Tuesday, January 28, 2014
"I made a mistake yesterday, not using restraints on you," he says. "I had to worry too much about your hands getting in the way. I won't be making that mistake again."
He attaches the leather strap binding my two cuffs to the hook on the door. My arms are not stretched painfully, but my hands can no longer offer me any protection.
"Do I still have to apologize for that email?" I ask, wondering what he is waiting to hear, what signal I need to offer to make him stop. What I can give him that will save me.
"We've gone beyond that," he says. My heart skips. I breathe hard.
My first reaction of fear.
He goes to the bed, retrieves the cane. I can look over my shoulder and see him striding back torwards me, clenching the cane in his fist. The gleam in his eyes fills me with icy trepidation.
"What do you want from me?" I ask.
"Nothing," he whispers. "Nothing but to hear you scream. Later, you can say your sorry. Later, you can say 'yes, Sir' when I ask you to talk, and maybe that'll be enough for me. But right now, there's nothing you can say."
Then he puts the gag in my mouth, pushing it between my teeth and pulling it tight around my head. I close my eyes, and brace myself against the door. The adrenaline is rushing my blood hard now; soon, the endorphins will come, too. I am already sinking into subspace.
The first strike of the cane is vicious. I arch my body into the door.
"Your ass is purple in some places from yesterday," he says. "I'll try to aim for other spots. For now."
He swipes across my ass cheeks, working methodically up and down. Then he works my thighs, stepping around my body to cut new lines into my flesh.
I kick up my heels and hop from foot to foot, knowing it will not help, but unable to stop myself. My hands yank at the leather strap binding me to the door. They want instinctively to rub the sting away, and cover my flaming bottom. They cannot.
"You see?" He asks in a tone of triumph. "Things are much easier when I don't have to worry about your hands."
I hear him going to the bed, retrieving his next toy.
Something fierce and dreadful smacks against the curve of my hip. My head snaps up in agony.
"I got a new brush," he explains merrily. "It's wood, and has a flat handle. See?"
For a brief second, he holds it up in front of my eyes. Then he is peppering my ass with it.
I twist against the door, jerking my body around, trying to get away from his reach. It is pointless. But he grows tired at my feeble wriggling and grabs me around the hips, holding me still.
The brush burns into my skin like an iron. Tears cascade down my cheeks. My cries are muffled, but plaintive against the gag.
He laughs, hearing my cries. Then he takes off the gag.
"Now then," he says. "Are you sorry?"
"Yes, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."
I know what he wants, I know what he expects to hear. I am about to say the words, they are in my throat... and then the monster of stubborn defiance possesses me once more. With both hands, I give him the finger.
"Fingers," he says. "You want fingers?"
He pushes me against the door and grabs a fistful of my hair, yanking brutally. With his other hand, he takes aim of my asshole. He forces one finger in, then another. I cry out from the burning, ripping pain.
"Shall I fuck your ass like this?" He hisses in my ear. His fingers stretch. I howl. "Shall I fuck you dry? Do you think you would like it?"
"No Sir. No Sir," I cry through my sobs. I try to twist away. He bends my knees in with his foot, forcing me down harder on his probing fingers. I scream.
"This is much better," he says. He wiggles his fingers.
And then...and then I sigh and quiet down, because he is still rubbing his fingers deep inside my body, and it is beginning to feel good. His fingers become a welcome fullness, arousing all the right nerve endings. If he would get his fingers just a little bit wet....
He hears my sigh, sees my slackening face, and recognizes the change within me. He yanks out his fingers, fast. I yelp.
"None of that now," he says. "We're not there yet."
He goes back to the bed, and gets his next weapon. He holds it up proudly. I quake with fear.
"It's a cricket paddle," he says, circling it in his hand. "I had to go to two shops to find it. Apparently it's very popular in India. Who knew?"
Holding it in both hands, he raises it high--and swings. The impact jars me against the door. I suck air into my lungs, hold it for a second against the pain, and let out a high-pitched screech.
"This will do nicely," he says. He switches from one hand to the other, slapping the paddle against my buttocks and thighs with resounding smacks. My whole ass grows warm, then hot, until I feel like I am sitting on flaming coals. He never waivers in his rhythm or force.
"Please," I beg. "Please."
"Please, Sir. Please, Sir."
"You think you've learned your lesson?"
"Yes, Sir. Yes, please, Sir..." I am shaking with the braying force of my sobs.
"Okay." He unbuckles the cuffs around my wrists.
I want to crumple to the floor. I want to take a few moments to breathe.
He grabs me by the hair again and pushes me across the room.
"On your knees," he growls. I fall to my knees. He spreads my legs open with his knee and enters me from behind, quick and hard. His entrance is an easy one. I am already wet and slick, both from sweat, and from aching need.
"You'd better come if you can, cause I'm not waiting for you," he says, pumping hard enough to jerk my body forward. I brace myself on my hands, lock in, and let my senses take over as he fills me over and over again, in and out, grinding, caressing....
He digs his nails into the abused flesh of my ass, clawing in. I shriek. He releases his grip, only to move to another section of my hot, blushing bottom. As he squeezes his fingers in, I squeeze my muscles tight around his hard length buried deep inside me. He pumps harder as he forms dark little half-moons all over my butt. A couple of them break the flesh; blood rises up, forming droplets on the surface. I feel the wetness, but don't understand what it is. Not yet.
But I don't care, I'm not really thinking about it anyway. All my focus is on the stabbing, stinging pain, and the tight, thrilling fullness. The feelings swarm and swell until I can't tell the difference.
We come together, both of us crying out in ecstasy.
He recovers first. He stands up, and looks down at my broken, bloody body.
"You need to wash," he says. "You stink. I can smell the fear on you."
I raise my eyes to look at him. In that moment, he is a god, an Adonis, my Lord and ruler...or maybe the devil arisen from hell itself.
I rub my face against his leg and kiss his foot.
"Yes, Sir," I say. A prayer to my god.
"But not yet," he says. "I'm going to wash first. You don't fucking move. You understand me? Don't fucking move."
I lower my head to the floor and stay still. "Yes, Sir." My voice cracks. He seems happy to hear this.
I watch him go around the door, hear the water turn on, hear his movements as he washes his body. Then he returns.
"Go," he says. "Wash up. But first...kiss me."
He pulls me up, circles me with his arms, and lowers his mouth to mine. It is a searing, forceful kiss, full of love and devotion.
"Feel better?" He asks me, looking deep into my eyes. He is not a god anymore, but my Lord and ruler all the same. My savior. My love. "All that pent-up stress gone now?"
"Yes. Oh, yes. Yes Sir," I say, hugging him tight. "Thank you."
"You're welcome." He rubs his nose against mine. We both smile. "Now go wash. You really do smell like sweat and fear."
"Okay...but, before I go, um..."
"Can you do one thing for me?"
"Can you take a picture of my ass?"