
he phoned. no introductory pleasantries.
“take off your clothes, kitten.”
i was ordered down to the dungeon, soon alas to be restored to its alter ego as family room. i was given a list of implements to take with. i ended up bringing the whole box – meaning everything but the ropes and the cane. (there’s not that much, mind you. we are both afflicted with limited funds. i do have fantasies of a joint visit to a NYC toy store…)
i took my place on the futon, masquerading as a couch. (the futon was masquerading. i was obediently naked and hence ill-equipped to masquerade as anything.)
the pretty little purple butt plug entered my ass. push push pop oh! the philosopher made me walk around. very odd. it’s small, the butt plug. it didn’t feel all that invasive, i loved the feel of it going in, but walking around made me feel very strange. partly as if i needed to poop, an insistent turd knocking at the door and saying “let me out! let me out!” but also… my mind was starting to slip its moorings. and i felt very very owned…
the beloved blue and yellow vibrator caressed my nipples and nestled between my breast.
the purple monster dildo was forced into my mouth. it is huge, straining my lips to hold it in and rapidly banishing any ideas of using it for deep throat practice. it is huge and it tastes awful. but the orders to allow neither this invader nor the sweet little butt plug to escape their respective orifices inspired me to brace the harness end of the monster against the back of the futon couch while my tormentor reminded me to breathe through my nose.
finally, the vibrator, encondomed and lubed, was allowed entry to my cunt. not a lot of lube. just the tip, with that absurd little empty nipple to catch its cum. not a lot of lube because of course i was by then slurpy and swollen.
and so he fucked me. he drove into me. he set up house in my slippery subterranean abysss. he ordered me to fuck him from inside, clasping his cock, gripping his girth, squeezing and releasing in a burst of the Kegel exercises that i really should be performing every day.
the order to cum.
the threat of punishment – both as warning and as inspiration. i felt him standing over me, first with cane in hand, then the brand. the room filled with the smell of red-hot iron.
at last, permission to turn on the vibrator.
the count-down, stretched out with more threats to give me the time i need because i do need more training to achieve orgasms-on-command.
and then i came. as i always eventually do. well, almost always. and yes, it was loud and i sobbed. very satisfactory as far as my master was concerned.
oh – and the butt plug did pop out, and i had been allowed to remove the purple monster from my mouth so he could better hear my moans and frantic yes-sir’s. but he did take me in all my holes, which was his plan.
and yet that is mere mechanics. for it all comes down to this.
he fucked me.
he possessed me.
he took me and held me inside and out.
he sent me down into subspace and flushed out the detritus from the week that was, and left me cleansed and fresh and adoring and calm.
perhaps that’s why having sex is a double mitzvah on the Sabbath…
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Holes for Rent
This story was triggered by this post (and very explicit video) on Zille Defeu's fetish fantasies and this from David's A View from the Top. The images, both seen and imagined, stewed and burbled in my brain for days, until they emerged transformed into the following.
I meant to give you this story on Monday, but it needed a little more work. So I posted a little apology, with a promise to deliver on Tuesday. Of course, I had no right to do that. The philosopher has given me the schedule of Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday, and I have no authority to change that. So this will count as Wednesday's post. Please forgive me for leading you to expect otherwise. The fault is mine alone.
* * * * * * * * * *
They needed the money.
They needed the money and he needed proof. Proof that he really did own her. Proof that she would submit to whatever humiliating task he forced on her. Proof that she wouldn’t love him the less for it.
They were down in the dungeon. He had tied her to the futon, had spanked her, had beaten her, had adorned her with hot wax. He put his hands around her neck, just tight enough to remind her that he controlled the very breath she took. She was so deep in subspace that she could barely speak, but he knew she could get out the answers to the catechism.
“These breasts,” he twisted her nipples until she screamed. “These breasts, kitten, which I can pinch and twist and cover with clothespins. Who owns these breasts?”
“You own them, master. You own them.” She had to struggle to get the words out, drawing them up from some deep well, miles away, in another universe.
“This mouth,” he forced it open, running his fingers over her teeth, and then briefly fucking her mouth with his tongue. “This mouth,” he continued, “that I will fuck until you choke and gasp for air, this mouth that I will fill with my cum. Who owns it, slave?”
The edges of her consciousness caught the switch from “kitten” to “slave” and she slipped even further into subspace. Each word that followed took a huge effort. She reeled them in one by one.
“Y-You… own it…., master. Y-Y-You o-own…. m-m-my……m-m-m-mouth.”
“This cunt,” his fingers sloshed down the slide of her submission, grabbing onto her clit to save himself from drowining in her womb. “Who owns it, slave? Who owns this cunt?”
He rushed ahead, without waiting for an answer.
“And this ass, slave. This tight little asshole,” which his finger easily breached with the aid of the cunt juices that coated his hand. “Whose little anus is this?”
She tried to answer, she really did. But the bridge to her words had dissolved in the mist.
“I own them.This cunt, this clit, this ass, they’re all mine, slave. YOU’RE all mine, SLAVE. And do you know what that means? Do you know what that means? You’re my property. You know that. And what can I do with my property?”
She tried again. And again, she couldn’t do it.
He slapped her face. Not very hard. Just enough to restore her power of speech and some basic vocabulary.
“I’m your property. You… you can sell me. You can… can… give me away.”
Tears wandered down her cheeks.
“Ah no, kitten, don’t cry. I would never give you away. I would never sell you. But your holes, my little slave… I’m going to rent out your holes.”
She gasped. And disappeared back down into subspace.
The idea was not new to him. The fantasy had lived and congealed in his brain for weeks. All the details had been worked out. But only now was he sure enough of them both to go ahead with it. Her response to objectification and humiliation had been growing, as had his security in the bonds between them. He needed to do this. Just this once. Just to see how far her obedience would take her.
The set-up was simple. He would reduce her to two holes. She’d be nothing but a cunt and an anus. Her mouth was his alone.
He bought a saw-horse, and trimmed the legs until when she was bent over it her hands and feet touched the ground. He wrapped the top in foam rubber, but that was his only concession to comfort.
He advertised to the audience that had witnessed her masturbation performance. The participants were limited to twenty, of which three would be women with strap-ons. He rented two rooms in an office building that would be empty on a weekend night. One would be the waiting room.
She floated through the preparations as if permanently hung over, never quite out of subspace. She tried not to think about what was coming, and could think of nothing else. She was terrified. She was excited. She was leery. And she wanted to prove that she would accede to any demand he made.
The night arrived. The customers arrived. The fee had been paid ahead of time. A healthy fee. He hadn’t told her what they needed the money for, but some of it would be a gift for her – the trip to Paris and Ireland she had long dreamed of taking with him.
What the customers would experience would barely deserve the name of having sex with her. They would be fucking her holes. It would be one step above masturbating. Cold, clinical, and effective. There was one fee for either cunt or anus, and ten per cent off the combined fee for both.
Her ass had rarely been used, and she found herself dwelling on the ass fucking more than anything else. He didn’t want her hurt, so gradually prepared her for the invasion ahead. Every night for two weeks, he kept her filled with a butt plug, increasing the size every few days until she could easily tolerate the middle size and take the largest one without too much pain. He didn’t want to risk bleeding. Her cunt, he knew, could open to most anything with enough lube.
The first customer was a man. He entered the room and saw nothing ahead of him but a pair of buttocks, an anus, and a cunt. Stanchions and ropes, a waiting line at the bank, directed him straight towards the target. He was there to make a deposit.
There was to be no undressing. The customer merely extracted his penis through his fly. At the doorway he was handed a condom. He unrolled it onto his already hard cock, and then anointed it with a handful of Astroglide. Customer #1 was a cunt man only.
The customers were not to touch her with their hands. They could brace themselves on the saw horse as it extended on either side of her ass. She was bound so tightly to the frame, wrists and ankles each chained to the base of one leg, that an erect cock could enter either orifice with a single thrust.
She sensed #1 walking up behind her. Sensed him from the bottom of her subspace pit. Her owner had whispered dire threats in her ear before they started, he had spanked her, he had beaten her, he did everything he could to send her far away. This was a joint experiment – to see how thoroughly she could disappear.
She was nothing. She was her holes. Whatever was left of her brain dwelt in those holes. She felt the first thrust. She felt nothing. She was a cunt. This is what she was born to be. She was a hole, she was nothing, she felt nothing.
#1 fucked. #1 came. #1 left.
#2 and #3 repeated the pattern.
#4 was a women with a very large strap-on. Very hard and very large, but not more than she could take. She swam up a little ways and held on to the sensation. She was being fucked by a stone phallus, by a statue, Venus with a penis. And then she slipped away again.
#5 wanted her ass. Her master basted her with K-Y before allowing the customer to enter. It took a little pushing before he made it through, and she needed to be conscious for it, pushing out to help him enter. It hurt. She tried not to but she cried out. He pounded her ass and she screamed, and that only made him harder and more brutal. She tried to keep silent, but the pain flowed out her eyes instead. She thought his final thrust would split her in two, but at least he finally came and withdrew. She promised herself she wouldn’t scream again, no matter what. The screaming brought her back to consciousness, and she wanted nothing more than to float away.
After that, it was mostly routine. A couple of the guys wanted both holes. The rule was clear: cunt first, then ass. She returned to feeling nothing. She could have been one of those toys men can buy in a sex shop, a pseudo-cunt with which to masturbate. Plastic has no feelings. Plastic doesn’t bleed. Plastic doesn’t cry.
She did bleed, just a little. But she was too far gone into subspace to cry.
He wanted to go to her. He wanted to reassure her. He wanted to tell her what a good job she was doing, how proud he was of her, what a good kitten she was. But he knew better. He knew that his words would shatter the armor she had built around herself, and make it harder to play it through until the end. He knew so well how his slave kitten’s mind worked. He would wait.
Finally, it was time for #20. Just another cock. It was all the same to her by now. Wherever she was. A tiny part of her brain, a microchip calculator, knew this was the last one. This one wanted it all. A fitting way to end. He fucked her cunt, he fucked her ass, he grunted, he groaned, and he came. It was over.
He left her bound while he ushered out this last of their customers. He locked the door and stood for a moment, gathering himself together, wrestling with the feelings that surged within him. Had it been a mistake? Perhaps. He wasn’t sure. But it was done. And they’d never do it again.
The 2 room suite came with a small washroom. He filled a bowl with warm water, and picking up a bar of her favorite soap and a washcloth, he came up behind her. Gently, he cleansed her abused orifices. He knelt at her feet and unchained her ankles, then moved around to the front and unchained her wrists.
He felt a tear drop onto his neck. Standing up, he gathered her into his arms and eased her to the ground. He kissed her tears, stroked her hair, rubbed her limbs to get the blood flowing again, but it wasn’t yet time for the ritual reassurances.
“You’re not quite done yet, kitten. Not quite done.”
He pulled of his jeans, lay down on the industrial carpet, and pulled her on top of him.
“Now, my slave, my pet, my cock whore, my fuck toy. Now. Whose mouth is this, kitten? Whose mouth is this, slave?”
She was wrung out, her head was swimming, but the words rang out in love and triumph.
“It’s YOURS, master. Yours and no one else’s. You own me, master. You own me. They fucked me, but they never had me. Only you.”
Or that’s what she WOULD have said. The last words were lost as he pushed her mouth down over his screaming cock. Clutching her hair in his grasp, the hair she’d grown at his command just for this purpose, he pushed her down over his erection, pushed her throat down over his urgency, he fucked her with all the anger that had built up against the other cocks that had used her, and he exploded his joy at her obedience.
And then he took her home.
I meant to give you this story on Monday, but it needed a little more work. So I posted a little apology, with a promise to deliver on Tuesday. Of course, I had no right to do that. The philosopher has given me the schedule of Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday, and I have no authority to change that. So this will count as Wednesday's post. Please forgive me for leading you to expect otherwise. The fault is mine alone.
* * * * * * * * * *
They needed the money.
They needed the money and he needed proof. Proof that he really did own her. Proof that she would submit to whatever humiliating task he forced on her. Proof that she wouldn’t love him the less for it.
They were down in the dungeon. He had tied her to the futon, had spanked her, had beaten her, had adorned her with hot wax. He put his hands around her neck, just tight enough to remind her that he controlled the very breath she took. She was so deep in subspace that she could barely speak, but he knew she could get out the answers to the catechism.
“These breasts,” he twisted her nipples until she screamed. “These breasts, kitten, which I can pinch and twist and cover with clothespins. Who owns these breasts?”
“You own them, master. You own them.” She had to struggle to get the words out, drawing them up from some deep well, miles away, in another universe.
“This mouth,” he forced it open, running his fingers over her teeth, and then briefly fucking her mouth with his tongue. “This mouth,” he continued, “that I will fuck until you choke and gasp for air, this mouth that I will fill with my cum. Who owns it, slave?”
The edges of her consciousness caught the switch from “kitten” to “slave” and she slipped even further into subspace. Each word that followed took a huge effort. She reeled them in one by one.
“Y-You… own it…., master. Y-Y-You o-own…. m-m-my……m-m-m-mouth.”
“This cunt,” his fingers sloshed down the slide of her submission, grabbing onto her clit to save himself from drowining in her womb. “Who owns it, slave? Who owns this cunt?”
He rushed ahead, without waiting for an answer.
“And this ass, slave. This tight little asshole,” which his finger easily breached with the aid of the cunt juices that coated his hand. “Whose little anus is this?”
She tried to answer, she really did. But the bridge to her words had dissolved in the mist.
“I own them.This cunt, this clit, this ass, they’re all mine, slave. YOU’RE all mine, SLAVE. And do you know what that means? Do you know what that means? You’re my property. You know that. And what can I do with my property?”
She tried again. And again, she couldn’t do it.
He slapped her face. Not very hard. Just enough to restore her power of speech and some basic vocabulary.
“I’m your property. You… you can sell me. You can… can… give me away.”
Tears wandered down her cheeks.
“Ah no, kitten, don’t cry. I would never give you away. I would never sell you. But your holes, my little slave… I’m going to rent out your holes.”
She gasped. And disappeared back down into subspace.
The idea was not new to him. The fantasy had lived and congealed in his brain for weeks. All the details had been worked out. But only now was he sure enough of them both to go ahead with it. Her response to objectification and humiliation had been growing, as had his security in the bonds between them. He needed to do this. Just this once. Just to see how far her obedience would take her.
The set-up was simple. He would reduce her to two holes. She’d be nothing but a cunt and an anus. Her mouth was his alone.
He bought a saw-horse, and trimmed the legs until when she was bent over it her hands and feet touched the ground. He wrapped the top in foam rubber, but that was his only concession to comfort.
He advertised to the audience that had witnessed her masturbation performance. The participants were limited to twenty, of which three would be women with strap-ons. He rented two rooms in an office building that would be empty on a weekend night. One would be the waiting room.
She floated through the preparations as if permanently hung over, never quite out of subspace. She tried not to think about what was coming, and could think of nothing else. She was terrified. She was excited. She was leery. And she wanted to prove that she would accede to any demand he made.
The night arrived. The customers arrived. The fee had been paid ahead of time. A healthy fee. He hadn’t told her what they needed the money for, but some of it would be a gift for her – the trip to Paris and Ireland she had long dreamed of taking with him.
What the customers would experience would barely deserve the name of having sex with her. They would be fucking her holes. It would be one step above masturbating. Cold, clinical, and effective. There was one fee for either cunt or anus, and ten per cent off the combined fee for both.
Her ass had rarely been used, and she found herself dwelling on the ass fucking more than anything else. He didn’t want her hurt, so gradually prepared her for the invasion ahead. Every night for two weeks, he kept her filled with a butt plug, increasing the size every few days until she could easily tolerate the middle size and take the largest one without too much pain. He didn’t want to risk bleeding. Her cunt, he knew, could open to most anything with enough lube.
The first customer was a man. He entered the room and saw nothing ahead of him but a pair of buttocks, an anus, and a cunt. Stanchions and ropes, a waiting line at the bank, directed him straight towards the target. He was there to make a deposit.
There was to be no undressing. The customer merely extracted his penis through his fly. At the doorway he was handed a condom. He unrolled it onto his already hard cock, and then anointed it with a handful of Astroglide. Customer #1 was a cunt man only.
The customers were not to touch her with their hands. They could brace themselves on the saw horse as it extended on either side of her ass. She was bound so tightly to the frame, wrists and ankles each chained to the base of one leg, that an erect cock could enter either orifice with a single thrust.
She sensed #1 walking up behind her. Sensed him from the bottom of her subspace pit. Her owner had whispered dire threats in her ear before they started, he had spanked her, he had beaten her, he did everything he could to send her far away. This was a joint experiment – to see how thoroughly she could disappear.
She was nothing. She was her holes. Whatever was left of her brain dwelt in those holes. She felt the first thrust. She felt nothing. She was a cunt. This is what she was born to be. She was a hole, she was nothing, she felt nothing.
#1 fucked. #1 came. #1 left.
#2 and #3 repeated the pattern.
#4 was a women with a very large strap-on. Very hard and very large, but not more than she could take. She swam up a little ways and held on to the sensation. She was being fucked by a stone phallus, by a statue, Venus with a penis. And then she slipped away again.
#5 wanted her ass. Her master basted her with K-Y before allowing the customer to enter. It took a little pushing before he made it through, and she needed to be conscious for it, pushing out to help him enter. It hurt. She tried not to but she cried out. He pounded her ass and she screamed, and that only made him harder and more brutal. She tried to keep silent, but the pain flowed out her eyes instead. She thought his final thrust would split her in two, but at least he finally came and withdrew. She promised herself she wouldn’t scream again, no matter what. The screaming brought her back to consciousness, and she wanted nothing more than to float away.
After that, it was mostly routine. A couple of the guys wanted both holes. The rule was clear: cunt first, then ass. She returned to feeling nothing. She could have been one of those toys men can buy in a sex shop, a pseudo-cunt with which to masturbate. Plastic has no feelings. Plastic doesn’t bleed. Plastic doesn’t cry.
She did bleed, just a little. But she was too far gone into subspace to cry.
He wanted to go to her. He wanted to reassure her. He wanted to tell her what a good job she was doing, how proud he was of her, what a good kitten she was. But he knew better. He knew that his words would shatter the armor she had built around herself, and make it harder to play it through until the end. He knew so well how his slave kitten’s mind worked. He would wait.
Finally, it was time for #20. Just another cock. It was all the same to her by now. Wherever she was. A tiny part of her brain, a microchip calculator, knew this was the last one. This one wanted it all. A fitting way to end. He fucked her cunt, he fucked her ass, he grunted, he groaned, and he came. It was over.
He left her bound while he ushered out this last of their customers. He locked the door and stood for a moment, gathering himself together, wrestling with the feelings that surged within him. Had it been a mistake? Perhaps. He wasn’t sure. But it was done. And they’d never do it again.
The 2 room suite came with a small washroom. He filled a bowl with warm water, and picking up a bar of her favorite soap and a washcloth, he came up behind her. Gently, he cleansed her abused orifices. He knelt at her feet and unchained her ankles, then moved around to the front and unchained her wrists.
He felt a tear drop onto his neck. Standing up, he gathered her into his arms and eased her to the ground. He kissed her tears, stroked her hair, rubbed her limbs to get the blood flowing again, but it wasn’t yet time for the ritual reassurances.
“You’re not quite done yet, kitten. Not quite done.”
He pulled of his jeans, lay down on the industrial carpet, and pulled her on top of him.
“Now, my slave, my pet, my cock whore, my fuck toy. Now. Whose mouth is this, kitten? Whose mouth is this, slave?”
She was wrung out, her head was swimming, but the words rang out in love and triumph.
“It’s YOURS, master. Yours and no one else’s. You own me, master. You own me. They fucked me, but they never had me. Only you.”
Or that’s what she WOULD have said. The last words were lost as he pushed her mouth down over his screaming cock. Clutching her hair in his grasp, the hair she’d grown at his command just for this purpose, he pushed her down over his erection, pushed her throat down over his urgency, he fucked her with all the anger that had built up against the other cocks that had used her, and he exploded his joy at her obedience.
And then he took her home.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Punishment Fit for a Slave
this is fiction.
i was driven to write it
in lieu of the real thing.
please forgive me, master.
please forgive me, J---.
- - - - - - -
When she picked him up at the bus station, he didn’t say a word.
She had been forewarned. Everything had been explained ahead of time. He hadn’t let her hear his voice for the past three days, but he had laid it all out in a clear, cold e-mail.
“You disobeyed my order. You deliberately disobeyed me. This was more than a fit of naughtiness. Your transgression was severe, and you will be punished accordingly. Not as a pet. Not as a submissive. But as a slave. You must be reminded that in the end you are nothing but a slave. “
She cried as she read his words, but couldn’t argue. In her own eyes, her behaviour was unforgivable.. She would welcome whatever punishment he chose to mete out in hopes of being washed clean of her sin.
She stayed in the car, saving them both from a public display of the silent greeting, the sad space between their bodies. Besides, she was dressed per his precise specification. The slave shirt, a man’s white dress shirt, held closed by nothing but the three bottom buttons. No underwear. He would have kept her barefoot, but for safety’s sake while driving had allowed sandals. But no socks.
Around her neck was the cold metal choke chain.
The day was chilly for spring. Despite her low spirits, her nipples had hardened from the cold. He loved those nipples He had to work hard to control the smile that threatened to break the mood. She did need to be punished severely. It would be cathartic for both of them. And then they could move on.
She drove him silently home, her eyes as downcast as they could be considering her need to look at the road. She still couldn’t bear to look at him when she got out of the car. She waited as he took his bag out of the back, and then walked silently by his side up the steps. At the top, she reached forward to insert the key in the lock, but he put his hand over hers and unlocked the door himself. A small gesture, but clear. He was home and in charge. He was indeed the master of the house.
It was the first time he had touched her since he arrived, and the only gentle touch she would feel for hours to come.
He nodded sternly toward his bag, and she took it into the bedroom. Then she went to relieve herself. While she could.
She returned to the living room and stood, her eyes focused on the space between her now bare feet.
“Take off your shirt, slave. Now.”
Her eyes betrayed a hint of protest. The blinds were open. But she obeyed without argument. She opened the three buttons, shrugged her shoulders, and let the shirt slide down her arms to the floor.
Inwardly, he nodded. She had passed the first test.
“Now, slave. Go down to the dungeon, Kneel before my chair. And wait.”
She did as she was told.
The so-called dungeon, aka the family room, was carpeted, but the position was stll hard on her knees. She wasn’t at all flexible as a slave should be. But she posed as he had commanded, with hands behind her, shoulders back, breasts proffered, legs spread as wide as she could manage. Mortified, she realized that her cunt was swelling and seeping. She knew there would be nothing intentionally erotic about what was going to happen to her, she knew he would hurt her in ways he never had before, but still… she allowed herself a small rueful smile. Perhaps after the beating she was in for, she would be cured of being a pain slut. But she doubted it.
He made her hold the position for a long time. He put some water up to boil, stretched his legs from the four-hour trip, petted the cats, made himself some tea and a sandwich, ate while looking at the newspaper, and used the bathroom. He knew she hated being banished to the basement. It was all part of the punishment.
Finally, with a mixture of relief and fear bordering on terror, she heard him coming down the steps. Now it would truly begin. They had the house to themselves for the long weekend. She had no idea how much time he had allotted to her punishment.
It began with the castigation. Cold and factual. There was no need to remind her of what she had done – she would never forget how she had betrayed his trust with her disobedience. It wasn’t the action itself that was so serious. She hadn’t betrayed him with another man. Or woman, for that matter. But she had betrayed the spirit of their relationship. He gave the orders. He knew what was best for her. She was to obey. Period. But he wanted her to hear it again, from his own lips. She needed to suffer in order to be cleansed, and he had to flog her soul as well as her body.
She wept at his words. She wept at her foolishness. She wept at the hard note in his voice. And most of all, she wept at knowing that she had disappointed him. The tears flowed from her eyes, as did the snot from her nose. He wanted to go to her, to wipe her eyes as well as her nose. But he knew he had to play the whole thing out, so instead tossed her the box of tissues.
“Clean yourself up, slave.”
She blotted her eyes and blew her nose, knowing there would be a lot more tears and snot to come. She made a little pile of the wet tissues, and again brought her hands behind her, each clutching the opposite arm just below the elbow.
Along with instructions for picking him up at the bus station, he had sent a list of items she was to gather and array. She was to prepare the implements of her own torture. He surveyed the items arranged neatly on the large, sturdy coffee table. It was time for the next act.
Even a grad student needs study breaks. He had rested his mind from working on his dissertation by practicing his knots, viewing instructional videos, and studying drawings of Japanese bondage. The latter gave him fierce erections and violent dreams, but also (and this was the point) gave him ideas for how he would torture her. For he wanted to do more than just beat her. He wanted to make her feel threatened and helpless and manipulated. He wanted to remind her that he did indeed own her, that she was his to command AND to abuse, and that she should keep this in mind the next time he issued an order.
He knew there was no chance she would ever again forget.
Gathering up the collection of hemp ropes, he strode over to where she knelt. It had been a while since their last bondage scene, but the practice paid off. He pulled everything a little tighter this time, the ropes around her breasts, around her arms, around her wrists as he bound them behind her. The knots he created for her clit and cunt and anus were large, intrusive, and painful. Again, he found himself smiling inwardly as he positioned the knots, for despite the fear and despair in her eyes she was open and slippery. He longed to plunge his fingers into her and his cock jerked upwards, but he steeled himself against his own lust and concentrated on his task. He was trying a new position, aiming to increase her feeling of vulnerability. He proceded to bind her right ankle to her thigh and torso. Then, taking up another piece of hemp, he wound it around her left ankle and, reaching up, attached it to the hook he had instructed her to screw into the upright wooden beam behind them.
He surveyed his creation. She was not only immobilized. She was open to attack on her most delicate parts.
Normally, the next step would have been a spanking. But nothing was normal about what was to come. This was no pretend punishment for manufactured offenses. Her transgression was real and severe, and the punishment would be the same. The intimacy of the touch of his hand would mitigate the mental effect. So for now it was to be implements only.
Still, he wasn’t that cruel as to beat her without some sort of warm up. He stood up, removed his belt, folded it in half, and raised his hand.
“Now, slave. For you are but a slave. And you must learn what happens to slaves who disobey.”
She flinched inside even before feeling the first blow from his belt. She flinched, and then cried out, but in truth she welcomed the pain. She needed this. She needed this to cleanse her of the guilt and the regret. She needed this to reassure her that he wouldn’t send her away. However cruelly he treated her, this ritual was his statement that she was worth taking the time to scold and to punish and to reduce to a screaming, sobbing, submissive mess. Because after all that came forgiveness.
He held back as he beat her. He held back because this was but a warm up, and because he was starting with the sensitive flesh of her inner thighs. He held back because he was aiming carefully. He would eventually beat her cunt, but he wanted it to be intentional. Once, in play, he had accidentally brought the belt down hard on her cunt and her scream still rang in his soul. He hadn’t meant to hurt her that badly. This time, he did. When he was ready.
The belt came down on her flesh 50 times. Her usually pale skin was flushed and glowing. She had tried not to wriggle, had tried not to scream, had tried to show that she knew she deserved this. But she was never all that good at controlling herself.
He walked back over to the table. The way she was positioned, she could see him put down the folded strip of leather and take up the next item on the program. Something new.
She waged a constant battle in the back yard, defending it from invasion and ultimate surrender to a neighbor’s army of bamboo. The day before his arrival, she had cut an armload of three-foot lengths from the tops of the younger plants and stripped them of their leaves, creating a thick handful of flexible switches. She had tied the base together with string, and today it lay on the table with the more familiar toys. Or what used to be thought of as toys.
He tried it out, swishing it through the air, getting a feel for the weight and resistance. He brought it down a couple of times on his denim-shielded leg and estimated the effect it would have on her bare parts. Then he returned to standing over her.
She expected him to continue the assault on her cunt. But he wanted to keep her off balance. He brought the bundle down on her breasts.
He didn’t hurt her all that hard. He did own her after all, not to mention the feelings he had for her, and didn’t want to do any permanent damage. But he had never beat her tits before, and he achieved the desired effect even without great force.
“When a slave is being punished, nothing is safe. Do you understand that? Slave?!”
He had such power over her when he addressed her that way. “Slave!”
“Yes, master. I understand, sir.” Her words were soft and tearful but definite and submissive.
He flogged each tit 10 times.
“Whose breasts are these, slave?”
“They are your breasts, master.”
“Yes. They are my breasts. And whose nipples are these? Slave.”
It always felt worse when he set that word apart. Slave. Worse. But better. It sent her down into subspace. He knew what he was doing. The soft part of him wanted to spare her from the worst of the pain. She would get the message clearly enough. This was psychological torture as much as physical affliction. Just knowing what he was doing to her would upset her well enough.
“They are YOUR nipples, master.”
“That’s right, slave. You are my slave and these are my nipples. You are never to forget that. Your body and your will, they all belong to me. And you will never again forget it. Will you? Slave.”
“No, master. I promise. I will never forget that ever again.”
He could hear the change in her voice. She was going down.
Acting quickly, he threw down the bundle of switches and took up the new item he had brought with him. Japanese clover clamps. He had never even subjected her nipples to clothespins, although he loved to twist them, to pinch them, to sink his nail into them. She gasped as he brutally seized each red nub and fastened a clamp on each one. Finally, he yanked on the chain. Hard.
Tears sprang to her eyes, but he didn’t wait for any further reaction. Taking up the bamboo bundle again, he slid one switch out from the rest. Again, he gave a few practice swishes through the air, before proceeding to whip her thighs.
The pain was cutting. It reminded her of the rubber band punishments he made her inflict on herself. In many ways it was worse than the cane, even though the switch wasn’t coming down as hard. He whipped her steadily, mercilessly, leaving clear red welts on the flesh already reddened by the belt.
And now he started to speak as he whipped her. Steadily and firmly, following the rhythm of the bamboo on her thighs.
“THIS is HOW a SLAVE is PUNISHED. THIS is what HAPPENS when a SLAVE disoBEYS. NEver forGET who OWNS you, SLAVE. I am the MASTER and YOU are the SLAVE.”
He tried to stay dispassionate, but anger was seeping in. Anger. And lust. He was getting hard. Very very hard. He tried to stuff it all back down, but it was a struggle.
He finally stopped whipping her and looked down at the welts he had left. At first he had aimed for clear parallel lines, though that was hard with such thin, fresh bamboo. Some of the blows had accidentally crossed each other, and then in the end he deliberately brought the switch down in the other direction, finishing up with five strokes in the same spot on each inner thigh. Where the welts crossed, and where he had concentrated the stripes, spots of blood rose to the surface. Once more, he had to control his tender feelings. He would leave the blood there to dry. He wanted her to see it. She knew he wasn’t into blood. The spots would be another reminder of how serious this was.
The whipping had brought cries of pain at each stroke, but not as loud as if he hadn’t brought her down somewhat into subspace. He had never taken her all the way down with physical pain. Fantasies of branding nearly deprived her of the ability to speak, but that was the furthest she had ever gone. He suspected she would be at least partially conscious for the rest of the punishment. Good. He wanted her to know what was happening to her.
He exchanged the switch for the belt.
“Slave. Do you remember when I accidentally hit your cunt? This time, slave, it won’t be an accident. This time I mean it. I am going to bring the belt down on your cunt. Five times, slave. Five times. It will drive the knots deeper into your cunt and harder onto your clit. This will hurt, slave. A lot. But not nearly as much as you hurt me with your disobedience. Remember that, slave. When you disobey, you betray my trust in you. It is for that more than anything else that you are being punished. Do you understand me? Slave?”
“Yes, master.” Her voice was clouded and tremulous. She was there enough to know this would hurt like hell. And again, she didn’t doubt that she deserved it.
He picked up the black and white checkerboard bandanna from the table.
“I don’t want to frighten the neighbors with your screams.”
He gagged her. He had never gagged her before. Her eyes flashed panic. He ignored it.
Once more, he stood up. He raised the belt. He aimed carefully, and brought it down hard on the knots that adorned her crotch.
He heard her scream from behind the gag.
Four more times he beat her cunt. Four more times her choked screams met his ears, When he was done, he stood there, breathing heavily. He was startled by how powerful he felt. His sadism had overcome his scruples, had pushed past the litany he had been repeating to himself that this was all a necessary punishment and nothing more. He had hurt her badly, and he reveled in her pain. He felt strong and powerful and he wanted to keep hurting her, his sadism was unleashed and he wanted to keep finding more and crueler ways to use her body. And then he wanted to force his cock down her throat and rape her. Truly rape her.
He shook his head to clear it. The fun would come later. He had a job to finish.
She was whimpering at his feet. He bent down and removed the gag. She was surprised by the gentleness in his touch. She had sensed the sadism pushing past the dispassionate desire for correction. It had simultaneously frightened and pleased her. She always felt it was good for him to let it out. And this had been an appropriate time for her to pay the price. Still, shaken and in anguish as she was, she smiled fondly at the tenderness that was creeping through.
He stroked her hair, and used a tissue to wipe her eyes and blot the drool from around her mouth.
“It’s almost over, kitten. It’s almost over. This will be the last part.”
He knew he had let it slip. He had called her “kitten.” He hadn’t meant to until it was all over. But he couldn’t help himself. He wanted it to be over, perhaps more than she did. He wanted to welcome her back. This punishment in truth was more for her than for him.
He released her ankles, and she rolled around a bit to get the blood flowing again. Which hurt. He removed the clover clamps, which let the blood back into her nipples. Which hurt. He sat her up and untied the rest of the ropes.
“Crawl for me, kitten. I want to see you crawl.”
He couldn’t go back to calling her “slave.” She started to cry. This was more painful than all the blows combined. It just reminded her how she had disappointed him.
He steeled himself. He stopped himself from saying his usual, beautiful “Don’t cry, kitten,” in that special, loving inflection.
“Crawl. NOW.”
She crawled. They both knew it was to get the blood flowing again. She crawled around the room while he removed every item from the coffee table and placed them on the futon. He let her crawl back and forth for a couple of minutes, then walked over to her and seized the end of the choke collar, forcing the metal noose tight against her throat. He pulled her back towards the coffee table. She had to scramble to keep up with him.
“Up. On the table. On your knees.”
He took a small box from the futon, another item he had brought with him. He held it in front of her while he removed a butt plug. It was her first.
“I am going to cane you now. Fifty strokes, for no reason other than that is how many I am choosing to give you. But first, two more reminders that you belong to me. Every part of you belongs to me. You belong to me and that is why you are always to obey me. ALWAYS. Do you understand?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He slipped a condom onto the butt plug and shoved it into her cunt. He knew she was wet – the rope knots had been slippery when he removed them from her various orifices. He moved the butt plug in and out, gathering the natural lubricant.
He was gentle as he eased it into her tight little ass hole. She had never been fucked there, but had read enough to know to push out. Between them, they got the job done. A learning experience for them both.
Next came another condom and the monstrous purple dildo. She hated it. It was too big. Which was why he inserted it now in her cunt. She was stretched and stuffed and possessed.
“I am going to cane you. You deserve this. I am not going to bind you. You are going to count off the strokes and hold the position and accept this as punishment. And then that will be the end of it. Now lie down on the table.”
The wooden top was hard. It was not at all comfortable. She stretched her arms down the table legs and grasped them at their base. He tucked a pillow under her hips to raise them into position. Her legs hung down behind. She was fully alert now. No more subspace in which to take refuge.
Again, practice swishes through the air.
“Now. Loud and clear. If you lose count I’ll have to start over. But you won’t lose count, will you? You won’t lose count.”
“No, master. I won’t lose count.”
She was exhausted. She was in pain. But she could see the end. And he was giving her what she needed. Because after punishment came forgiveness. It cleansed her of her sins.
She counted. He struck. Sometimes she gasped. Sometimes she screamed. Some of the strokes were swats. Some of them arrived with all the weight of his body behind them. She never knew what was coming. But she gave herself up to all of them. She gave herself up to the pain. She tried to relax under the blows and concentrate on counting and hold on as the end grew nearer and nearer.
“48.”
A solid stroke.
“49.”
A slightly lighter one.
“50!”
He hit her so hard he thought the cane would break.
She screamed one last time. And then started to cry. He threw down the cane and gathered her in his arms.
“Shh… shh… it’s ok, kitten… It’s ok now… It’s all over… You’re forgiven… You’re my good kitten now… shh… shh…”
He stroked her hair, he kissed the tears, he reached into the cooler he had told her to prepare and brought out a bottle of water. He poured the welcome liquid carefully between her lips and she swallowed gratefully. Then he eased her down onto the carpet, on her belly. The cooler’s contents included a large bag of frozen peas. He covered her buttocks with a dish towel and applied the bag of peas as a cold compress. Then he returned to stroking her hair while the air filled with mingled murmurs of apology and forgiveness.
i was driven to write it
in lieu of the real thing.
please forgive me, master.
please forgive me, J---.
- - - - - - -
When she picked him up at the bus station, he didn’t say a word.
She had been forewarned. Everything had been explained ahead of time. He hadn’t let her hear his voice for the past three days, but he had laid it all out in a clear, cold e-mail.
“You disobeyed my order. You deliberately disobeyed me. This was more than a fit of naughtiness. Your transgression was severe, and you will be punished accordingly. Not as a pet. Not as a submissive. But as a slave. You must be reminded that in the end you are nothing but a slave. “
She cried as she read his words, but couldn’t argue. In her own eyes, her behaviour was unforgivable.. She would welcome whatever punishment he chose to mete out in hopes of being washed clean of her sin.
She stayed in the car, saving them both from a public display of the silent greeting, the sad space between their bodies. Besides, she was dressed per his precise specification. The slave shirt, a man’s white dress shirt, held closed by nothing but the three bottom buttons. No underwear. He would have kept her barefoot, but for safety’s sake while driving had allowed sandals. But no socks.
Around her neck was the cold metal choke chain.
The day was chilly for spring. Despite her low spirits, her nipples had hardened from the cold. He loved those nipples He had to work hard to control the smile that threatened to break the mood. She did need to be punished severely. It would be cathartic for both of them. And then they could move on.
She drove him silently home, her eyes as downcast as they could be considering her need to look at the road. She still couldn’t bear to look at him when she got out of the car. She waited as he took his bag out of the back, and then walked silently by his side up the steps. At the top, she reached forward to insert the key in the lock, but he put his hand over hers and unlocked the door himself. A small gesture, but clear. He was home and in charge. He was indeed the master of the house.
It was the first time he had touched her since he arrived, and the only gentle touch she would feel for hours to come.
He nodded sternly toward his bag, and she took it into the bedroom. Then she went to relieve herself. While she could.
She returned to the living room and stood, her eyes focused on the space between her now bare feet.
“Take off your shirt, slave. Now.”
Her eyes betrayed a hint of protest. The blinds were open. But she obeyed without argument. She opened the three buttons, shrugged her shoulders, and let the shirt slide down her arms to the floor.
Inwardly, he nodded. She had passed the first test.
“Now, slave. Go down to the dungeon, Kneel before my chair. And wait.”
She did as she was told.
The so-called dungeon, aka the family room, was carpeted, but the position was stll hard on her knees. She wasn’t at all flexible as a slave should be. But she posed as he had commanded, with hands behind her, shoulders back, breasts proffered, legs spread as wide as she could manage. Mortified, she realized that her cunt was swelling and seeping. She knew there would be nothing intentionally erotic about what was going to happen to her, she knew he would hurt her in ways he never had before, but still… she allowed herself a small rueful smile. Perhaps after the beating she was in for, she would be cured of being a pain slut. But she doubted it.
He made her hold the position for a long time. He put some water up to boil, stretched his legs from the four-hour trip, petted the cats, made himself some tea and a sandwich, ate while looking at the newspaper, and used the bathroom. He knew she hated being banished to the basement. It was all part of the punishment.
Finally, with a mixture of relief and fear bordering on terror, she heard him coming down the steps. Now it would truly begin. They had the house to themselves for the long weekend. She had no idea how much time he had allotted to her punishment.
It began with the castigation. Cold and factual. There was no need to remind her of what she had done – she would never forget how she had betrayed his trust with her disobedience. It wasn’t the action itself that was so serious. She hadn’t betrayed him with another man. Or woman, for that matter. But she had betrayed the spirit of their relationship. He gave the orders. He knew what was best for her. She was to obey. Period. But he wanted her to hear it again, from his own lips. She needed to suffer in order to be cleansed, and he had to flog her soul as well as her body.
She wept at his words. She wept at her foolishness. She wept at the hard note in his voice. And most of all, she wept at knowing that she had disappointed him. The tears flowed from her eyes, as did the snot from her nose. He wanted to go to her, to wipe her eyes as well as her nose. But he knew he had to play the whole thing out, so instead tossed her the box of tissues.
“Clean yourself up, slave.”
She blotted her eyes and blew her nose, knowing there would be a lot more tears and snot to come. She made a little pile of the wet tissues, and again brought her hands behind her, each clutching the opposite arm just below the elbow.
Along with instructions for picking him up at the bus station, he had sent a list of items she was to gather and array. She was to prepare the implements of her own torture. He surveyed the items arranged neatly on the large, sturdy coffee table. It was time for the next act.
Even a grad student needs study breaks. He had rested his mind from working on his dissertation by practicing his knots, viewing instructional videos, and studying drawings of Japanese bondage. The latter gave him fierce erections and violent dreams, but also (and this was the point) gave him ideas for how he would torture her. For he wanted to do more than just beat her. He wanted to make her feel threatened and helpless and manipulated. He wanted to remind her that he did indeed own her, that she was his to command AND to abuse, and that she should keep this in mind the next time he issued an order.
He knew there was no chance she would ever again forget.
Gathering up the collection of hemp ropes, he strode over to where she knelt. It had been a while since their last bondage scene, but the practice paid off. He pulled everything a little tighter this time, the ropes around her breasts, around her arms, around her wrists as he bound them behind her. The knots he created for her clit and cunt and anus were large, intrusive, and painful. Again, he found himself smiling inwardly as he positioned the knots, for despite the fear and despair in her eyes she was open and slippery. He longed to plunge his fingers into her and his cock jerked upwards, but he steeled himself against his own lust and concentrated on his task. He was trying a new position, aiming to increase her feeling of vulnerability. He proceded to bind her right ankle to her thigh and torso. Then, taking up another piece of hemp, he wound it around her left ankle and, reaching up, attached it to the hook he had instructed her to screw into the upright wooden beam behind them.
He surveyed his creation. She was not only immobilized. She was open to attack on her most delicate parts.
Normally, the next step would have been a spanking. But nothing was normal about what was to come. This was no pretend punishment for manufactured offenses. Her transgression was real and severe, and the punishment would be the same. The intimacy of the touch of his hand would mitigate the mental effect. So for now it was to be implements only.
Still, he wasn’t that cruel as to beat her without some sort of warm up. He stood up, removed his belt, folded it in half, and raised his hand.
“Now, slave. For you are but a slave. And you must learn what happens to slaves who disobey.”
She flinched inside even before feeling the first blow from his belt. She flinched, and then cried out, but in truth she welcomed the pain. She needed this. She needed this to cleanse her of the guilt and the regret. She needed this to reassure her that he wouldn’t send her away. However cruelly he treated her, this ritual was his statement that she was worth taking the time to scold and to punish and to reduce to a screaming, sobbing, submissive mess. Because after all that came forgiveness.
He held back as he beat her. He held back because this was but a warm up, and because he was starting with the sensitive flesh of her inner thighs. He held back because he was aiming carefully. He would eventually beat her cunt, but he wanted it to be intentional. Once, in play, he had accidentally brought the belt down hard on her cunt and her scream still rang in his soul. He hadn’t meant to hurt her that badly. This time, he did. When he was ready.
The belt came down on her flesh 50 times. Her usually pale skin was flushed and glowing. She had tried not to wriggle, had tried not to scream, had tried to show that she knew she deserved this. But she was never all that good at controlling herself.
He walked back over to the table. The way she was positioned, she could see him put down the folded strip of leather and take up the next item on the program. Something new.
She waged a constant battle in the back yard, defending it from invasion and ultimate surrender to a neighbor’s army of bamboo. The day before his arrival, she had cut an armload of three-foot lengths from the tops of the younger plants and stripped them of their leaves, creating a thick handful of flexible switches. She had tied the base together with string, and today it lay on the table with the more familiar toys. Or what used to be thought of as toys.
He tried it out, swishing it through the air, getting a feel for the weight and resistance. He brought it down a couple of times on his denim-shielded leg and estimated the effect it would have on her bare parts. Then he returned to standing over her.
She expected him to continue the assault on her cunt. But he wanted to keep her off balance. He brought the bundle down on her breasts.
He didn’t hurt her all that hard. He did own her after all, not to mention the feelings he had for her, and didn’t want to do any permanent damage. But he had never beat her tits before, and he achieved the desired effect even without great force.
“When a slave is being punished, nothing is safe. Do you understand that? Slave?!”
He had such power over her when he addressed her that way. “Slave!”
“Yes, master. I understand, sir.” Her words were soft and tearful but definite and submissive.
He flogged each tit 10 times.
“Whose breasts are these, slave?”
“They are your breasts, master.”
“Yes. They are my breasts. And whose nipples are these? Slave.”
It always felt worse when he set that word apart. Slave. Worse. But better. It sent her down into subspace. He knew what he was doing. The soft part of him wanted to spare her from the worst of the pain. She would get the message clearly enough. This was psychological torture as much as physical affliction. Just knowing what he was doing to her would upset her well enough.
“They are YOUR nipples, master.”
“That’s right, slave. You are my slave and these are my nipples. You are never to forget that. Your body and your will, they all belong to me. And you will never again forget it. Will you? Slave.”
“No, master. I promise. I will never forget that ever again.”
He could hear the change in her voice. She was going down.
Acting quickly, he threw down the bundle of switches and took up the new item he had brought with him. Japanese clover clamps. He had never even subjected her nipples to clothespins, although he loved to twist them, to pinch them, to sink his nail into them. She gasped as he brutally seized each red nub and fastened a clamp on each one. Finally, he yanked on the chain. Hard.
Tears sprang to her eyes, but he didn’t wait for any further reaction. Taking up the bamboo bundle again, he slid one switch out from the rest. Again, he gave a few practice swishes through the air, before proceeding to whip her thighs.
The pain was cutting. It reminded her of the rubber band punishments he made her inflict on herself. In many ways it was worse than the cane, even though the switch wasn’t coming down as hard. He whipped her steadily, mercilessly, leaving clear red welts on the flesh already reddened by the belt.
And now he started to speak as he whipped her. Steadily and firmly, following the rhythm of the bamboo on her thighs.
“THIS is HOW a SLAVE is PUNISHED. THIS is what HAPPENS when a SLAVE disoBEYS. NEver forGET who OWNS you, SLAVE. I am the MASTER and YOU are the SLAVE.”
He tried to stay dispassionate, but anger was seeping in. Anger. And lust. He was getting hard. Very very hard. He tried to stuff it all back down, but it was a struggle.
He finally stopped whipping her and looked down at the welts he had left. At first he had aimed for clear parallel lines, though that was hard with such thin, fresh bamboo. Some of the blows had accidentally crossed each other, and then in the end he deliberately brought the switch down in the other direction, finishing up with five strokes in the same spot on each inner thigh. Where the welts crossed, and where he had concentrated the stripes, spots of blood rose to the surface. Once more, he had to control his tender feelings. He would leave the blood there to dry. He wanted her to see it. She knew he wasn’t into blood. The spots would be another reminder of how serious this was.
The whipping had brought cries of pain at each stroke, but not as loud as if he hadn’t brought her down somewhat into subspace. He had never taken her all the way down with physical pain. Fantasies of branding nearly deprived her of the ability to speak, but that was the furthest she had ever gone. He suspected she would be at least partially conscious for the rest of the punishment. Good. He wanted her to know what was happening to her.
He exchanged the switch for the belt.
“Slave. Do you remember when I accidentally hit your cunt? This time, slave, it won’t be an accident. This time I mean it. I am going to bring the belt down on your cunt. Five times, slave. Five times. It will drive the knots deeper into your cunt and harder onto your clit. This will hurt, slave. A lot. But not nearly as much as you hurt me with your disobedience. Remember that, slave. When you disobey, you betray my trust in you. It is for that more than anything else that you are being punished. Do you understand me? Slave?”
“Yes, master.” Her voice was clouded and tremulous. She was there enough to know this would hurt like hell. And again, she didn’t doubt that she deserved it.
He picked up the black and white checkerboard bandanna from the table.
“I don’t want to frighten the neighbors with your screams.”
He gagged her. He had never gagged her before. Her eyes flashed panic. He ignored it.
Once more, he stood up. He raised the belt. He aimed carefully, and brought it down hard on the knots that adorned her crotch.
He heard her scream from behind the gag.
Four more times he beat her cunt. Four more times her choked screams met his ears, When he was done, he stood there, breathing heavily. He was startled by how powerful he felt. His sadism had overcome his scruples, had pushed past the litany he had been repeating to himself that this was all a necessary punishment and nothing more. He had hurt her badly, and he reveled in her pain. He felt strong and powerful and he wanted to keep hurting her, his sadism was unleashed and he wanted to keep finding more and crueler ways to use her body. And then he wanted to force his cock down her throat and rape her. Truly rape her.
He shook his head to clear it. The fun would come later. He had a job to finish.
She was whimpering at his feet. He bent down and removed the gag. She was surprised by the gentleness in his touch. She had sensed the sadism pushing past the dispassionate desire for correction. It had simultaneously frightened and pleased her. She always felt it was good for him to let it out. And this had been an appropriate time for her to pay the price. Still, shaken and in anguish as she was, she smiled fondly at the tenderness that was creeping through.
He stroked her hair, and used a tissue to wipe her eyes and blot the drool from around her mouth.
“It’s almost over, kitten. It’s almost over. This will be the last part.”
He knew he had let it slip. He had called her “kitten.” He hadn’t meant to until it was all over. But he couldn’t help himself. He wanted it to be over, perhaps more than she did. He wanted to welcome her back. This punishment in truth was more for her than for him.
He released her ankles, and she rolled around a bit to get the blood flowing again. Which hurt. He removed the clover clamps, which let the blood back into her nipples. Which hurt. He sat her up and untied the rest of the ropes.
“Crawl for me, kitten. I want to see you crawl.”
He couldn’t go back to calling her “slave.” She started to cry. This was more painful than all the blows combined. It just reminded her how she had disappointed him.
He steeled himself. He stopped himself from saying his usual, beautiful “Don’t cry, kitten,” in that special, loving inflection.
“Crawl. NOW.”
She crawled. They both knew it was to get the blood flowing again. She crawled around the room while he removed every item from the coffee table and placed them on the futon. He let her crawl back and forth for a couple of minutes, then walked over to her and seized the end of the choke collar, forcing the metal noose tight against her throat. He pulled her back towards the coffee table. She had to scramble to keep up with him.
“Up. On the table. On your knees.”
He took a small box from the futon, another item he had brought with him. He held it in front of her while he removed a butt plug. It was her first.
“I am going to cane you now. Fifty strokes, for no reason other than that is how many I am choosing to give you. But first, two more reminders that you belong to me. Every part of you belongs to me. You belong to me and that is why you are always to obey me. ALWAYS. Do you understand?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He slipped a condom onto the butt plug and shoved it into her cunt. He knew she was wet – the rope knots had been slippery when he removed them from her various orifices. He moved the butt plug in and out, gathering the natural lubricant.
He was gentle as he eased it into her tight little ass hole. She had never been fucked there, but had read enough to know to push out. Between them, they got the job done. A learning experience for them both.
Next came another condom and the monstrous purple dildo. She hated it. It was too big. Which was why he inserted it now in her cunt. She was stretched and stuffed and possessed.
“I am going to cane you. You deserve this. I am not going to bind you. You are going to count off the strokes and hold the position and accept this as punishment. And then that will be the end of it. Now lie down on the table.”
The wooden top was hard. It was not at all comfortable. She stretched her arms down the table legs and grasped them at their base. He tucked a pillow under her hips to raise them into position. Her legs hung down behind. She was fully alert now. No more subspace in which to take refuge.
Again, practice swishes through the air.
“Now. Loud and clear. If you lose count I’ll have to start over. But you won’t lose count, will you? You won’t lose count.”
“No, master. I won’t lose count.”
She was exhausted. She was in pain. But she could see the end. And he was giving her what she needed. Because after punishment came forgiveness. It cleansed her of her sins.
She counted. He struck. Sometimes she gasped. Sometimes she screamed. Some of the strokes were swats. Some of them arrived with all the weight of his body behind them. She never knew what was coming. But she gave herself up to all of them. She gave herself up to the pain. She tried to relax under the blows and concentrate on counting and hold on as the end grew nearer and nearer.
“48.”
A solid stroke.
“49.”
A slightly lighter one.
“50!”
He hit her so hard he thought the cane would break.
She screamed one last time. And then started to cry. He threw down the cane and gathered her in his arms.
“Shh… shh… it’s ok, kitten… It’s ok now… It’s all over… You’re forgiven… You’re my good kitten now… shh… shh…”
He stroked her hair, he kissed the tears, he reached into the cooler he had told her to prepare and brought out a bottle of water. He poured the welcome liquid carefully between her lips and she swallowed gratefully. Then he eased her down onto the carpet, on her belly. The cooler’s contents included a large bag of frozen peas. He covered her buttocks with a dish towel and applied the bag of peas as a cold compress. Then he returned to stroking her hair while the air filled with mingled murmurs of apology and forgiveness.
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