The newly cleaned toys laid neatly to the side, I rested my torso on his bed in my open and submissive pose. I was completely naked except for his collar, hair loose and slightly untamed. This is how he likes to find me when he is in the mood to hurt or fuck me. This is how I like to be found when I want to be fucked or hurt.
I heard the steady beat of footsteps approaching from the kitchen. A slight pause when he caught sight of me.
“You are such a good slut,” he said.
He turned for a moment to grab his whip off of the tool bench, lined himself up, and started swinging. Zing…zing…zing. Left and right, each side even and stingy. I have no idea how he was holding the whip, what he looked like as he concentrated on his strokes, or even where he stood in relation to me. All I knew were the brilliantly colored strings of fire against my hips and thighs.
After a few minutes of warm-up with the whip he came in closer to start the spanking. His heavy, hard hand was a delicious counterpoint to the biting sting of the single tail. I squirmed against his body and moaned my satisfaction. Just when I started to relax into the sensation, he backed off again.
When he went back to the workbench this time, Mr Stern switched implements. He picked up one of his new favorites: a gorgeous leather cat o’ nine tails. This is the one that can bite worse than a single tail or land as heavy as a flogger, depending on how he throws it and where it hits. This time he started with full-bodied warm-up blows, nothing too stingy or sharp, but with just enough weight to let me feel the full effect.
I sank into the warm flood of sensations that accompanied his steady rhythm.
He told me to float away as far as I wanted, I wasn’t going anywhere any time soon. I relished the chance to let go. I started counting my breaths (my most effective coping mechanism) as the tails started falling harder. A thwack across my back accompanied by a tingling sting across my side. From my shoulder blades down to my thighs, he worked smoothly and methodically.
When I get to the point where the pain feels exquisitely good, I rise up on to my toes and arch my back. I lean into the sensation, begging with my body for more, and open myself up to the pain. His new cat does that to me. It sends me to a place where the tails whistling through the air are music to my ears and its steady beat on my skin is heavenly. I can float on those sensations for what seems like hours.
Just because he is my Mr Stern – always changing and always challenging me – he picked up his singletail again. He laid heavier blows over the warm places the cat had made. Thwip, thwip, thwip. Goosebumps raised up on my skin in response to the bite, and I shivered as they got stronger. He picked up the speed of his rhythm. No time to breathe or feel in between each progressively stronger sting.
The outside of my thighs takes most of the impact during times like this. Normally, I build up a tolerance as he works his way up the ramp of intensity and speed. But this time he took a detour and started swinging faster and faster. A barrage of quick hot strokes fell on both sides, first one thigh then the other.
My concentration, counting, and breathing were interrupted by this sudden deviation. It intruded into my smooth gray calmness. The heat wrapped around both thighs like red hot steel clamps.
Because I could not get ahead of it, I whimpered a high desperate sound, just loud enough for him to hear me.
“Aw, did you whimper?” he asked with syrupy soft pity in his voice.
I didn’t answer, just breathed out the sound again. He didn’t slow his tempo.
“Do you know how hot it makes me when you whimper?” he asked.
I’d had no idea he had a weakness for whimpering girls.
“Are you trying to get me all worked up so I’ll fuck you?” he demanded.
I shook my head, still devoting most of my attention to the fire creeping around my thighs. Whatever the particular tone of my cry was, it was just the right one to push his buttons. He kept up the assault until I adjusted and drifted even farther away.
When I stopped squirming and moaning under the singletail, he brought the cat back again. I was spread out on the bed, pushed flat by his big hand, and absorbing all of the energy he was throwing at me. The cat tore into me with its metaphorical claws though, and I whimpered and cried out.
He judged my reaction for a minute, repeating the severity of the blows. A sob caught in my throat as I tried to bully my way through the pain. I had been floating beautifully, carefully ahead of the strikes, until he switched his plan of attack. No longer was I able to focus on my breathing, feel the air flowing down through me, and shimmy away from the full force of his swings. They were catching up to me and they hurt.
Again the sob tried to force its way into my response to his hand.
“Do you want to cry?” he asked, most rationally.
I didn’t respond.
“Do you want to cry or do you want me to beat it out of you?” he asked again. When he sees that I am on the verge of tears, he knows just how to make them overflow.
I tried to nod my head, acknowledge that I felt the lump of emotion in my chest and acknowledge that I wanted to let it out. Having a ball of tears caught inside of me, skillfully hidden until just the right moment, is not something new. I am painfully prone to storing up my hurts until my basest emotions are revealed under the weight of his hand.
My synapses weren’t firing quickly enough, or in a straight enough line, and I couldn’t get a response out. He continued with the cat but when I struggled through its impact without loosening my hold on the desperate tangle of emotions, he tossed it on the bed and fetched something else from the workbench.
I heard the soft slither of leather against leather and the gentle plunk of something landing on the bed next to me. I couldn’t form an image in my mind, there was no room for pictures and not enough energy for words. He was intent on letting me cry and I knew he would end up satisfied, no matter what he chose.
The first blow of his heaviest flogger threatened to tear the breath from my body. I gasped, sobbed, and whimpered, all in progression.
Again it shook my body and my soul. Gone were my beautiful images of cool blue breezes and airy gray hazes. They were replaced by dull red explosions of heat and sound.
Half a dozen times Mr Stern swung the flogger with the full spectrum of his strength. Each crashing thud built on the previous one until I was gasping and crying. The tears finally started.
“I want to hear you scream,” he said in between blows. He wasn’t content to hear me snivel and sniffle, he wanted a full-out, crying, screaming fit. Given my reluctance to indulge in this kind of massive self-pity, it takes his firm hand to get me to that point.
Full force, in the middle of my back.
Again, right on top of the last one. I cried an airy plea.
“As loud as you can, I want to hear you scream,” he repeated.
I have never felt the entirety of his strength against my frame before. Every ounce of his being went into the flogger and down on my back. All of the energy I was throwing at him was flowing back through him and down into me.
I screamed. Mouth open, nose running, tears flowing, I screamed.
One final earth shaking, soul shattering blow just to make sure I was over the edge and he was done. He had done his job. I had broken into a million pieces and each one of them flowed into his bedspread atop its own lonely tear.
(Pardon the change in verb tense here, I’ll fix it in a bit.)
Mr Stern leans over me, his boxer briefs rough on my shockingly tender skin, and lets me feel his weight on my body. I gasp with the pain and heat of his direct contact. My legs are together, my arms stretched over my head. I was screaming, pulling, grabbing on for dear life. Then I’d frozen in that position when he’d tossed the flogger aside and left me to snivel in peace.
Now he speaks of the heat radiating off of my legs and the texture of the welts on my thighs. I moan softly and feel my eyes roll back in my head. I am on my stomach on his bed, grateful for the soft warmth of his comforter underneath me and the bulk of his body above me.
His weight disappears for a moment and I feel vulnerable and exposed. When he comes back he is completely naked. He is as vulnerable and exposed as I am but he is in charge and on top. His hands spread my thighs, just enough to allow him access to my cunt. His hand finds what he is looking for with no hesitation. I am wet, not just my cunt, but my thighs and down the crack in my ass. I have been exuding cunt juices for an hour. Every time the single tail landed or the flogger thudded my cunt swelled a little more.
Now he straddles my pitifully bruised legs and pushes his cock into me. My senses are so far disconnected that it is pure sensation, no thought. He is rough, demanding, and merciless. There have been no boundaries of decorum for the last hour and he is not about to start now.
I arch my back into him, lifting my ass to give him even better access. He grabs my hips and digs his fingers in. His tempo is relentless. He wants to be as deep inside of me as he can. I moan through the first few thrusts but soon enough I relax and forget to feel the dull ache of his cock hitting tender inside flesh. He pauses at the apex of his withdrawal to leave me on edge, then thrusts into me as hard and far as he can. I cry out with pain and relief.
At some point he turns me over. Onto my back, up near the head of the bed. Niceties such as neatly arranged pillows and pleasing angles on the bed are replaced by an old towel under my ass and roughly maneuvered limbs. I end up where he throws me and dig my knuckles into the bedspread to keep from drifting away into nothingness. Breathing is still something to be concentrated on; it has not become a habit yet.
This time his cheek does not touch mine. His body does not melt into me or cover me with his energy. This time he fucks me for all he is worth, bending me in half, and muttering vile filth.
“That’s my full slut,” he says several times as he holds my ankles up past my ears. Flexibility and I are on a first name basis and once the starch has been literally beaten out of me, I am more malleable than soft dough. I wrap an elbow around each knee and hold my legs back as he fucks me.
“That’s right. Get a good grip on them,” he says. I tilt my hips just so and suddenly the connection is electric. His pelvis rubbing against my clit and his cock in my cunt ignite a spark. Fucking hasn’t felt this good in years.
Mr Stern sees the ecstasy on my face and hears the undercurrent in my screams. He grinds his weight against me, repositions his hands and intensifies his efforts.
“You can come whenever you want, slut. Just make sure you tell me when you do,” he says. His hands lift from the bed, he balances on his knees for a moment, then his forearm presses heavily against my throat. It is a backhanded method of choking but it works just as effectively as his usual technique. My breath stops, my cunt sings, and I slither just a little bit closer to the edge of insanity.
“I bet you want something in your ass now, don’t you slut?” he says when I get my breath back and the pitch on my moans moves up a notch.
“Yes… yes… yes, Mr Stern,” I pant. Trying to speak through the haze of stunningly amplified fucking and soul stretching subspace is almost too much.
“You are such a fucking slut,” he growls. “You want something in your ass or you want my cock in your ass?”
The image of his biggest dildo flashes through my mind. I can’t be sure he won’t use it on my ass.
“Your cock, please, Mr Stern,” I whimper. Either answer was bound to be steeped in humiliation but this one burns especially bright.
“Say it, slut.”
“Mr Stern, please put your cock in my ass.” Begging is not so hard when the concept of self is removed.
He slides his cock out of my cunt and I shudder in dismay. I am both afraid of his cock in my ass and sad that my cunt is now empty. Mr Stern moves his cock down a few inches, pushing my legs back even further, and concentrates on my ass.
A lot of lube, a little bit of pressure, and some deep breathing on my part and his cock has found a new home. I get a better grip on my knees, relax into the hot fullness of his cock inside of me, and let go. His thumb brushes my clit and I start to rock rhythmically in response. I am fucking his cock with my ass.
Bent double like that, with my cunt and ass fully exposed to him, I whimper and pant and groan and gasp. I arch my back and spread my legs to get more of him inside of me. With enough lube and a hard cock, my ass is finally happy.
Mr Stern’s hands each grab a breast. His fingers dig in maliciously, squeezing and pulling. He presses down on to my rib cage and starts moving my body. He holds himself still and watches as his cock is consumed by my ass. My tits act as handles – I am fucking his cock because he is manhandling my breasts.
That certain something that happens during ass fucking starts to happen. It doesn’t feel like I’m going to come, but it is something as equally intense. I can feel it down to my toes, heating my blood and convulsing my muscles.
“You like that, you fucking little butt slut?” he demands, his hands still yanking on my breasts.
I nod incoherently. My hands are spread wide on the blanket, a mute display of my passion and arousal.
“Tell me you like it,” he says.
“I like it, Mr Stern,” I say, barely above a whisper. I know he cannot hear me over his breathing and my gasping moans.
“Say it so I can fucking hear it,” he barks.
“I like your cock in my ass, Mr Stern,” I say out loud.
“You just like it? Well, then I guess we better do something else, huh?” he says.
His reaction is completely unexpected, as are his actions. He pulls his cock out of my ass, ignoring the sweet niceties of giving me time to clench my muscles and adjust to the absence of him filling me. One minute he is there and the next he is gone.
I realize, when the bed shifts and his footsteps retreat, that he is going to the bathroom to get cleaned up. There is nothing left inside of me to compel me to move so I let my legs fall back onto the bed. I remain motionless through the sound of the water running, through the quiet silence of him drying off, through the return of his heavy gait.
“Aww, where’s the slut going? Are you going to slut la-la land? Is that what you’re doing?”
I heard Mr Stern teasing me just fine through the barrier of the pillow. It was resting against my head, covering my eyes, and cushioning my right hand.
“It sure looks like it, doesn’t it?” he asked rhetorically.
There was no one else in the room but him and me and I wasn’t talking. My right hand was twitching spasmodically, as it does when I am sunk far into the nothingness of subspace. I let it do its own thing because have learned not to try to control it. It is what my body needs to do to deal with massive amounts of pain.
“Not yet, you’re not,” Mr Stern said, tossing the pillow aside as he climbed on the bed. He tugged gently on his collar around my neck.
“Up. Up,” he said quietly enough. I went with the pressure of his grasp and ended up sitting. He turned my body as he lay down until he was where I had been and my head was laying slack-jawed against his right thigh.
“Just lay there, slut. Don’t try to move,” he said. My mouth was less than an inch from his balls. I could feel the soft scruffiness of hairs against my chin and lips and smell him if I inhaled deeply enough.
It was probably this inhaling that gave him his next idea. He moved my head, using a handful of hair, until my lips were pressed against his scrotum.
“You can lick if you want, slut, but you don’t have to,” he murmured gently.
I opened my mouth slightly and pressed the soft weight of my tongue against his skin. He breathed a moan of satisfaction and spread his legs just a little bit more. The entirety of my attention focused on the feeling of him against my tongue. I couldn’t expand my reality to include any more sensory input than that. The endorphins had shut down ninety percent of my brain.
Realizing that licking his balls would probably do me more good than harm, Mr Stern maneuvered my head until I was practically suffocated against him. All I had to do was open my mouth and there he was.
I shifted my legs, rolled my hips, and focused on what I was doing. I have no visual memory of these moments – I never opened my eyes. Everything was touch and smell, and the sound of his soft sighs.
Within minutes Mr Stern tired of the gentle licking. He grabbed the back of my head and pulled me up to almost sitting. He rolled a condom on to his already-hard cock and asked me if I wanted to suck it. I don’t know how long it took me to nod my head or if I even moved.
“Just do it, slut. Don’t worry about trying to talk,” he said with a note of exasperation in his voice. He pushed my head down and I opened my mouth.
Looking back now, I can’t remember the taste of the condom. Always before I have scrunched my nose up at least a tiny bit at the funny taste of latex in my mouth, but this time I didn’t have the sense to care. My entire thought process was focused on Mr Stern’s cock and making him come. I never felt the muscles in my back and neck protesting the awkward position, I paid no attention to the snot and saliva dripping down my chin, and I never even noticed that I was pressing a bare knuckle to his ass instead of a gloved hand.
The scope of my world had narrowed to the sound of his voice and the movement of his pelvis. I was completely pliable, suggestible, and at his mercy. He had beaten and fucked the last strand of resistance out of me and I was his.
Mr Stern told me to do exactly what he wanted – one hand on his cock acting in tandem with my mouth, one hand stroking his ass and balls. He drizzled lube where it was needed and controlled the tempo of my movements. Fortunately I had just enough consciousness left to remember what he likes and made every effort to do it. I wanted to make him come, because that is what he wanted, and because I wanted to be allowed to float away.
“That’s it, slut. Squeeze my cock a little bit harder. Use your thumb on my balls. And be fucking careful with those fucking talons on my ass,” he instructed. My fingernails prevented me from doing very much, but I was creative in finding ways to get around the annoyance. He muttered his approval and adjusted his hips to find a better position.
Without realizing it, I slid his cock most of the way into my throat. I could still breathe so I paid it no mind but it caught his attention.
“Let’s see how far you can get that cock in your mouth, slut,” he said admiringly.
Because my mind had ceased to have any sense of my body, all that was required was opening my mouth, moving my tongue, and pushing down on his cock. I didn’t gag, I didn’t panic, and I barely even thought about it. My nose touched his pelvis and his cock pressed against the back of my throat.
“Look at you, you fucking little cocksucker,” he marveled.
I moved my hand out of the way and continued with the deep thrusts into my throat.
“You’ve been practicing, haven’t you, slut?” he asked. I neither denied nor confirmed his assumption. I was off in another world and couldn’t have figured out an answer anyway.
“Pretty soon I’ll be able to fuck your throat. You keep going like this and I might have to do it,” he said. Eventually I eased up for a deeper breath of air and he lost interest in my new found talent.
Soon enough I changed positions and strokes and hit on just the right combination. He was thrusting his cock into my mouth while I held it in one hand and swirled my tongue around the head. My other hand rubbed that particular spot on his perineum that he likes so much and pressed with just enough pressure against his ass.
I felt and heard him coming before I even realized he was close. His cock pulsed in my hand and my mouth, his breathing stopped and started, and I moaned in concert with his exhalations.
As soon as he was done, I slid my mouth off of his cock and sat up. A thick string of saliva stretched from my mouth to his cock and more dripped from my lips. I sensed, rather than saw, what was happening.
“Look at you drooling all over the place. Is that spit or is it snot?” he asked after a moment.
I’m not sure I answered. Perhaps I nodded then shook my head to let him know what it was, perhaps I said something, I have no idea. Somehow he got the idea though. My head was bowed, my eyes were closed, my mouth was open, and my grasp on reality was extremely tenuous. My internal clock was substantially askew and my sense of decorum was gone.
I was a drooling, slimy, whimpering mess without a rational thought in my head. I was exactly where and what he wanted me to be.
He left me there on the bed, wrapped in two warm blankets, while he took a shower and made himself dinner. It was only the thought of food that lured me out of my wandering fog and back into the light. Mr Stern offered to let me stay in bed but I knew I had to eat if I was ever going to function properly, so I got up and ate a portion of his dinner.
We sat on the couch, companionably enough, while we ate. Then I went to finish some chores – cleaning the dinner dishes, folding the laundry, and checking on the status of a big cleaning job I had started earlier in the afternoon.
While I was going through the motions of serving Mr Stern, my emotions were all wrong. I was grumpy, and tired, and teary eyed. I was overwhelmed, and upset, and frustrated. I was resentful, and bleary, and unfocused. I couldn’t figure out what was wrong with me but everything I usually count on within myself was askew.
I fought to maintain my normal easy-going demeanor in front of Mr Stern but dared not speak for fear of bursting into tears. When Alexa came home I simply smiled at her instead of greeting her because I felt the unnamable emotions welling up against my throat. My body was rebelling and my mind was following suit with alarming speed.
I was walking through the kitchen with unfocused eyes, a sponge, and bottle of soap when Mr Stern stopped me.
“What are you doing, slut?” he asked casually, just checking on my status.
“I was going to finish scrubbing,” I said a bit shakily.
“Are you angry about something?” he asked with a concerned look in his eye.
I shook my head and diverted my attention to my hands. I wasn’t so concerned about being angry as I was about breaking down in front of him.
His next question nailed it on the head and opened the floodgates.
“Are you going to cry?” Mr Stern asked, tilting his head to the side and looking down at me.
I shoved my right hand deeper in my pocket, shrugged my shoulders and tilted my head to the side. I made my lips into a half frown to keep them from quivering and felt a tear slip warmly down my cheek.
“Ah, slut, come here,” he said, wrapping me in his arms. His chest was bare and cool against my cheek.
“Why? What’s wrong?” Alexa asked, turning from where she was stirring pasta on the stove.
“I beat her senseless,” Mr Stern said, cuddling me to him. I let go with a sob and leaned into him. My body was weightless and dull. My eyes hurt, my legs hurt, and my soul was tired. I couldn’t even corral the energy required to put my arms around his waist.
“Put that stuff down, go in the living room, and curl up on the end of the couch,” he said, turning me toward the counter. I put the sponge and soap down and shuffled off to the living room. I saw nothing on the way, my vision made blurry and wavy by the tears spilling over.
I climbed onto the couch, wrapped myself into a tight little ball, closed my eyes and cried. I was lost. I couldn’t climb out of the improbable haziness of subspace. I couldn’t focus, my arms and legs were drained of energy, and all I wanted to do was cry. I felt guilty for not being able to function, for not being able to serve. I wanted to be able to walk and talk and go about my business but my mind and body wouldn’t hear of it.
Mr Stern let me collapse and come unglued in peace then came to check on me a few minutes later. When he saw that I had wrapped my sweater around myself he got a blanket from the bedroom and draped it over me. I thanked him quietly and uncurled myself a fraction.
“Did I break you?” he asked softly.
“No, Mr Stern. I’m just having a hard time getting back to myself,” I said. I tried to look at him but the warmth in his eyes combined with my overwhelmingly irrational guilt dragged my eyes to the floor.
“That’s fine, slut. This is a part of you,” he said.
He brushed his hand over my forehead and went back to the kitchen. As it always does, his compassion touched something deep inside of me. Because there was nothing else I could do, I cried a few more silent tears. My nose was stuffed, my head hurt, and I kept drifting off into random, sensory based thoughts.
“Do you need anything, slut?” Mr Stern asked a few minutes later. He and Alexa were going out for ice cream and he tried to cajole me into wanting some but I couldn’t muster the interest. I just wanted to stay on his couch, feel my hurt, and try to put my pieces back together.
Alexa turned the TV off, Mr Stern checked on me one last time, and they went out the front door. I heard Mr Stern talking as he left, telling Alexa about what had happened earlier in the evening. Their voices rose and fell in even cadence, high and low, as they walked towards the car.
When they got back thirty minutes later, I had my eyes open and was half-way watching TV.
“You better be watching ‘House’, slut,” Mr Stern said cheerfully after I greeted them as they walked into the room.
“Yes, Mr Stern,” I said. I was still horizontal on the couch, still covered from the chin down in the thick blanket, and still rather frazzled emotionally. But at least I was able to endure five minutes without being consumed by the urge to sniffle and cry.
Mr Stern and Alexa sat down with their ice cream and put their feet up on the coffee table. I felt Mr Stern’s eyes on me and peeped over the top of my blanket at him. Alexa was sitting between us and looked back and forth at both of us.
“So maybe we decide that you don’t do service after a scene,” he said, watching me to gauge my reaction.
The guilt was like a giant lump in my chest, pressing hard against my heart and hurting my lungs.
“That might be a good idea,” I said reluctantly. “I’m trying to remember other similar experiences but I’m not coming up with anything.”
“I can’t either,” he said, still watching me lie motionless on his couch. “How are you doing?”
“I think I’m getting better. But I’m sure I’m probably making it worse by feeling guilty for not being able to get back to myself,” I said, shrugging my shoulders again. I have learned the value of being honest with Mr Stern but it still leaves me feeling vulnerable and scared.
“Shut the fuck up, slut,” he exclaimed. Alexa smiled at the ferocity in his voice. His tone implied that I was taking the liberty of telling him something patently untrue and too outrageous to consider.
“I will tell you when you get to feel guilty,” he said. I knew he wasn’t completely serious, but he wasn’t completely teasing either. In the recent past he has specifically designated times when I am to feel responsible for my behavior and guilty for my lapses in judgment. This was not to be one of those times.
“Yes, Mr Stern,” I said with a smile.
As the next hour passed and the TV droned in the background, I summoned the wherewithal to be able to carry on a conversation. I sat up and leaned my head against Alexa’s special pillow she got from the bedroom for me. I focused my eyes and quelled my incipient tears. I tried to feel the entirety of my body at once, tried to recognize what was mine and how it was put together. I let go of the soft fuzziness that clouded my thoughts and slowed my synapses.
It took almost three hours, but I was finally able to speak with some emotion and follow a train of thought for more than thirty seconds. My body was still tired to its core but I embraced the exhaustion as proof of the energy Mr Stern had forcibly yanked out of me, hand over fist, blow by crushing blow.