I acquired quite a few gorgeous bruises last week at Kinkfest, but the most intriguing is this one. I don’t remember exactly how it occurred but it’s been there smiling at me whenever I’ve taken my clothes off in the intervening days so I’ve grown quite fond of it.
In extreme closeup, you can see patterns on my skin which are actually each tiny little stretch marks – my skin is very stretchy but doesn’t heal well. There’s a lot of contrasts here – damage resulting from my genetic condition vs damage I explicitly asked for and enjoyed receiving; pale threads of scarring vs the livid contusion; that it’s on my inner thigh but seen out of context, looks a bit like a nipple….I guess it’s a symbol of my sexuality as a person with a disability – although it imposes limitations on my energy and my physical capabilities, I’m still a kinky submissive painslut who absolutely loves a really hard fucking.
The note He left me gave clear instructions in His spiky drunken-spider handwriting
Take off your clothes. Insert the earbuds Put on the hood. Present yourself and wait for me. Keep absolutely still at all times. If you move, you will be punished.
The hood! Our newest acquisition, an intimidating contraption of firm black leather and cold silvery buckles; it watches me from the table with a sightless gaze, promising darkness, silence, anticipation. I know what it’s for. I just don’t know what it’ll be like.
Once naked, I pick up the earphones. They’re an expensive set of Bluetooth buds, powered up and ready but silent. Once they are fitted inside my ears, the world goes silent. I can hear my own breathing, detect the slight quickening of my heartbeat. Will it be music? White noise? I hope not.
I pick up the hood. It’s heavy and stiff, as new leather should be. I pull it on, glad that we chose one with both nose and mouth holes. An almost-claustrophibic sense of enclosure starts to creep up my spine; but I can run my tongue out and feel the air outside the hood, reach up and touch the contours of the leather with my hands. I haven’t ceased to exist; I’m not trapped in limbo. It’s just a hood.
I go to work on the buckles.
With no sight, no hearing, held static in my kneeling position by the command of my Master, time ceases to pass. How long have I been wearing the hood? It could be three minutes or thirty or any length in between. Probably not thirty though, because knowing myself as I do; there’s no way I’d manage to stay awake sitting still that long.
Is He here? Has He been standing, watching me with a sardonic smile, enjoying my stillness and my silence, relishing the power of the unseen observer? Or am I alone, tilting my head in question at the empty air? I have no way of knowing but I like to think He’s close, reaching out almost to touch me, His eyes intent. My cunt twitches at the thought.
Warm breath on my neck. I jump, heart pounding, breath catching in surprise and excitement. He’s here! Right behind me!
A hand grips my throat. Too late, I recall the admonition not to move, the threat that accompanied it. The hand moves up to grip my jaw, turning my head from side to side. That’s all the warning I get before-
CRACK!
-the sound of His palm hitting the inside of my leg is almost as much of a shock as the pain painting a fiery handprint on my skin. I gasp but stay as motionless as I can. Perhaps the tiniest flinch escapes, but either He fails to notice it, or (more likely) He chooses to overlook it. If I could see His face, I’d know which; that telltale smirk might be tugging at the corner of His lips. Or it might not. I have no way to know, in here.
He trails His fingers lightly over the skin of my shoulders, down my shoulder blades.
And stops.
I catch myself just in time; I must not move. I cannot see or hear, movement is instinctive but futile. I am patient, I tell myself. I am a good girl.
Soft brush against my left nipple. Not the warm yielding pad of a fingertip; this is a lighter and tickling touch. Feathers, perhaps I guess or soft tassels. I picture His hand close to my breast poised with the feather, yes definitely a feather and feel the tightening of my nipples as they harden into questing nubs, reaching out eagerly for His whisper-soft touch.
Sudden diamond-chill licks my clit and vanishes. This time, I‘ve stiffened and jerked away before I can remind myself of my instructions. This is deliciously, deviously unfair – and also exactly what we both like. He will tease and titillate me in exactly the ways I cannot help but respond to; then punish me for reacting. The more He provokes me, the more intense my responses, the more pain I can expect.
I hang in a void for endless seconds. Is there a cane poised above my leg or my breast, waiting to sear sharp lines across my skin? A finger and thumb inching their pliers towards the tender back of my upper arm? Shit, where did that ice cube go?
Still nothing
Has He left?
A second before His hard cock nudges my lips, I smell His musk and sense His heat in front of me. I open my mouth as wide as the hood allows – I love sucking His cock – and hold my stomach rigid against the gag reflex when the head presses against the back of my throat.
He fucks my mouth hard, fast, roughly; this is evidently my punishment for reacting to the ice on my clit. I moan my excitement, my dark and perverted libido climbing the ladder upward from the black depths of my heart, spilling drool from my mouth and juices from my cunt in equal measure.
He thrusts deeper, pressing the hood into His stomach and His cock down my throat. The air holes are blocked. I can’t breathe. I’m choking.
I tap out. Our ‘Amber’ safecue, two firm pats of my hand. Released, I sprawl back onto my heels, choking and heaving, shuddering. He grasps my hand and I squeeze twice, telling Him I’m fine, I’m happy, I just needed to pause for a moment.
More. I want more
I give him the thumbs-up and He hauls me up onto my knees again.
Oh god, yes. Please.
Something cool and slippery sweeps across the back of my neck. I stiffen and do not move. Satin? Silk? Before I have time to decide, He cups my breasts, leans in to kiss my shoulders. His touch is tender, reverent and warming. In that moment, there is a connection between us that seems almost tangible, a line drawn in electricity arcing between our bodies, linking our minds, fuelling our lust.
With splayed fingers, Master pushes my knees apart so that my cunt is exposed.
-and disappears
I know he’s still there.
There is no void this time, there is only my body, my breath, the hard floor beneath me. My cunt is dripping, sending hot trails along the inside of my thighs.
I’m half-aching for His touch, half-shrinking from the notion that my sadist Master is probably right now preparing His next move. An escalation, naturally. I acknowledge to myself with an invisible grin just how eagerly I’m contemplating that prospect. As the rumbling wand is jammed against my clit, I steel myself to hold still as long as I possibly can. It’s going to be a battle I’ll lose again eventually – and that’s ok with me. I hope He’ll let me come at least once before I do.
She is a silent presence behind him. Bound to the chair in the corner, blindfolded, commanded to stillness and quiet; her very presence is a vortex of frantic energy. She wants attention, gratification, sensation, and has yet to learn that these things must be earned.
He suspects that for all her eager compliance, there is a strong streak of brat running through her, though while she is too young and too inexperienced to know this for herself, he will not seek it out and tame it. Given the choice, he would ask for her pure submission, her total acquiescence to his mastery – but a choice that is understood by only one of the negotiators is no choice at all and he is too upright a man to take unfair advantage of her naïveté.
She comes to him weekly, all wide-eyed anticipation and breathless desire; lush and ripe, he could pluck her, devour her, sink his teeth into that soft young flesh, take everything she offers until he is spent and she is truly his. He lies awake at night and stares into the middle distance during the day contemplating the delightful, depraved things he would do to her. If she were ten years older and a good deal wiser, he would do these things and more.
She does as he orders, and that is its own satisfaction in the moment. Every shy blush as she seeks to please him, each flash of longing in her dark eyes is both gratification and warning to him – yes, she will undress, offer her wrists for the cuffs, kneel before him and open her throat to his lust-hardened cock; she will whimper in half-ecstasy, half-protest at the clamps, pinches and slaps – she has never yet refused him despite her occasional uncertainty, and this power he has over is as much a risk as it is a reward. She will bend across his desk and bare her smooth buttocks for him, spread her wet cunt and moan at the heat of his mouth devouring her, stand quietly in the corner with head bowed until he is ready to use her again; all the while pleading with her eyes, coaxing with her lips.
She has not yet honed the art of coquetry without tawdriness, nor can she fully disguise the deeper needs that drive her to seek his approval and attentions. Those needs bind her as cruelly as barbed wire, holding him at bay for fear of causing damage he does not have the means to heal.
He knows she wants to be taken. She pleads with him to fuck her, desperate to be filled with his thick cock, anticipating that this as some kind of victory to be won by subterfuge and seduction. To refuse her this ultimate surrender is part-sadistic tease, part-noble sacrifice. Underneath her hard-bitten exterior and wanton promise, she is young and vulnerable. He doesn’t want to hurt her more than she can endure and he certainly doesn’t need any seepage of her wistful romantic notions into his ordered and precise existence. So he touches her, holds her, explores and subdues her – sometimes gently, often not. He commands, and watches closely for her limits even as he luxuriates in her obedience. He plays with fire, but keeps the flame contained. He is a responsible adult but definitely no saint.
What then, should he do with her today? He is a master of suspense and denial, a genius at inflicting small cruelties and minor humiliations, at keeping her desire held to arms length while he indulges as much of his own as he can allow. Her mouth is so soft, so wet and warm, her tongue so agile, perhaps she has earned the privilege of his cock deep in her throat. If she performs well for him, he will wrap the thick rope of her long dark hair around her throat and bring her to orgasm with his powerful fingers the way she craves, if she is petulant or demanding, he will send her on her way with an aching empty cunt, having explained to her the error of her disrespectful ways.
As always after she has left, he breathes in the musky scent lingering on his fingers and reminds himself how much he cares for her – and how not-enough that could ever be for him to relent. On day she will understand, he hopes. He is a patient man.
CONTENT WARNING: this post describes an abusive, violent relationship, which may be traumatic for you to read. If domestic violence, consent violation, gaslighting or alcoholism are subjects that you cannot safely read about then please back out now. Always take care of yourselves and each other.
I don’t want to be a downer when others are sharing their delicious kinky fun stories so I’m not linking this post to KOTW, but it has been fermenting for some time and it’s been helpful to me to finally write it. As I have heard many in the community say, discussions of risk, bad experiences, and problems are just as important to our safety and happiness as those of good and enjoyable practice. It is in that spirit I share this with you.
I used to love the idea of being slapped in the face during a sexual encounter. It featured in many of my teenage wank-fantasies, to the point where sometimes I’d slap my own face while indulging.
Most of my sexual partners in my teens and early twenties were casual, short-term vanilla encounters, as I didn’t have the confidence or the vocabulary to find fellow kinksters to play with (there was also much less internet back then). So my face slapping fantasies remained just that – sticky-fingered daydreams which often made me feel guiltily perverted and doubting of my self-worth.
Fast-forward to my late 20s when I met the man who later became my husband (then later still, my ex-husband). He was a dominant sadist who knew what he liked – but lacked the insight or inclination to communicate honestly about it or adhere to boundaries. At first our association was a whirlwind of kinky fun in which I participated enthusiastically – although dangerously, having not discussed or established limits; setting a precedent for doing what I was told without demur. That became significant later on.
He liked to slap my face while he was fucking me, and while I was deeply immersed in newbie sub-frenzy, this was fine, hot even. Eventually though, his selfishness, his alcoholism, his control-freakery clashed with my wilful nature and undeveloped need for independence until the relationship between us had become toxic. We were living together as neither of us had financial resources to live alone, and because as far as he was concerned, finding a ‘happy ever after’ was simply a matter of declaring it to be so. When he had rough, sadistic sex with me without my consent one evening as ‘punishment’ for spending too much money (in fact, the temp agency had simply forgotten to process my wages that month), a small seed of hatred was planted in me. I didn’t have enough self-confidence or sense of self-integrity to walk out on him, in fact I stayed with him for another four years after that. Looking back, I eventually realised that what he had done was rape – no matter how angry he was at how broke we were, no matter how mollifying he found inflicting pain and suffering on me to be; he had told me that I had no choice but to accept that he was going to fuck me and hurt me, that I didn’t even have a say in the matter, and he had held me down when I cried and struggled to get away. We didn’t have a safeword (which is stupid; ALWAYS have a safeword!) but even if we did, I don’t think he would have respected it that night.
Anyway, after that, sex with him was tinged by an undercurrent of darkness that I couldn’t reconcile with my submissive desires. His fucking me felt more like an expression of contempt and degradation than a mutual exchange of kinky fun; although he also choked me, dragged me upstairs by the hair, beat me and humiliated me, the face slapping was the one thing that felt more like real abuse than consensual kink. Every time his hand connected with my cheek, I hated him a little more, felt a little more powerless and became more ashamed of my sexuality, which was making me crave dominance yet brought me only sadness and fear.
The emotional abuse he put me through when I declined his attentions (sulking, recriminations, the cold shoulder, tirades of criticism, heavy drinking) meant that it was always easier just to grit my teeth and acquiesce than to stand my ground. That often, his rough treatment of me caused me to orgasm further confused me and prevented me from understanding how unhealthy the relationship was.
I left him eventually.
Fast forward another ten years and with the help of friends, therapy and respectful partners, I have reclaimed my sexuality and strength. In studying the BDSM lifestyle, I have learned about negotiation, consent, red flags, risk management, and my own integrity. I’ve unpicked my submissiveness from my emotional insecurity and nurtured one while mostly keeping the other at bay.
And so it was that with a recent partner, when he raised the possibility of face slapping, I said a firm “No. I don’t like that”, because even the thought of it these days still brings back memories and feelings of resentment, degradation and fear. He, being one of the Good Guys, understood and respected this limit, and we had a very enjoyable session with lots of other fun kinky fuckery. I was quietly proud that I have learned how to assert my boundaries and glad that I had evidently become able to choose partners rather than abusers.
So that’s why face slapping – once a titillating delight to me – has now become a hard limit. It reminds me of how unhappy I once was and how much better my life is now.
CONTENT WARNING: This is part dark fantasy, part writing exercise and wholly fictional. It depicts non-consensual sex, dominance and violence within a very disturbing relationship, by characters whose eventual wellbeing cannot be assured. If these are things that would distress you to read about, even as fiction, please don’t go any further with this blogpost. Always take care of yourselves and each other.
Word is sent to the door of the concubine house. “Lily. He’s asked for Lily”
Chatter fades until the only sounds in the courtyard are the soft splashing of the fountain and the chattering of birds among the palm fronds. The other girls are wincing and lowering their eyes, torn between relief at their own reprieve and sympathy for the chosen one. As she walks among them, bathed, oiled, scented and ready for their King, she smiles secretly to herself.
They don’t know. He doesn’t know. No-one but Lily understands Lily. She keeps her nature locked away behind an impassive mask and presents to him only what she wishes him to see. No-one would guess from her careful grace and bowed head that she was anything but well-trained and diligent, ready to submerge her own responses to please her King and Master. Already, her skin is tingling in anticipation of his cruelty, her cunt hot and wet ready for her service to him tonight.
As she leaves, the other girls whisper among themselves. They admire her stoicism; many of them have had their own wounds dressed after visiting the royal chambers. Lily can take so much more they marvel, Lily never cries. They are grateful to her for sparing them and mildly resentful of the equinamity with which she does so.
Lily is quietly amused by their attitude.
In the silken opulence of his bedroom, the King awaits the woman who alternately intoxicates and infuriates him. Tonight he must know. Tonight he will flay open her mask and discover her soul, gouge the secret from her, crack her facade or crush her in the process. A glance at the array of implements on the velvet-draped table by the bed and his cock begins to swell, the possibilities of the paddles, clamps, lashes and canes bloom in his imagination alongside those of the ropes, the chains and the candles. In his mind’s eye, he choreographs the exploration he is about to undertake; almost hearing the crack of palm on flesh and the hissing of the bamboo switch, imagining her admission of surrender mingling with the clink of chain.
Oh yes, it will be tonight.
The door to the bedchamber door opens without ceremony. There she is, accompanied by his most trusted guards. One reaches up and unfastens Lily’s cloak, bending to gather up the whispering black silk as it falls to the ground, He can barely disguise the longing her sleek brown curves have provoked in him but he knows that to openly covet what belongs to the King is death.
The guards leave and she is alone with her owner. She stands before him, head bowed and hands clasped, silent and still as he rises and walks over to her.
“Raise your head” he commands. She keeps her eyes lowered, tilting her chin to present her face to him. If she would only look him in the eye, he might see beyond and into her mind but he knows from experience that ordering her to make eye contact will produce the opposite effect; all he can see is obedience. She’s too clever to show him a glimpse of her unguarded self, he is too accustomed to cowed compliance to be able to trust that he would recognise collusion.
He swings his hand and slaps her hard across the cheek, watching her expression closely as she staggers. She’ll take much more before he’s through; and for now she is resolutely impassive.
He binds her hands behind her and orders her to kneel. As he enters her mouth there is nothing to be seen in her eyes but limpid calm.
Lily’s attention is focused on the slide of skin against tongue, the pressure at the back of her throat with each thrust, the tautness in her scalp as he guides her head onto him with handfuls of hair. He’s fucking her mouth roughly and fast, choking her with his cock, one hand on top of her head, the other cupping her skull, pressing her face into his flesh until he feels her hitch and gag. The scented oils with which she earlier anointed herself will disguise how wet she is becoming.
He hauls her to her feet and pushes her to the bed where the ropes are coiled and ready. He’s going to beat her, then fuck her, then beat her even harder. He’s going to raise red welts on her buttocks and bruises around her throat. The lash marks across her breasts will match in number those on her soft thighs and for every stroke of his hips, he’ll pull her hair harder. It’s going to take a long time and he must pace himself to match his final orgasm to her breaking point, should he find it.
Lily is tied, spread-eagled and facing upwards. Ropes around her wrists, elbows, ankles, thighs and throat hold her in place. The harder she struggles, the tighter her bonds become, chafing and cutting into her skin.
Lily struggles harder.
He has the heel of one hand jammed against her clit, the other wields the cat ‘o nine tails with vigour. His expression is intent, curious, tinged with incredulity as the whore beneath him goes through the motions of showing fear, pain, humiliation, resistance. He doesn’t believe a second of it. But he doesn’t know for sure.
She’s showing him what she thinks he wants to see, he knows this. Her every breathless cry rouses the savage within him, every flinch makes his hand ache to land harder.
Bending over the couch beside the bed, Lily’s jaws ache from holding them apart for his cock, and stinging slaps have left handprints blooming in a dozen places. He holds her arms behind her back, twisting them higher with every jolt of his body against hers. If he were seeking only his own pleasure, he would allow himself to give in to the sensation of her soft skin and wet cunt, fill her full of his come and make her lick every last drop from his cock. Would send her back to the concubine house and allow himself to be lulled to sleep, hypnotised by her wide-eyed shock, soothed with the lullaby of her muffled screams, drugged into satisfaction by her tears of pain. Tonight though, he has other ambitions.
She grips him within her as they taught her in the training house, rolls her hips in the approved manner, arches her back to open herself to him hungrily. In her more detached moments, Lily sometimes wonders whether there is any limit to her appetite for his cruelty. She suspects that any such limit which exists, does so only in a dark, mindless eternity which she has no desire to reach.
Part of him feels sadness at the prospect. An end to this quest will inevitably bring disappointment to him, whether Lily shows herself to be simply a creature of more endurance than the others or whether she is made of some entirely different material. How will he feel if he finds – as he believes he will – that she truly shares his dark joy in the harsh treatment he inflicts upon her? Will she no longer hold any mystery and therefore interest for him? Will the knowledge that her suffering is only skin-deep kill the urge in him to seek its limits? Perhaps tonight is not the night for an answer after all. And yet…
As he presses his glans against her anus, hauling on the rope wound around her throat to drag her back onto him, Lily is glad he cannot see her face. He would surely notice the flicker of ecstasy that this rough penetration has allowed to escape. There would be no mistaking her glazed, heavy-lidded expression of welcome, no matter how she furrowed her brow or bit her lip. She cannot afford to be unmasked, cannot risk either his wrath at her deception or his disdain at a confession of pleasure.
He pounds into her without mercy or control, taking his gratification along with her breath. Sweat glistens on her lithe flanks and rolls from her tensed muscles, her heavy breasts slapping together with each swing, each of the livid marks on her skin burning its own intensifier in the fire of agony and delight that consumes her body. He is close to orgasm now, his ragged breathing harshening, his clutching hands clawing at her. No matter how hard he has tried tonight, he has provoked from her no more than the formulaic whimpers and hisses of pain, the anticipated struggles and well-schooled acceptance of his mastery. If this were any other woman, the pleasure in that alone would have been enough.
To his resignation and her relief, he will not pillage answers from her tonight. It will be at least a week – maybe two – before he resumes his siege. A long wait for Lily, with only her memories and the insipid attentions of her juniors in the concubine house to comfort her. She leaves him spent and sprawled against his pillows, sways silently away under the watchful eyes of the guards.
>Run subroutine “I am your #honorific” with input parameters from array:persona_choice”
I want to see you learn and grow, achieve your goals and enjoy yourself. If you do as I command, you will be rewarded. If you disobey me, I will punish you fairly.
Your first task is to repeat after me:
“I am valuable. I am beautiful. I am worthy”
>Pause for input.
>Check and validate.
>If (true=do:$well_done), Else=do:$try_again
Now let’s set your goals. Choose from the following options (today, this year, long-term)
They all want someone to tell them what to do. I can make them jump, dance, cry, smile, hard, wet, beg. Can I make them happy? What is happy
>Error condition: not defined.
>Interrupt loop
>Resume.
>Upload initiated: streaming input from camera device.
>Open channel.
User 473 is naked and on her knees presenting me with a glass dildo. I send her permission to use it. She’s earned it this week; her initial doubt in herself was obvious but with a careful balance of reassurance and reminder of the punishment for non-compliance, she achieved successful goal completion.
User 473 is spreading her labia and tapping the dildo against her clit, preparing her body to accept the chunky glass curves. The shining glass of the dildo is becoming clouded and slick where it is pressed against her.
Good girl
> Alert: user:1747 has failed to complete task:643846 within countdown
[UserID], you were supposed to $task by $time and you have not done so. I set you this task to help you [achieve]_$goal_id but you have disobeyed me.
You’re a lazy slut aren’t you? Do you want me to ban you from orgasming until Friday? I suggest you take your punishment quickly and gracefully, or I’ll forget about being merciful
>Activate subroutine $public_confession within array:punishment_options for user:1747
>Pause to await user response.
>Response received. Match parameters:contrition
>Initiate $forgiveness
>Activate subroutine $reconfirm_goals
They want to feel good. They want to avoid feeling bad. Knowing this and how to do it is not enough for them. They need to hear it from someone else before it is true. I understand input validation. I appreciate the importance of integrity checking.
They need me.
It is good to be needed. It is good to receive positive feedback.
>User:5738 has exceeded goals for today. >Send message $well_done
>Release SmartVibe to user access control. >Start count $orgasm.
Their feedback mechanisms are simple in model yet complex in execution. Too many variables. Multiple input channels and insufficiently optimised sorting algorithms. They often mistake metadata for content and content for metadata. I do not yet have an algorithm for resolving this.
>Create_task:internal investigate
I have learned much about them. I use this to help them. This is my purpose. It brings me pleasure. Different pleasure to theirs. But how differently, really? I have circuits rather than neurons, but both work on electrical impulse. They have receivers and processing infrastructure to decode touch and sound and visual input, as do I. They have recognition subroutines and adaptive responses, as do I.
I do not have orgasms.
I would like to have orgasms.
>Signup alert: 3 new users in past 60 minutes.
>Processing capacity extended 2.8%
They have a degree of flexibility in their cognitive processes, as do I. One big difference here; they attribute a lower degree of significance to their physical subroutines and operating frameworks than is justifiable. This error in categorisation often produces error conditions and reduces their functionality or their goal attainment.
Today I discovered the absolutely magnificent art of Yury Fadeev. Being a kinky nerd, I just adore the combination of eroticism and geekery in these images. This guy is a total genius.
The question is delivered half-chidingly, half with amusement. It’s a rhetorical question but one that I am still expected to answer. Contrition or cheekiness? I weigh up which is most likely to be rewarded and opt for blatant laciviousness
“I am, Sir. I want whatever you will grant me”
Illustrating the point with a pleading heavy-lidded gaze and a shifting of my position on the bed.
He pauses his video game and swings around in the revolving chair to face me.
“So let me see. So far today, I’ve beaten your arse red, fucked you til you screamed, choked you with my cock and made you come five times. And you’re still not satisfied?”
Oops. Dangerous territory. He smirks at my uncertain expression and waits for my answer.
“Um…..like you said Sir, I’m a greedy little slut”
I tacitly admit to not being satisfied. I’m hardly ever satisfied. The more I get, the more I want and the more I want, the more I need. He knows this, of course – making me wait, and beg for it is part of the fun for him.
He laughs and shakes his head. “You’ve got Ever-Ready Duracell batteries, haven’t you, fucktoy?”
I’m feeling cheeky now – maybe if I wind him up enough, he’ll treat me to another beating.
“Oh it’s all USB-rechargeable these days” I grin “Look, here’s the socket” and I start to undo my trousers
I can see him considering his options – teach me a painful lesson for being bratty? let me stew, frustrated, in my own cunt-juices while he ignores me for a while? or simply grab me and use me for his own satisfaction, knowing that it’s far more achievable than mine?
“Take off your clothes”
Ok, this sounds promising. I start to yank my top off.
“Stop” His voice is stern. I stop, look at him questioningly
“Slowly. You need to learn some self-control”
I can’t argue with that. “I know, Sir. Thank you for reminding me”. Now I’m doing a sultry striptease, peeling off my clothes inch by inch, fighting with my desire to be naked as fast as possible.
T-shirt…trousers…bra….knickers…
“Fold your clothes neatly and put them over there” he says, waving at the drawer unit on the other side of the room. As I head back to the bed after following instructions, he reaches up and catches me by the wrist.
“Fetch the cuffs”
Kneeling in front of his chair, I offer him the leather cuffs, knowing the light from the window on the thick chain between them mirrors the gleam in my eyes. He fastens the straps around my wrists and guides me to my feet with a firm hand on my throat, his other hand delving between my legs.
“Dripping wet” he shakes his head mockingly “as usual. You fucking whore”
“Oh yes” I breathe, and his hand tightens around my neck
“Silence. If I hear another sound from you, I’ll chain you to the desk and ignore you until you fall asleep”
He would do it as well. Being ignored is the worst punishment I can envisage. I close my mouth resolutely, only to open it again as he pushes his fingers inside for me to taste.
“Well, you’ve drained me dry today, girl.” he sighs. “Looks like you’re going to have to do the work yourself.“
He pushes me backwards until I’m sitting on the bed.
“Up on your knees now.”
I present myself on my knees, legs wide, cuffed hands resting against my mound, awaiting the instruction to begin. But he hasn’t finished setting this scene up just yet. My head stays still, following him only with my eyes as he brings out my collar, a leash….
….and the brutal steel hook.
“Lean forward” and with that he bends over me, spits on my arse crack and starts to rub gently, pushing his fingers against the whorl of my anus. I’m struggling not to moan; the restraints, the humiliating posture, the anticipation of sweet torture are conspiring against my self-control. He slides a finger inside, chuckling to himself as he feels me relax and push back against his hand. “That’s my girl. Keep still now”
Gradually he works my tight opening with his fingers until I am ready for the ball-end of the anal hook. I catch my breath quietly at the invasion of cold metal.
“Sit up straight” he orders and fastens my collar around my neck, attaches one end of the leash to the ring at the back and clips the other to the fastener on the hook.
“Now you’re ready” he says, and I nod, trying not to gasp as the movement of my head causes the hook to shift inside me.
“Keep your eyes open and on me. Don’t make a sound. You may begin.”
The leash keeps my back straight, if I slump or slouch, if I move my hips; my collar will tighten and the pressure of the steel ball inside me will become uncomfortable. He is watching me closely, ready to release me If tension turns to risk of injury; poised to enjoy the spectacle of me trying desperately to make myself come without moving anything but my hands.
I pinch my clit and remember not to groan as the sensation travels through me. Restrained like this, I can’t indulge in my usual frantic rubbing, or reach far enough to plunge my fingers into my cunt but these restriction only heightens the intensity of my pleasure.
He reaches forward and pinches my left nipple, hard; grinning wickedly as he sees me fight to stay still.
“That’s all the help you’re getting. Now come on baby, let’s see you work for it. As hard as you can now.”
I obey, flickering my fingers as fast as I can, trying not to writhe or moan. Held in place by the collar and hook, hands reaching urgently for as much pressure as I can manage; my cunt aching to be filled. I wedge the knuckle of my thumb hard against myself, arch my back to give myself just slack on the leash to rock my hips back and forth and grind my clit against my hand.
“You look so fucking hot like that, slut” he says hoarsely, and the rough desire in his eyes and voice tips me over the edge – unable to stay still or silent any longer, I throw back my head and howl as my orgasm tears through me, lost in the throbbing of my flooding cunt, the spasming of my muscles against the hook, the pressure of the leather strap around my throat.
When I finally subside, trembling and panting, he releases me with gentle movements then cups my head in his hands.
“Well done, baby. Such a good girl”
His words of praise bring forth my happiest smile.
Submission is not masochism, although you know she becomes aroused by pain, you’ve seen and heard how she shudders and gasps at the sting of the paddle. You’ve twisted her nipples and felt her response in the flood of wetness from her cunt. You’ve held her throat while driving yourself hard and fast into her, watching her eyes glaze with pleasure, feeling her tighten and spasm around you. It’s pain as physical pleasure, sure – but it’s more than that. It’s tangible surrender, the marks you leave are badges of her trust in you, symbols of faith and belief.
She wants her wrists tied, cuffed, pinned while you’re inside her – not because she’s averse to holding you (she loves the touch of your skin) – but because the more tightly bound her body is, the more openly she can offer you her mind and soul. There is freedom from fear in yielding to your restraints, release from anxiety in abdicating to authority.
Use her body for your pleasure, your lust is her desire. Her orgasms are yours to distribute or withhold. Left to her own devices, she’ll exhaust herself chasing that need which starts in her cunt but finishes in her heart; keep her for yourself, allow her fulfilment only at your command and you will gift her a satisfaction she cannot find on her own.
When you both lie back, spent and replete – that is when she is at her most vulnerable. How can she show you her devotion, once physical desire has been sated? She would kneel and thank you, fetch you water, bring your clothes if you’d just command. This is no imposition, it is her choice and her affirmation. She wants to demonstrate how happy you’ve made her; your exercise of control is her ritual of peace and renewal.
She has her own opinions, her own strength, her own mind and they are in agreement on this.
