A brief summary of my day: I woke up from ten hours of sleep, spent two hours organizing my closets, took a shower, and brought lunch to Mr Stern. I spent a few minutes with him at his office, went to his house, chatted for a minute with Alexa, and spent the next three hours cleaning. He got home, the three of us talked and relaxed for a while, I fetched our take-out dinner, and Alexa got ready for a party she was going to.

Zoom in on the moment when Alexa leaves for the party. Now it is Mr Stern and me, alone in the house for the next several hours, for the first time in ages. He has something up his sleeve but I have no idea what. He told me that morning to bring a change of clothes for the evening but didn’t tell me why. Now he wants to see them.

After I model all of my outfits for him, Mr Stern finally picks one. I am convinced that we are going out. Never before has he made me get dressed up for a night at home and earlier in the day he asked where his good jeans were – the ones he wears out. As further indication of something public, he tells me to go wash my cunt – “squat in the bathtub or something” is how he puts it. I do as he orders then take it upon myself to fix my hair and do my makeup. Then I venture back to the living room to find my lipstick.

“What were you just doing?” he asks.

“Washing my cunt, Mr Stern,” I reply sheepishly.

“And after that, what did you do?” he persists.

“I was fixing my hair and doing my makeup,” I say. Just thinking about why I was doing it turns me on and gets me squirmy.

“How come?” he asks, knowing full well why I’m wiggling.

“To look cute,” I mumble.

“Did I tell you to do that? Did I say you didn’t look cute before?” he asks.

“No, Mr Stern,” I admit.

“You think we’re going out? Is that why you want to get all cute looking?” he finally asks.

“Yes, Mr Stern,” I say.

“Well, we’re not. We’re staying right here.”

He stands up from the couch and gestures at me to follow him into his bedroom. He directs me to take all of his toys, including the violet wand, to the spare bedroom now known as the play room. It takes me three trips but I manage to get it all. Then I sit on the doctor’s bench and wait, just like he said. (The doctor’s bench is a piece of furniture made to resemble a primitive doctor’s exam table, complete with bright, shiny chrome stirrups for vaginal exploration. It is sturdy, scary, and seemingly right at home in the new space.)

Mr Stern is quiet in the other part of the house for a while – I have no idea how many minutes pass – and then I hear him coming down the hall. I can tell I am wracked by anxiety by my incessant need to wiggle and move. Normally a very calm and steady person, now I can’t sit still. My nerves are on edge and my stomach is doing flip-flops. It’s been a long time since Mr Stern took me on a long walk through deepest subspace and I’m scared.

When I ask Mr Stern if I may please use the restroom one more time he demands to know why I didn’t go earlier. I tell him that I did, but that I have to pee again. This leads to him poking at my bladder and asking where it hurts. Then he grabs my hair and forces me to lay down so he can simultaneously press on my bladder and slap my naked cunt. After a few minutes of me squirming, he relents and lets me get up to go pee.

“When you come back, crawl down the hall. Crawl to me,” he says. There is something in his voice that tells me that I am in for one hell of a night.

I drop to my hands and knees as I round the corner to the play room after taking care of business. I am shaking inside and out from anxiety. Mr Stern spots me coming and walks to within a few steps of me. I crawl up to him.

“I’m up here, slut,” he points out. He wants me to look up at him, to meet his eyes as I crawl. I look up at him and feel the energy flowing between us. I am his, he knows it, and this is it.

He backs off, a few steps at a time, watching me as I follow him. He talks about how slutty I am, makes me tell him that I am his slut, reminds me to look into his eyes so he can see my humiliation. He stops a few feet short of the doorway to the play room.

“Are you looking at my cock, slut?” he demands. I assure him that I am not, that my eyes have not wandered from his face.

“Did you see it get hard when you started crawling? You see how hard my cock is, slut?” he asks, pressing the heel of his palm against it. I hadn’t, in fact, noticed that he was hard but seeing it now doesn’t surprise me. I catch my breath and feel a moan building. Seeing his hand against his cock sends a spasm through my cunt.

“Put your head in my crotch,” he says.

I lean forward and rest my head against the bulge in his pants. His cock is long, hard, and thick behind the denim. I rub my face against him, opening my mouth to let my breath caress his cock. I can’t control the moans now. Feeling the strength of his arousal caused by my submission leaves me lightheaded.

“You want to suck that cock, slut?” he asks. I look up into his eyes and tell him that I do. He unbuttons his pants, except for the top button, grabs his cock and brings it out for me to see.

“Open your mouth and stick your tongue out,” he whispers. Just knowing that me crawling gets him this turned on sets my heart to racing and overwhelms my breathing.

Mouth open, tongue out, I wait. He rubs his cock over my cheek, teasing me, before he slides the length of it across my tongue. Just before the tip of my tongue touches the head of his cock he turns suddenly and shoves it into my mouth. I gag as it hits the back of my throat. I close my mouth around him in protest. When I gag in earnest he relents in his attack and allows me to embrace him with my tongue.

Mr Stern alternates fucking my throat and letting me caress the head of his cock with my tongue. He holds my hair and shoves himself into me, just hard enough to hurt but not so hard as to make me gag forcefully. He only allows me a few minutes to savor the luxury of his silky soft naked cock in my mouth before he steps away. He wipes the saliva and pre-come off of his cock onto my face, warning me not to dare wipe it off.

I follow him, still on all fours, into the play room. Once there, he just holds my gaze for a few long seconds. The message keeps getting repeated – more and more forcefully each time – I am his.

“Get up,” he says quietly.

I stand, remove my blouse, and he starts with the rope.

Mr Stern is not a rope aficionado. He does not have the patience or interest required to create artistic and beautiful bondage. This time, however, he finds the persistence and creativity and I end up beautifully restrained in a chest harness with my elbows up and my hands tied behind my head. I float softly while he drags the ropes across my skin and double-checks his tension to make sure that I am securely bound. He knows I can wriggle out of almost anything and works diligently to ensure that his loops and knots are tight.

I stand, firmly caught in blue rope, and face him. He grabs his single tail from the chair and flicks it at me. The first few strikes land on my breasts, seeming to hit exactly on the nipples. A few bites later and he moves up to my throat. I whimper with fear and tilt my head back to keep my face out of the line of fire. Just a few stinging caresses of the whip across my throat then it’s back down to my breasts. I breathe easier for a moment until he returns to my throat. Then one hits my chin.

Tears spring to my eyes and I whimper my protest.

“Even if I do hit your face, it isn’t going to hurt very much,” Mr Stern says. I nod shakily and he sees my fear. “But that is pretty scary, isn’t it? I’m sorry, slut.”

He steps toward me and rubs his thumb gently across my chin. I thank him softly and nod when he asks if I am okay.

“Lean over the bench,” he finally says.

I turn to face the imitation doctor’s bench and end up with my elbows, forehead, breasts and stomach pressed against the vinyl covering. Mr Stern asks how it feels and I tell him I am comfortable. He flips my skirt up to reveal my naked ass and starts with the paddling. No gentle spanking to start things off this time. No, this time he starts with a stingy teak paddle and moves on to a heavier black wood one when the teak has done its job.

The warm-up is just the way I like – short, fast, and intense. Not exactly what most would call a warm-up, but exactly what I need to get in the right mood and mindset. The severity of the blows increases exponentially until I am moaning through the strikes and wobbling on knees gone gradually weaker. Mr Stern uses the stingy paddles first then picks up the thick rattan canes – the ones that jar me to my core and send me into paroxysms of joy. He knows what I like and he saves it until I need it.

At some point in his scheme of tormenting me, Mr Stern takes a small vibrator and nestles it snuggly against my asshole. It is attached by a wire to a control box that he tucks under the ropes across my shoulder blades. The vibrator buzzes in a routine pattern, keeping at least a portion of my attention fixated on my asshole. When the pain gets too much to control physically, I forcefully block out the stimulation of the buzzing and concentrate on the pain. Somehow the sexual arousal keeps me from floating too far away too quickly.

When I start to quiver and rock with the blows, Mr Stern puts two hands around my waist and lifts me off the floor. I land neatly on the bench – ass up, head down. My forehead and knees bear most of my weight so he arranges pillows to support my chest and stomach. Bending my hips and knees to precisely the right angle, he starts with the serious caning.

The thick cane swung with wind-whistling speed makes me jump and shriek. This time he does not follow his blows with soft caresses and calming words. This time he lets me feel the full intensity of my agony and find my own equilibrium. The vibrator has been positioned once again to tickle and stimulate my ass and I do my best to pay it no mind.

At the other end of my body, my hands are aching for something to hold onto. My fingers work themselves against the ropes at my wrists and I have to force myself not to plot my release. Mr Stern is watching the welts rise on my thighs and ignoring my hands. I am on my own to stay where he wants me.

The few words he does speak relate to the pain he is inflicting and how I am not getting off easy tonight. This is a session we have both been waiting too long for and we both know how it is going to progress – from bad to miserable to worse in quick succession. I suck in the pain and the humiliation like the cock hungry, masochistic slut that I am and he feeds off of my need for pain and degradation. There will be no punches pulled or niceties observed tonight.

Mr Stern finishes off the backs of my thighs with a thick, heavy paddle. I feel the slaps against my thighs but by now I cannot feel the full depth of the pain. I relax into the thuds and groan with the weight of the blows. He remarks that I am going to be pretty fucked up from those whacks, then lets me rest for a moment. He removes the vibrator and control box and puts them on the chair.

Again his hands wrap around me. This time he tosses me over onto my back. I yelp when my thighs make contact with the bench and instantly bend my knees up. He presses my legs back down and asks how my hands are doing behind my head. Once I realize that my thumbs will probably go numb from the pressure of the ropes on my wrists, he releases just my wrist bonds. I force myself to keep my legs flat while he repositions the mini vibrator over my cunt.

The warm-up on the front of my thighs is even more abbreviated than that on the back. He uses the small flogger for a few minutes, just long enough to bring some color to my skin, then he turns back to his canes. My hands end up tucked under my lower back to keep them from protecting my soft, vulnerable thighs. I open my eyes briefly to keep track of where he is in the room but close them again as he picks an implement. I don’t want to know what he is going to use. The fear of knowing is far worse than the fear of anticipating.

I can feel the airy kiss of the cane against my thighs as Mr Stern lines up his first strike. He lets it hover a mere fraction of a centimeter above my skin, pulls back, and lets loose.

Thwack!

I scream with no consciousness of the noise I am creating. The pain is miles above what he had created minutes before on the back of my thighs. My knees bend up, my toes contract and my head jerks back in unhesitatingly vocal protest. Mr Stern leans over me, holding my face between his hands. My eyes flicker open for a brief second. He is inches away, watching me.

“Open your eyes, slut,” he whispers. I manage small slits of awareness and he chides me.

“Is that all you can manage? Open your eyes for your Mr Stern,” he says.

I feel my eyes roll back in my head and then force them open again, wider this time. He is still hovering three inches away. I hold his gaze and feel my stomach lurch with the earthquake of emotion it creates. I love him so fully, so deeply, and so completely that I cannot experience anything else. He smiles slightly, that crooked little smile that I adore, and sees my heart in my reaction.

As he stands up, I close my eyes again. A hand on my hair turns my head to the left. Underneath my groaning and arching, I sense that he is still close by.

“You feel that, slut?” he muses as I feel a warmth against my skin. His cock is hot and hard, rubbing against my mouth and cheek. I open my mouth reflexively and tilt my head towards him.

“That’s from your submission. That’s what it feels like.”

His voice is low but intense. The fire in my thighs has produced this reaction in him and the combination of his excitement and my pain sends my brain into turmoil. I am so aroused I can barely breathe and so hurt that I can barely move. His cock slides into my mouth roughly. I move my lips and tongue trying to find enough moisture to lubricate his passage.

He shoves deeper and harder. He is fucking my throat and I never even think to gag. He moans airily and jerks his hips forward. Again and again he pushes farther back than I have ever been able to take before. I am so far out of my body that sensations that should trigger a reflex do nothing more than shove me further into subspace.

“What do you say?” he asks as he finally pulls his cock away from my lips. “Look at me. Open your eyes and look at me.”

I struggle to comply, swallowing hard. Saliva drips from my lips and his cock as I see him standing above me.

He watches me, eyebrows raised, waiting for me to read his mind.

“‘Thank you, Mr Stern. May I have another?’” he supplies for me.

“Thank you, Mr Stern. May I please have another?” I repeat. He bends over, places a kiss on my forehead and praises me for adding on the “please”.

Seconds pass before I feel the hummingbird weight against my thighs again. I can imagine him watching me breathe, judging when to lift the cane and when to swing it down.

Crack!

The second strike hurts even more than the first. My hands fly out from behind my back and dart towards the injury. I catch myself before they touch my skin and block any future blows. I am not allowed to protect myself or turn away, not even from his cruelest tormenting.

I am gasping through an open mouth, trying to fly through the pain, when his cock slips into my mouth again. He is rewarding me for taking what he is dishing out, even though the pain and the swelling are fair compensation in and of themselves.

It seems like mere seconds before he pulls his cock away again. He is waiting, I can tell.

“Thank you, Mr Stern. May I have another please?” I whisper.

Five times this sequence is repeated. Five cane strikes leave five neat lines on my thighs. Five times he slides his cock into my mouth and I swallow him as far as I possibly can. By the fifth one, I am barely responding, barely wrapping my tongue around his rigid cock.

When he sees that I am floating away on the pale red tide of pain and submission, Mr Stern changes his tactic. He plucks the vibrator from my cunt and tosses it aside. I sink into the table, my body as heavy and lifeless as a wet washcloth rung out and tossed aside.

“Scoot down to the end,” Mr Stern orders, moving to the foot of the doctor’s bench.

I’ve been dreading this moment since he told me to go to the play room.

I wiggle as best I can until my ass is at the end of the table. Once there, I lift my hips up so Mr Stern can slide a towel under me. There is only one thing this can mean. Mr Stern grabs one of my feet and places it in a stirrup. The other one follows. My cunt is completely exposed and wide open.

Mr Stern snaps on a pair of black latex gloves, drags a chair over between my outstretched legs, and sits down to enjoy himself.

As soon as his fingers touch me, I am moaning with passion and desire. His thumb brushes lightly over my clit while his fingers work their way into my cunt. I am completely helpless, weak from pain and adrenaline, and all I can do is feel myself respond. My hips move of their own accord and I feel myself opening even farther for him.

Within minutes, his gloved fingers find my G Spot. I cannot tell how many fingers he has inside of me – sometimes it is definitely only one, sometimes it feels like three – but I don’t really care. I cannot keep track of what he is doing or saying, all logical thought has flown out the window with my inhibitions and sense of self. He owns me from the top of my head to the tips of my toes.

I don’t know how long it takes him to get the first orgasm out of me, but certainly not more than a few minutes. I feel the squishy wet warmth, the intense squeezing pressure, and the grunting, groaning contractions. I am completely helpless to do anything to resist coming. No matter how hard I fight it, or how I beg my body not to come, the tide is relentless. A second orgasm follows the first. A third is close behind.

My silent begging turns into frantic gasps and whimpers. I am close to begging him to stop but I cannot form the words in my mouth. My mind is overwhelmed by the strength of the climaxes.

He moves the vibrator back to my clit and I practically shriek with sensory overload.

“Does that make it better or worse, slut?” he asks cheerfully, his hand never stopping.

“B-b-better,” I stutter eventually. I cannot imagine the force of a clitoral orgasm overlapping a G Spot orgasm and I surely don’t want to find out.

He seems oblivious to my plight and continues to stroke and press that perfect spot.

“You are such a fucking slut. You’ve been squirting all over the place for the last ten minutes,” he says in amazement. I nod in agreement – I’ve felt every single gush leaving my body and spilling down over my ass. I picture torrents of warm liquid and burn with the embarrassment of such obvious erotic arousal.

“Please, Mr Stern,” I start, after the fifth orgasm leaves my head spinning and my stomach weak with the effort of contracting.

“What is that, slut?” he asks, feigning innocence.

“Mr Stern, please, it hurts,” I manage to blurt out.

“Where? Inside or outside? Right there?” he asks, rubbing his fingers around the opening of my vagina. I nod frantically and try to wriggle away from him. Despite the copious amounts of whatever it is that I am squirting, it does not lubricate the thrusting of his fingers into my cunt. He is rubbing me raw in one small area.

“I guess I’ll stick to one finger then,” he muses.

One finger is enough for another horrific climax in short order.

“Please… No, Mr Stern. Please…” I know I’m not making any sense but my body and mind are flying to pieces on me. I want him to stop, I need him to stop making me come, my mind is completely consumed by the force of coming so many times.

“What is that, slut? You want me to stop?” he chides, never slowing down in the least.

“Please, no, stop, Mr Stern,” I beg incoherently. He laughs at me. And makes me come again.

I feel as close to the edge of insanity as I’ve ever been. I am a helplessly fucked pile of mush begging for salvation.

When I finally string enough pleas together, Mr Stern relents. He draws his hand out of my cunt and I collapse. My hips fall back against the bench, my legs quiver helplessly, and my mouth hangs open. I start to take my feet out of the stirrups but he reprimands me forcefully. He stands up, stretches his shoulders, and starts moving around the room. For several long minutes I remain in suspended animation.

Finally I am allowed to close my legs and wriggle back to the safety of having my feet on the bench.

“Stay there, slut,” he says when I am fully supported and limp.

He starts to slip the gloves off as he leaves the room. I have no inclination to breathe, let alone move, so he needn’t worried. He is gone for a few minutes – I hear water running in the kitchen and his footsteps moving through the house.

When he returns, I am exactly where he left me. I am nothing but jelly inside. Thoughts are nothing more than brief flits of words and images interrupting my calm retreat into nothingness. He puts a straw to my mouth and I greedily suck in the water.

“Sit up, slut. Slowly.”

He holds me by my hair, watching my progress into a semi-vertical state. When I achieve it without visibly wobbling, he starts untying the rope that encircles my chest and shoulders. I don’t move, my head hangs forward, and I am barely conscious of what he is doing. Only when he is done and has his hand in my hair again does he let me move forward until my feet are on the floor. I am clinging to his arm, the one that hovers over my head and keeps me balanced by my hair. My eyes are almost open but not enough that I can process what I am doing.

“Whose slut are you?” he asks. There is absolutely nothing threatening in his words or his tone of voice, but I know this is leading somewhere.

“Yours, Mr Stern,” I reply. My words sound slurred, even to me. I can’t imagine how I must sound to him. Being beaten and fucked past the point of reason tends to leave me somewhat befuddled and slow to respond.

“That’s right, slut. And you will do anything I want, won’t you?” I am getting more and more worried the longer this conversation goes on.

“Yes, Mr Stern,” I croak. My voice is betraying my fear.

“That’s what I thought,” he says.

I am suddenly thrust forward by my hair. He steers me around the chair he was sitting in, through the doorway, and down the hall. There are exactly two places we could be headed – his bedroom or the bathroom. When he marches me past the bedroom door I start to feel like I’m going to hyperventilate.

I almost struggle as he pushes me toward the bathroom. I have had more than I can take already – more pain, more orgasms, more humiliation, and more rope. I want to curl up in a little ball and float softly away while he watches over me. I am so fucking owned it’s a wonder I don’t have his name branded into my ass at this point.