I arrived at Mr Stern’s house after spending twice the usual amount of time in traffic due to bad weather and even worse drivers. I hardly ever have to deal with traffic so I was alternating between frustration and exhaustion by the time I turned on to a side street. A quick stop at the grocery store to pick up the usual items and I finally made it to his front door.

I always try to take a moment to focus my thoughts and concentrate before I approach Mr Stern’s front door. More than any other, this is the place where I need to be entirely present and not distracted by my work, my life, or the traffic. If I am preoccupied by something Mr Stern will notice, or I will screw something up because I am not paying attention. This time was no different. I took a deep breath, checked my makeup one last time, and grabbed the groceries.

For some reason, even though it had been raining all day, I wasn’t wearing my coat with the hood. I ducked my head as best I could to avoid getting drenched and scooted on to the front porch. Mr Stern answered the door when I knocked and complimented my speed at the grocery store. I have become familiar enough with where everything is that I am usually in and out in no more than fifteen minutes these days. That is a vast improvement from when I first started shopping for him.

Over the next two hours I did my usual list of chores. I put a load of laundry on to wash, then did the dishes in the sink by hand, cleaned the kitchen counters and stove, made Mr Stern’s bed, tidied the things in his room I am allowed to touch, did a surface cleaning of the bathroom, put the wet clothes in the dryer, started another load of laundry, and generally made his home clean and livable. Mr Stern worked at his computer in the living room most of the time I was busy, but when he decided I needed to clean behind the refrigerator he obliged my request to pull it away from the wall.

Mr Stern actually did more work behind the refrigerator than I did. I helped in little ways and finished up scrubbing the floor and vacuuming the dust left behind. After we were done with that he stayed in the kitchen and made himself a quick dinner while we talked about my ex, Dr Tim, and my craigslist ad for a girlfriend. It was a very pleasant evening with great discussions and sharing of ideas. I felt reconnected to him in a way that I had been missing. I felt like things I had been meaning to share but never brought up finally saw the light of day. Even better, I got his guidance and input on situations that had simply been hovering in my mind for too long.

I finished up a few more chores and then Mr Stern called me over to kneel in front of him. I had no idea what he might be up to, I am useless at predicting his thoughts about ninety eight percent of the time. This time he wanted to talk.

Unfortunately I cannot remember the exact phrasing of the conversation, it was soon overwhelmed by the actions that it inspired.

It started off with Mr Stern wanting to know, out of the things we had done together in the last month or so, what turned me on the most. What was the most humiliating, most erotic, hottest experience we had shared? As I always am when it comes to putting my most intimate thoughts into words, I was hesitant to speak. I was embarrassed to tell him what got my cunt wet and my heart racing.

He pushed and prodded, narrowing his questions to get specific answers. He didn’t want general slutty answers, he wanted exact situations, words, and ideas.

I recounted the time he had his hand on my throat and the much earlier incident where he had been fantastically humiliating and done just the right thing to get me to come with his hand in my cunt. Still he seemed to be digging for something. He wasn’t interested in anything that was just erotic, or just humiliating, or just put me into a completely submissive head space. He wanted something that did all three at the same time with an intensity unmatched by any other encounter.

I didn’t get it until Mr Stern started talking about what he likes, what turns him on, what brings out the rush of being my Mr Stern. He agreed that humiliating me was on his list of favorite things, as was hearing me beg for sexual attention, and licking his balls was in a category all its own. But there was something else.

The one incident, he said, that brought all of this together like no other was peeing on me. The utter humiliation it caused, the sexual rush it created, the feeling of dominance he got from it, was beyond anything else he had done to me.

After a brief moment it made sense to me. Nothing else has connected us so intimately. Nothing else has been so far outside the ordinary realm of interaction and so brilliantly defined our respective positions. This one act illustrated his complete ownership of me in a way that could not possibly be repeated by anything else.

To contrast: humiliating language is purely psychological. It has no physical impact (other than making my cunt wet) to reflect its intensity. Fucking me, beating me, forcing me to suck his cock – these are all physical things that he can inflict on any number of willing girls, given the right circumstances. Pushing my limits is exhilarating for me but chances are it doesn’t hold the same thrill for Mr Stern. No, there is only one thing that wraps it all into one neat little package and packs one hell of a punch.

Putting me on my knees, completely vulnerable and submissive, and peeing on me pleased my Mr Stern to no end. He told me that he had been tempted to do it every time I came over but was afraid it would soon lose its intensity.

Then he started digging into how it made me feel. I was at a loss for words, unable to put my thoughts into clear and concise language. I fumbled for a minute trying to pull together exactly what I thought.

“Let’s see what you had to say about it,” Mr Stern said, opening his laptop. He brought up this blog and found the entry detailing the first time he peed on me.

He read a few lines then decided it would be more effective for me to read my own words. I picked up where he had left off, reading out loud for his benefit. He directed me to jump ahead a few paragraphs, picking out the parts where I described how submissive, slutty, and owned being peed on made me feel. He emphasized a few key words, repeating them after me and looking at me pointedly. I started reliving the experience I was reading about – the humiliation, the complete submission, the joy of being owned by him in such a profound and undeniable way.

Just as I was getting used to reading and starting to remember exacting what had happened he changed tactics.

He stood up, closed the laptop, and grabbed a hand full of my hair.

“Enough of this. Get up,” Mr Stern said, yanking me up. He pushed me ahead of him into the bathroom.

“I’ve been waiting for an hour to pee. Get your clothes off and hurry up about it,” he growled. I quelled the panic that started in my stomach and peeled my shirt off over my head. When I was naked he grabbed my hair again and pulled me against his chest.
“What are you?” he asked, looking down on me.

“A fucking slutty little schoolteacher,” I breathed. This is one of those lines I have been saying for so long that it has become part of my soul. It is still intensely humiliating though, especially when I am looking into his eyes.

“That’s right. And whose slut are you?”

“Yours, Mr Stern,” I said. These answers I know by heart. They are well established to remind me of my place.

“Why is that?” he asked.

I’d never heard this question before so after a brief moment of thought, I answered honestly.

“I don’t know, Mr Stern.”

“Because you can’t imagine being owned by anyone else. Isn’t that right?” His expression was humiliatingly fierce. He was completely in control and he knew it. I was his toy to be used as he wanted, pissed on and humiliated because he felt like it and because it pleased him to no end.

“Yes, Mr Stern,” I agreed wholeheartedly.

He shoved me away and I stepped gingerly into the tub.

“I can’t pee on you if you’re standing up,” he sneered. My eyes were on the floor. I was too embarrassed to meet his gaze.

I knelt down just like last time, a lump rising in my throat and a half heard whimper escaping my lips. The first time he’d peed on me had been exhilaratingly overwhelming. It had tapped into my basest need to be degraded and made to feel completely owned. It created a little place in my consciousness that had never existed before.

“Beg for it, slut. Beg your Mr Stern to pee on you.” I knew, from the conversation that we’d just had, that begging was one of his biggest turn-ons, along with humiliating me. But the new number one on his list was pissing on me. That was why we were in the bathroom again.

“Please pee on me Mr Stern. Please, please pee on your fucking little slut,” I whimpered.

“Look at me, you fucking whore. You’re a cock whore and a cum slut and what else are you?”

“I don’t know, Mr Stern.”

“A fucking pee slut.” I felt his urine then. It was every bit as intense as the first time. Nothing had been lost in the repetition. I choked on my words as he ordered me to keep begging. I was close to tears with the humiliation of having to beg him to pee on me but at the same time I was soaring with the thrill of it.

“Spread your fucking legs,” he ordered. His hand directed his cock so the pee fell directly on my cunt. My instinct was to close my legs and keep myself clean but I couldn’t do it. I wanted every possible inch of me to be drenched with his pee, every part of me to have visible evidence of his ownership.

Then he started peeing on my shoulders and neck. He had threatened to pee in my mouth earlier, I knew he wanted to do it, but I was afraid. Afraid that I wouldn’t be able to do it, that I would pull away or tell him no or some other equally ridiculous reaction.

He directed the stream higher onto my chin and I moaned with dread and desire. I wanted so badly to please him but I wasn’t sure, if he told me to open my mouth so he could pee in it, that I could do it. I dared not close my lips but when he wet my cheeks the urge to snap my mouth closed was almost unbearable.

Finally he stopped. I was thoroughly soaked and shaking with the intensity of my emotions. My cunt was wet and swollen. I was utterly humiliated, completely owned, and totally turned on. Looking up at him standing over me made my stomach erupt into butterflies and electric sparks buzz through my cunt.

I remained kneeling as he stood there, closing my eyes when the emotions became too much to bear. After a moment I felt tiny drops of urine falling on my lips. He was putting the last few drops as close to my mouth as he could without actually making me open my mouth. I froze, panicked that perhaps this was just a lead up to actually ordering my lips apart.

“Lick your lips, slut,” he said. I didn’t move.

“Lick your fucking lips, slut,” he repeated. I still didn’t move. My mind was racing with incoherent thoughts but my body refused to respond.

“Open your mouth, stick your tongue out, and lick your fucking lips,” he ordered. I was frozen in place. I almost shook my head but my innate resistance to telling him no stopped me.

He slapped my cheek. A sharp stinging blow high on my left cheekbone that rocked my head to the side. I whimpered with the shock and pain but still wouldn’t open my mouth.

“Lick your lips, slut,” he ordered, the firmness in his voice escalating.

My eyes were squeezed shut, my lips were dry from panting through my mouth, and my hands clenched the side of the tub in a death grip, but I would not move my tongue.


After one comes two, then three. I don’t know what comes after three. I have never resisted long enough to find out.

Shivering and crying, I opened my mouth and extended my tongue just enough to touch my lips. I didn’t want to know what came after three. I could picture nothing worse than what I was going through but I was sure Mr Stern could come up with something.

“That’s right, slut, lick it all off. Lick your lips like they’re covered in chocolate ice cream,” he said, urging me on. I hesitated as I touched the tip of my tongue to my upper lip. I was still fighting, still crying out inside that I wasn’t going to do this.

But I did do it. I licked all the way around my lips with the flat of my tongue, until Mr Stern was satisfied.

My rational mind knew that there was so little pee on my lips that I probably wouldn’t even taste it. And even if I did, it presented no risk to my health or well being. The issue was completely psychological. I was holding some arbitrary boundary and would not cross it until I was absolutely forced. Given the choice, able to use my own free will, I would have remained frozen with my mouth kept firmly closed.

But I am Mr Stern’s slut and I do what he says. I do not argue, I do not fight, I do not question, I just do. Except sometimes there is a little voice in my head that demands he tighten his grasp just a fraction before I will submit. If he wants to extend a boundary I need to know that his will is capable of overcoming mine.

I am not meek and spineless. I am stubborn, forceful, and well aware of my own power. I choose to submit because it brings such pleasure and security but some part of my resistant nature occasionally seeps into my submission. Sometimes I just need to be forced. Sometimes I just need to know that he will not bend.

“Turn around and sit down,” he said, pushing my shoulder. I turned so I was sitting in the tub the normal way and put my ass down. His urine covered the bottom of the tub. I was sitting in a pool of it, from my ass to my heels. My torso was still dripping, I was still shaking, and tears were leaking from my eyes.

“Rub your legs in it.”

The smell filled my nose and derailed any coherent thoughts left in my head. I could feel the cold wetness against my cunt and quailed inside at the sensation. Part of me found it intensely erotic while, at the same time, another part cringed in denial. My legs were flat on the bottom of the tub, my hands at my sides, and my head was bowed. I was beaten down, crushed slightly but not irreparably. My only desire at that moment was to please him, to fulfill his desires and fantasies.

I cannot imagine what I looked like sitting there. My hair was dripping from the ends Mr Stern had soaked, my face was surely glistening wet from pee and tears, and my body was shivering. But Mr Stern stood above me taking in the spectacle and just by imagining his emotions the situation became even more erotic.

I imagined what he might be feeling, looking down on me, and felt the resulting surge of arousal quivering through me. My cunt tingled and clenched, a blush colored my face, and I was struck by how much pleasing him turned me on. I wanted to be his, I wanted him to own me completely however he wanted. If he could overcome my resistance and put me in my place, that is where I longed to be.

“Put your feet in it,” he said. I bent my knees and put my feet flat on the porcelain. The cold was starting to seep into my body but I was already shivering enough not to notice it. The soles of my feet wiggled in little puddles of urine, the cold liquid going between my toes as I moved.

I lifted my ass off the tub a fraction of an inch to escape the cold wetness.

“What are you doing? Trying to get your cunt in it?” he asked. I kept my eyes on my toes as I replied.

“No, Mr Stern.”

He reached over and picked up his phone, flipping it open and pointing it at me.

“What do you say to your Mr Stern after he pees on you, slut?” he demanded.

“Thank you, Mr Stern.”

“Look at me and say it,” he said. “Tell me what you are thanking me for.”

“Thank you for peeing on your fucking slut, Mr Stern.” He snapped two pictures while I was talking, grinning at the images he captured.

After another minute of berating and humiliating me with his words, Mr Stern pulled the shower head down and turned the water on. Again he aimed it directly at my cunt, ordering me to open my legs. The hot pressure of the water echoed the hot pressure inside my cunt. I was almost close enough to the edge to need to ask permission to come but the water was too new and extraordinary to push me over. I wiggled and gasped, my head falling back, as he played the water over my clit and down my cunt.

When the amusement factor of watching me squirm dwindled he dropped the shower head, tossed a bottle of soap in the tub, closed the shower curtain and left the room. I remained seated for a long minute, spraying my body with the comforting water, until I was sure I could stand. The last thing I needed to do was break my arm falling in his shower.

The whole time I was getting cleaned up I replayed visions of Mr Stern standing over me ordering me to beg. I remembered the resistance in my heart to licking my lips. I felt, all over again, the emotions that crashed over me when my resistance was overcome by his force.

Every time that I think I have reached a stable plateau in my submission to Mr Stern he pushes me to a new, deeper level. He finds a way to demand more and I find a way to give it to him. The overwhelming majority of the time I follow willingly enough, enjoying the rush that comes from being owned and used, but sometimes I need the iron in his fist to make me go. It is when that strength prevails and I am forced to comply that my submission expands exponentially and transforms some part of my emotional landscape.

I made sure the tub was well rinsed, put the soap away, and turned off the water. I stepped out of the tub and grabbed the towel he had left for me. It was time to return to Mr Stern’s world.

I was finally clean, mostly dry, and getting cold. I picked up my clothes and was preparing to put my panties on when Mr Stern appeared in the doorway.

“May I please put my clothes on, Mr Stern?” I asked, barely raising my eyes to meet his.

“Why? Do you need them?” he asked matter-of-factly.

“No, Mr Stern,” I replied and put my panties back down.

“You can put your socks on,” he said. A small concession to my comfort but meaningful nonetheless. I did as he ordered then followed him out of the bathroom and into the living room.

“I’m sure there’s some laundry that needs tending to,” he said and headed towards his computer. I did as he suggested, walking naked through the house trying to focus very carefully on where I was placing my feet so I wouldn’t stumble. I retrieved the laundry from the dryer and folded it while Mr Stern took a shower.

I was standing in my spot when Mr Stern got out of the shower and started talking on his cell phone. He walked to his bedroom, still talking, and put on a shirt and a pair of black long johns. Then he wandered through the living room towards the kitchen talking about his recent social life. By this time I had deduced that he was talking to Curtis.

Curtis and Chloe are a young couple Mr Stern introduced me to some time last year. They live in the same part of town as Mr Stern in an adorable house on a quiet street. No one would ever guess that they have a dungeon in the basement and host all kinds of kinky play parties. Curtis and Mr Stern are comparable in terms of their D/s techniques and interests and Chloe and I share fascinations with other girls, sucking cock, and getting whacked with things.

“Hey, guess what this is,” Mr Stern said as he reached me. He held the phone up in front of me, grabbed my right nipple and squeezed and twisted until I squeaked.

“What do you think?” he asked Curtis. Curtis must have sounded doubtful because Mr Stern tried again.

“Listen to this,” he said, pinching and pulling the other nipple. Even though I knew he was going to do it I still squeaked and raised up on my tiptoes.

“That’s the slut,” he said. “I think it was a squeak. I was being mean to her nipples.”

The conversation continued for a few more minutes while Mr Stern sat on the couch and I stood in my place. He was trying to get Curtis and Chloe to come over so Curtis could hurt me and he could snuggle with Chloe on the bed. Curtis was evidently explaining some situation he was trying to work out and being rather noncommittal about coming over. It was a little after ten and Mr Stern ended the conversation by requesting that Curtis call him back when he decided what he was going to do.

Then I stood in my spot, naked and unoccupied, for somewhere approaching forty-five minutes.

Mr Stern was either bent over his computer or watching television two feet away from me the entire time. He turned to address me perhaps a half dozen times but for the most part I was left to watch TV and reminisce about the utter humiliation I had just endured. I lost myself in the details of the sensation, my emotions, the way he looked standing above me. It replayed itself endlessly in my mind keeping me preoccupied and subdued.

“Come here,” Mr Stern finally said. He had set his laptop on the couch and was pulling his long johns down as he spoke.

“Lick my balls. I want to see if I can work on my computer while you do it,” he said, shoving his long johns down past his knees. I snuggled in closer to him and leaned forward, settling myself in comfortably. He tried the computer in several different places, including resting lightly on my head, until he decided to put it back on the couch next to him.

I relaxed into his crotch, warming up to my task, while he kept typing. At one point I shifted position and felt a drop of saliva falling onto my hand on the floor. I looked up at Mr Stern and explained that I was drooling on the couch and floor. He suggested I get a towel to catch the saliva and lifted himself slightly so I could put it in place.

I leaned back into him and resumed my task. Then his phone buzzed incessantly. He answered it and I knew from the conversation that it was Curtis. Mr Stern was about to revoke his invitation, saying that it was almost eleven, when he started laughing.

“No, you’re not. Knock on the door,” he laughed. A split second later we heard a firm rapping at the front door. Mr Stern and I both laughed and he reached down to pull up his long johns.

“Go get my shorts from the bottom drawer and hurry up about it,” he said as he gave up struggling to get the long johns on.

I scooted back, stood up, scurried into the bedroom and retrieved his shorts.

“Open the door, slut,” he ordered as he pulled the shorts up and his shirt down. I was in my favorite state of being – naked except for my socks and Mr Stern’s collar so he allowed me to stand behind the door as I opened it.

Curtis came in and he and Mr Stern exchanged greetings. Mr Stern asked where Chloe was and Curtis explained that she had been feeling a bit anti-social so she stayed at home. I went back to my spot against the arch, watching them as they chatted. Soon enough attention turned to me.

One of the first instruments Mr Stern got from the workbench in his bedroom was the rubber band. I hate the rubber band. It is probably two feet long, blue, and meaner than a box of weasels. I hate it with a passion. It is super stingy, unpredictable, and god awful mean. Mr Stern demonstrated how to use it to Curtis then handed it over. Curtis took aim at my leg to test his technique but soon moved to my thighs, belly, breasts and side. Did I mention how much I hate the rubber band?

Mr Stern got his singletail then and they traded off directing sharp stinging blows at me. I twisted away from Curtis several times and had to shake my hands in front of me to resist rubbing the sore spots. Within minutes Mr Stern directed me into the bedroom and bent me over the bed. Curtis resumed with the rubber band and I was crying in no time.

The pain was impossible to wrap my mind around. It was too much sharp impact in too small of an area. The rubber band dragged at my flesh as it hit and created spectacular welts. Each one made me flinch and cry out, even as I tried not to anticipate the next.

Eventually Mr Stern realized how much I was struggling.

“Would you like to ask Curtis to be a little nicer, slut?” he asked. I nodded into the mattress, wiping my eyes and nose.

“Yes, please, Mr Stern,” I sniffled. He grabbed my hair, stood me up, and turned me so I was facing Curtis. I was unsteady on my feet and had trouble focusing on him for a moment.

“Awww… we made her cry,” Mr Stern said in that voice he uses for small animals and cute children. “Go ahead and ask Curtis to be nicer to you, slut.”

“Curtis, will you please be nice to me?” I whimpered. There was no hesitation in my voice, I was utterly humiliated to be having to ask but I knew I couldn’t stand any more. Curtis has never been anything except perfectly nice to me so facing him naked, defeated, and blurry-eyed with tears was enough to make me cringe inside and struggle to meet his eyes.

“Okay,” he replied in his sing song baritone voice.

“That was too easy. Kiss the top of his boot,” Mr Stern ordered. I bent down immediately and kissed the toe of the boot closest to me. As I stood up Mr Stern ordered me to kiss the other one. I complied just as quickly – I didn’t want to risk making either of them upset. Curtis moved his foot to allow me easier access as I bent down. I left tiny wet spots on each boot where my lips had met the leather.

When I stood up Mr Stern threw me back towards the bed and resumed with his singletail. I was standing in my usual position, feet flat on the floor, bent over the bed, with my hands in my hair. Curtis was behind me to my right and Mr Stern was to my left. Curtis went to fetch his toy bag from the living room and came back with his singletail. He joined Mr Stern and they took turns hitting my ass and thighs, matching each other’s intensity almost perfectly. The rhythm was a lot quicker than I am used to with just Mr Stern, plus Curtis had a habit of hitting unexpected places – the inside of my thigh, the top of my calf, the back of my knee.

While I consider Curtis a friend, I have been topped by him only a very few times. Because of this I do not feel like I have developed a rapport with him as far as trusting that he understands my reactions. I am not confident that he can read my signals the way Mr Stern can, or that he would be able to distinguish real distress from ordinary reactions. Because of this I struggled to keep a certain part of my mind lucid and in control. I worried about slipping into subspace and not being able to let Curtis know when I was seriously hurt so I fought it.

Looking back now I realize that Mr Stern was directing the scene and is intimately familiar with my reactions. If I sent any signals that I needed a break or was becoming overwhelmed, he would pick up on them and act as he felt was appropriate. He was absolutely in control of me, and tangentially, Curtis. I could have drifted off without a second thought and been as perfectly safe as I always am with him, regardless of who is co-topping me.

But instead I only complicated things by struggling to remain in control. Not only because of Curtis and my misplaced concerns about bottoming to him, but also because of an assumption I made some time ago.

I developed an understanding from past events and conversations that Mr Stern prefers me to not go too deep into subspace unless he gives me permission. Because of this I try to process pain very rationally instead of sliding into oblivion at the first hint of being overwhelmed. Except Mr Stern expects no such thing. He told me after this episode that exactly the opposite is true – I am allowed to go as far as I need whenever I need, unless he specifically tells me otherwise.

But that was not the assumption under which I was operating at the time. The rubber band, then the whips, then the canes, then the paddles, I tried to deal with all of them without losing my senses. I cried out and struggled, moving this way and that, unable to get on top of the pain. I pushed back the seductive darkness in order to concentrate, to my own detriment.

Even when the endorphins kicked in and the pain receded a little, it was no picnic. Mr Stern and Curtis ramped up their efforts and increased the pace. One would hit one side and the other would hit the other side. They took turns landing blows and I was left breathless and crying. I struggled to keep an awareness of what was going on at the same time I was fighting my innate desire to float away.

At one point Mr Stern grabbed me around the hips and literally threw me onto the bed. I landed on all fours and quickly folded my arms and dropped my head to the mattress. My feet hung off the side of the bed and I was suddenly in the perfect position for the impacts to continue.

Curtis and Mr Stern kept up a constant conversation between themselves while they played and part of my brain remained constantly focused on them. I never knew when either of them might ask me a question and was worried about missing something. As a result I paid more attention to them than I usually do when only one person is topping me. Yet another reason I was a sniveling mess with no capacity for dealing with the pain they were dishing out.

Even in the middle of my extended struggle to maintain my sanity while accepting the pain I noticed the distracting wetness of my inner thighs. I was in excruciating pain and yet my cunt was overflowing. This small observation amazed and humiliated me. It proved exactly how much of a pain slut I am and reminded me of why I am Mr Stern’s slut.

The point at which Mr Stern and Curtis were both using a cane to strike my thighs in rapid succession sent me over the edge, whether I wanted to or not. Two canes hitting the same six inches, one on the left thigh and one on the right thigh, was more than I could deal with without the benefit of subspace. As I was retreating to the quietness of subspace I heard Curtis ask if I was still breathing. I had stopped making any noise and was concentrating on going inside of myself. Mr Stern assured him I was okay and they continued with the dual caning.

I was breathing, very deeply and slowly, as I saw the blankness of subspace approaching. I started counting my breaths (my coping/distraction technique) and felt the grayness of oblivion taking over. Then I started moaning. Deep, long, hoarse moans from the back of my throat. My memory is less than reliable at this point but I think they continued with the paddles and canes until Mr Stern pushed me face-first into the mattress and Curtis started to pack up his gear.

I don’t know if Mr Stern threw a blanket over me then or later, the events between the steady syncopated assault on my thighs and the time I heard them talking in the kitchen is lost. All I am certain of is that I was lying on his bed with tears leaking from my eyes and my ass throbbing from their canes and paddles. I tried to concentrate but nothing seemed willing to come into focus.

As I always do when I am around him, I centered my focus on Mr Stern. I could hear him in the other room, the rise and fall of his voice, the laughter and quiet exchanges. I heard Curtis preparing to leave and the last bits of their conversation as they moved toward the front door.

I heard the door close behind Curtis and wondered idly what would happen now. I figured the most likely scenario would involve Mr Stern cajoling me out of my teary-eyed misery and sending me home to sleep. I’d overhead him telling Curtis after he ended the beating session that if I went much deeper into subspace it would take me an hour or more to recover, implying that he, Mr Stern, did not want to deal with that tonight.

Mr Stern came back into the bedroom where I lay wrapped in the white blanket. I was flying a little from the pain he and Curtis had inflicted. My thighs, ass, and breasts were colorfully marked and puffy. Mr Stern pulled the blanket off of me to inspect the marks, lifting my shirt to see the sides of my breasts and back. He maneuvered me so I was on my knees and elbows again, ass in the air directly in front of him.

He started spanking then, interspersing his swats with more humiliating banter about what I slut I am and how much I like cock. He went on about how much I wanted to suck Curtis’s cock and get fucked. I could hear him ripping open a condom as he talked and hit me but couldn’t tell if he was putting it on himself or some toy.

I felt his cock against my cunt and moaned. I hadn’t been fucked in what seemed like a long time and I missed it, a lot. He shoved his cock into me with only a swipe of lube to get things going. I was wet enough from being spanked and caned that it didn’t matter. I pushed back against him, feeling the fullness of his cock inside me.

“You been doing your cunt exercises, slut?” he asked, his broad hand on my lower back.

I nodded, unable to speak because of the moans of pleasure trapped in my throat.

“Every day?” he asked, swatting my thigh with his hand.

I hesitated. I knew there had been some days when I’d forgotten but I didn’t want to get in trouble.

“Don’t lie to me, slut,” he warned. I shook my head, admitting that it had not been every day. He spanked me again, in the same spot but harder.

“I can tell you’ve been playing with your ass, though,” he said as he continued fucking me. “It’s much more relaxed than it used to be.”

The next thing I knew he was snapping a condom onto something else. I heard the sounds but couldn’t figure out what he was doing until I felt something cool and hard against my asshole. He pressed the butt plug in with the rhythm of his cock in my cunt and I opened to it. Before I even realized it, the plug was completely inside my ass and he was fucking me even harder.

He grabbed my hair then, pulling me back on my knees, lifting my hands off the bed. He held me by the hair and pounded into my cunt. The butt plug was shoved in as far as it could go and I was on fire with the sensations. I moaned with the pain of having my hair pulled so harshly but also with the ecstasy of his cock in my cunt and the plug in my ass.

“You are such a fucking slut,” he growled. “I think this one’s too small. You need the bigger butt plug, slut? Huh? Do you?”

I shook my head no but he pulled the smaller one out and replaced it quickly with one just a fraction larger.

“What a fucking slut. You like that feeling of fullness, slut? You like that double penetration?” he asked as he pressed the butt plug in with his hand and fucked me harder. He leaned over and bit my shoulder until I was breathless with the pain and exhilaration.

“Yes, Mr Stern,” I gasped, nodding my head. I was riding his rhythm and squirming with the heat spreading from my cunt. My clit hadn’t been touched at all but it felt like an electric spark. I was face down on the mattress again, one of Mr Stern’s hands pinching my nipple while the other wiggled the butt plug in my ass.

He was tossing me around, his hands grabbing and twisting whichever way he wanted me to go. I was squirming and wriggling with the pleasure of getting fucked. His hand crossed my throat occasionally but it was lost in the flood of sensations from my cunt. I realized he was doing it but the touch was so fleeting that it didn’t bother me. His teeth sank into my neck and shoulders repeatedly, sharp points of contrast to his hands roaming my body.

“I bet you want my cock in your ass, you fucking slut. I bet I could just fuck your ass and you’d love it,” he said. My moans and gasps were punctuated by squeals when he slapped my ass or yanked my hair.

He withdrew his cock first, then the butt plug. More lube was rubbed onto my asshole and he pushed his cock in. I was already wide open and felt him slide completely in. The sensation was so completely different from a butt plug that it took me by surprise. I squirmed with the newness of it and tried not to concentrate, just enjoy.

“I think you need something in your cunt, too. You need the monster dildo in your cunt while I fuck your ass,” he said. I heard him open the night table drawer and then another condom being opened. The dildo slid into my cunt with barely any effort. I was dripping wet both from my cunt leaking and from liberal applications of lube.

“Hold this dildo,” he said once he got it firmly in place. “Fuck yourself however you want.”

I grabbed the dildo but didn’t move it. Something was shifting in my brain and distracting me from the joy of getting fucked. His cock in my ass was becoming uncomfortable, going towards the sensation of loss of control.

“You’re getting your ass fucked like a pro,” he said, his voice giving the compliment an edge. I could picture him concentrating on his cock sliding in and out of my ass and felt a surge of anger growing in my stomach. I resented him enjoying himself at my expense, especially since this was only the second time he had fucked my ass. I couldn’t get to the place where I was doing this for him and pleasing him no matter what I felt. I wanted to fight him, be defeated, and be brought under even firmer control before I could consent to being used this way.

I tried to squirm away from him, shifting my hips to pull away from him. I was on the edge of tears because my feelings were so foreign and my body was tensing up. He grabbed me and pulled me back towards him.

“What are you doing slut? Does that hurt?” he demanded. I shook my head and tried to speak.

“I… I just… I just don’t like it,” I finally managed. I was sniffling again, tears dripping onto the bedspread.

“Well, guess what, this isn’t all about your pleasure, now is it?” he sneered. I shook my head because I knew he was right. I was trying to convince myself that his pleasure was all that mattered but the urge to resist was getting even stronger.

“You afraid you’re going to shit all over my cock?” he asked with that same edge to his voice.

I shook my head again. The loss of control was part of my reaction but it went deeper than that. I was boiling inside with an almost physical need to strike out at him.

“Your body is at this weird angle so my cock isn’t going in like it’s supposed to. Straighten up and get with it,” he said. He grabbed my left arm and dragged my torso sideways. I tried to yank my wrist from his grasp and he slammed it against my thigh. His cock never left my ass and my right hand never left the dildo in my cunt.

I struggled against him, feeling his grip tighten on my wrist and his cock continuing to push into my ass. He withdrew almost all the way, until only the head of his cock was in my ass and kept it there using tiny shallow thrusts.

“I like that, just the head of my cock in your ass,” he sighed. I tried to draw my wrist away again and found it just as firmly pinned as it had been before. My right hand was seconds away from dropping the dildo and swinging back to hit Mr Stern in the stomach when I spoke.

“Mr Stern, yellow.”

He slowed his rhythm then, put his hand comfortingly on my back to soothe me, and waited.

“Good girl,” he said. His cock was still in my ass. He talked me through getting the dildo out and tightening my ass as he withdrew his cock. Nothing in his voice gave any clue that he was going to back off his complete control and domination, he was just giving me some space to deal with whatever was going on.

“Stay right there, don’t move,” he said as he walked away. I was face down on the bed, ass in the air, back arched so my stomach almost touched the bed. He went to the bathroom to clean himself up and I tried to think. I knew he was going to demand an explanation and I damn well better have something good.

“What happened slut?” he asked as soon as he came back into the bedroom.

“I was afraid I was going to hit you, Mr Stern,” I said. He made an affirmative noise to let me know he was listening but didn’t say anything else. He was walking around the room behind me and I hadn’t moved so I couldn’t see him.

He grabbed the white blanket I had been wrapped in before and tucked it under my stomach. I lifted my knees so I was completely encased in the blanket then he pushed me roughly forward so I fell onto my stomach. He continued doing whatever he was doing behind me for a few more minutes then climbed past me onto the bed.

He lay back against the pillows and looked over at me. I had my emotions almost under control but wasn’t sure how long it was going to last.

“The only problem with this is that I’m over here. You’re going to have to move if you’re going to lick my balls.”

This was phrased in the form of suggestion but Mr Stern’s tone implied that it was not optional. I dragged the blanket with me as I maneuvered myself between his legs. I was naked, bruised, and sore. Cunt juices and lube dripped down my thighs and snot and tears covered my face. The blanket was mostly to keep me warm but also to ensure that I didn’t leak any bodily fluids onto Mr Stern’s bedspread.

I ended up between his legs as he reclined on his pillows. I lowered my head to his thigh at his direction and opened my mouth. His cock was soft so he held it out of the way of my tongue as I started licking. I tried not to sniffle as I moved my face across his skin but within moments the tears threatened to resume.

Mr Stern had his hand in my hair, stroking gently and watching me. He saw what was happening.

“You going to cry again? Just put your head down and let it go.” He pushed my head down against his thigh and the sobbing started again. The whole evening had been filled with tears and unexplained misery. I couldn’t get a grip on why I was so emotionally shaken but I also couldn’t stop myself.

“Let it out, slut,” he ordered. I was sobbing on his leg, my breath coming in gasps and tears dripping down my face. My body was twisting with emotions I couldn’t contain.

“Do I need to hurt you to make you cry? Let it out, slut. I will hurt you if I have to,” he said. He’d already pinched my nipples until I was sobbing and shrieking in agony and struggling to get away from him. I knew he was serious and I knew how hard it would be to control myself if he started hurting me.

I looked inward, to the tangle of emotions sitting in my belly, and urged them outward. I opened my mouth and sobbed. Mr Stern stroked my head and listened as I lost myself in tears. It was evident that I needed to cry and Mr Stern is admirably good at letting, or making, me cry when I need to. It hasn’t happened in a fairly long time, and certainly not to this extent. Usually I have one relatively short episode of frantic crying and then I am done. Not this time. This time it seemed to spread out over the course of several hours and all types of interactions.

Finally, through the chaos, I became aware of Mr Stern’s hand resting on my forehead, right at the hairline. He wasn’t moving his hand, he wasn’t saying anything, his body was completely calm, but his energy was taking me over.

His hand became my focal point. I felt nothing else. The pain in my body was gone, the confusion in my heart settled, and my sobbing ebbed. His hand remained motionless, the center of my attention.

His touch worked like nothing else had the entire evening. It sent me deeper into sub space than being peed on, beaten, fucked, or used. My mind stopped whirling, my heart stopped racing, and my breathing stopped shaking my body. I calmed to the point where my mouth sagged open and I had to remind myself to breathe. I had no awareness of anything other than his hand and the mindless emptiness of sub space.

I have no idea how long we lay like this, my head on his thigh, his hand on my head, but eventually I felt him moving. He placed a pillow under my head and got off the bed to clean himself and his toys up. I drifted in and out of consciousness, sometimes aware of the sounds he was making, sometimes realizing that I had missed several minutes of activity. I don’t know if I was sleeping or simply lost in the warm smooth grayness of sub space. I tried to open my eyes and when the room failed to focus, gave up and drifted off again.

Finally Mr Stern started talking to me and bringing me back to reality. At first it was checking every few minutes to see if I was with him. Then he lay next to me and asked my name and where I am from. I answered all of his questions correctly and slowly started regaining my composure. I opened my eyes and saw him watching me.

I had certainly not meant to go into subspace, part of what had kept me so off balance throughout the evening was the desire to float away conflicting with the knowledge that doing so takes a lot of aftercare. I wanted to escape the pain and the humiliation by leaving myself behind but I didn’t want to burden Mr Stern with an extra hour of looking after me while I regained my ability to think.

As usual, my desires and attempts to control the situation were all for naught. Mr Stern is the one who decides what I do and how far I go. He is the one who decides how long he will put up with taking care of me. Perhaps if I had realized this while I was struggling, I wouldn’t have had the complete meltdown that I did. Perhaps I would have slid more easily into subspace, lost myself for a while, then come back hazily satisfied.

But instead here I was, coming out of an unintended dive into oblivion and trying to figure out what had happened. I knew Mr Stern wanted some kind of explanation for my erratic behavior throughout the evening so I tried to start talking.

“There were a couple of things,” I said slowly. “I was very upset by my fear that I was going to hit you. It was very distracting from concentrating, or not concentrating, or whatever I needed to be doing. I really felt like I was going to try to turn around and hit you. I know I probably wouldn’t have been able to do it, but it was the feeling that mattered.”

“I know I was shaking in my boots,” he quipped. I smiled into the pillow and thought about me actually trying to hit Mr Stern. I could see myself contained and defeated in the blink of an eye.

“It was the feeling that bothered me the most. I wanted to struggle, to try to get away, to fight back, and that upset me,” I said.

“You don’t think I could see that you were struggling, the way you were trying to get your wrist free?” he asked. I’d been on my knees and elbows, head shoved into the mattress, his cock in my ass and a huge dildo in my cunt, when I’d made a move to get away from him. He had grabbed my left wrist and pinned it to my thigh. I’d tried to yank my hand away from him at the same time as I twisted my shoulders. I’d been possessed by the need to resist him, to not follow his orders and be a good girl.

I’d been so upset by these feelings that I did something I haven’t done in over six months.

“Mr Stern, yellow.” I have only used a safeword three times in the year that I have known Mr Stern. This time I was so certain that something horribly unexpected was going to happen if I didn’t take control of myself that I safeworded.

I’d asked Mr Stern to stop the scene, to take pity on me and my confused mass of emotions, and he had consented. He’d backed away slightly, just enough so I could breathe and gather myself fractionally, and then he was back in full control demanding to know what had happened. After I’d explained myself briefly he lay down and gave the implied command to get between his legs.

I replayed all of this in my mind quickly then continued detailing the buildup to my sobbing breakdown.

“And before, I didn’t want to lick my lips. It wasn’t a safeword situation, nothing like that. I just didn’t want to do it. Some part of me was completely resistant to the idea,” I said, trying to ignore the tear that slid down my cheek as I talked.

“You were in no real physical danger. The amount of pee on your lips was miniscule,” he said.

“I know. It wasn’t that. It wasn’t the physical aspect of it at all, it was completely psychological. I just didn’t want to lick my lips and I don’t know why,” I was starting to get a little frantic again. My breathing was getting shallower and my eyes were starting to hurt. I took a deep breath and mentally pulled myself together. I was never going to get anywhere if I kept breaking down.

“I did it because I didn’t want to find out what would happen if I didn’t,” I admitted.

“That was probably a wise decision,” he agreed. I had been kneeling in the bathtub, covered in his pee, shaking with the emotions of being so completely dominated and humiliated when he had ordered me to lick the few drops of pee he had splashed on my lips off. I’d resisted more stubbornly than ever before. Every part of my being had screamed out that I would not do it. I’d refused to move, to do as he said, even as his voice rose and his tone hardened.

One sharp slap across my face and the threat of imminent escalation denoted by him starting to count to three had forced me to extend my tongue and lick his pee off my lips. I’d felt some small part of my self control and rationality slip away at that point and never regained it.

That had been at least three hours before, before I stood naked in my spot for half an hour, before he and Curtis beat me until I cried, before he fucked my cunt and ass, before I safeworded. It seemed like forever and an instant ago at the same time. My grasp on reality was shaky at best at this point. But one last idea had to be expressed before I could feel like I had been completely honest and open with him.

“When you and Curtis were hurting me, I was concentrating too much on your conversations. I couldn’t get on top of the pain because I was too distracted. I felt like I wasn’t capable of dealing with anything and that just made everything worse,” I said, barely loud enough for him to hear me.

The guilt was suffocating. I felt like I had handled every situation poorly and failed in my duties as a submissive pain slut. My reactions weighed down on me and caused even more emotional instability. No wonder I was a sobbing mess. I lay on his bed trying to wrap my mind around nascent emotions and ideas still distilling themselves, slowly becoming aware of myself and my surroundings.

“I need to pee,” I said. I was on his bed, wrapped in a blanket, sniffling softly and trying to judge my state of mind.

I sat up too quickly, swayed slightly, and closed my eyes until I could regain my balance.

“Whoa, slow down. Can you get up?” Mr Stern asked, grasping my forearm. I nodded as I moved toward the edge of the bed. I planted both feet on the floor and waited until I was sure I could support myself before I let go.

I made my way gingerly to the bathroom, wincing as the swollen flesh on the backs of my thighs protested my sudden moves. I managed to pee, get myself cleaned up a bit, and locate my clothes with relative ease. I already had my shirt on so it was just a matter of putting on my panties, pants, socks, and boots and I would be ready to face the outside world. It must have been after midnight, close as I can tell, and I felt like I had overstayed my welcome at Mr Stern’s house.

I was mostly dressed when Mr Stern opened the bathroom door to retrieve the shirt he had hung there earlier.

“What are you doing putting your clothes on?” he asked.

“I’m freezing, Mr Stern. May I please?” I asked, more certain that he would deny me permission than I liked to admit. He had been brutally dominant all evening and I felt like I was walking on eggshells whatever I did.

“Take them off and get in the tub. I’m going to pee on you again,” he ordered, walking towards me.

I whimpered in protest, feeling the tears instantly welling up, as I unbuttoned my pants and pulled them down. I had no idea what would happen if he humiliated me again, not after the evening I had already been through. I dreaded breaking down completely, to the point where I couldn’t function, but I knew it was a strong possibility if I was pushed much further.

“I’m just kidding, slut. I’m not going to do it again,” he said as he reached me and enveloped me in an embrace. I laid my head against his chest and choked back the tears. I don’t know which made me more emotionally volatile – thinking he was going to degrade me again or him comforting me.

“You are a good girl, though, you were going to get undressed,” he said approvingly as he released me and headed for the toilet.

I left the room as he started to pee, grabbing my boots and retreating to his bedroom. I had one boot on and was leaning against his bed when he came into the room.

“Take your boot off. You’re not going anywhere,” he said, wrapping me in his arms again. I wanted to protest, to tell him that I was fine to drive home, that I couldn’t intrude on his space and his privacy, but my better senses stilled my voice. I was shaky, lightheaded, emotionally wrecked, and exhausted. Finally I nodded slightly and resigned myself to sleeping at his house for the night. There was no way I was going to change his mind.

“You’re staying here tonight. But not in here. You’ll keep me up all night,” he said, guiding me towards the living room. He grabbed an extra blanket and pillow on the way and directed me to fetch the blanket I had been using earlier.

“You going to sleep with your clothes on or do you want to take them off?” he asked. I told him I’d keep them on – being cold was a bigger concern than being comfortable at the moment and I can sleep with just about anything on.

I watched as he spread the blankets on the couch and crawled into the place he had created for me. I was warm, safe, and loved. Somehow this knowledge was just as difficult to process as getting enormously aroused from being horribly humiliated and fiercely beaten. I felt my body start to convulse and tried to hide my face from Mr Stern.

“You’re going into full after-care mode. What’s happening, slut?” he asked as he realized what was going on. This kind of shaking typically follows an intense scene and a trip into the nether regions of subspace.

I shook my head, unwilling to answer. I felt like I’d already disrupted his life and home enough for one night, I didn’t want to add to it by needing any more attention. Mr Stern is persistent though, and not one to ignore someone in need who needs him.

“What’s going on with you, slut? You going to talk to me?” he demanded as he stood over me where I lay on his couch. He had just tucked the blankets around me tightly and was watching as my body shivered and shook.

“I’m sorry Mr Stern… I feel like I’m bothering you because I’m being such a pain in the ass.” I tried to open my eyes, to make sense of what was going on, to put into words the feelings writhing deep inside of me.

“If I think you are being a pain in the ass I will tell you that you are being a pain in the ass.” His expression was completely serious. My body was a little stiller, my breathing evened out a bit. He looked concerned but absolutely in charge.

“I just feel bad because I can’t seem to handle myself,” I continued. Guilt was threatening to overwhelm me again, push the tears out again.

“It is not your job to handle yourself, it is my job to handle you and I think I am doing a damn good job at it. You need to stop thinking, relax, and go to sleep. You can pray or whatever it is you need to do, but let it go and go to sleep.” He crossed his arms on his chest and used the tone of voice that means he expects me to listen, no arguments or discussions, and follow his orders.

“Yes, Mr Stern.” I looked into his eyes for a moment longer, willing my body to relax and stop its incessant trembling. My hands were wrapped up in the blanket, gripping it in fierce fists.

“You are a good girl,” he said walking away, towards his bedroom.

“Thank you, Mr Stern,” I whispered, closing my eyes and trying to absorb the warmth my body was creating under the blankets.

“Don’t make me change my mind by making me worry all night.” He leaned over as he passed and kissed my forehead in that small comforting gesture that means everything to me.

“Yes, Mr Stern.” I was sinking slowly into quiet peacefulness. The day had been much too long and stressful and my body was more than ready to shut down. Mr Stern’s heavy footsteps retreated into the bedroom then headed back to where I was laying.

“What I meant to say is don’t make me change my mind by you worrying all night.” Again he kissed my forehead. I knew that he would worry about me, that’s the kind of person he is, but I also knew that he would sleep unless I created a reason for him not to.

“Yes, Mr Stern.”

And with that I burrowed deeper into the blankets, curled my legs up to my chest, and was soon asleep. There was nothing I could do about the way I felt or what had happened, my only respite was to go to sleep and let whatever was going to work itself out work itself out. Staying awake obsessing about it was not going to help anyone, least of all Mr Stern.

I woke up several times during the night, wondering where I was and why I was snuggled so tightly into my blankets. Then I remembered the evening, the outcome, and where I was. I still felt bad for the burden I was putting on him by not being able to get myself home but then I reminded myself that when he accepted me as his service slut, he accepted me for the good times as well as the bad. He knew what he was signing up for and the possibility that sometimes our interactions might lead us to places neither one of us anticipated.

I am just eternally grateful to be owned by someone as compassionate and understanding as Mr Stern. I have no doubt that, no matter what difficulties I get myself into, he will be there to see me through.


“Is your ex prompt?” Mr Stern asked as he held me against him under the warm blankets.

“Usually,” I said. His cock was hot and hard in my hand. I stroked him gently as his leg pressed into my crotch.

“If you stay more than about two more minutes you’re going to be late,” he said, pushing the blanket farther down his stomach. I wriggled against him, sharing his warmth and luxuriating in his scent.

“I don’t care,” I sighed. It was a few minutes before eight a.m. and I didn’t want to leave.

“You gonna tell him you’re late because you were giving your Mr Stern a hand job?” he laughed.

“No, Mr Stern,” I said. But I didn’t stop stroking his cock. He was naked, I was fully clothed. I had spent the night on his couch for reasons I will explain later, and woken when the sun started shining through the uncurtained windows. I stayed in my warm cocoon of blankets until Mr Stern sent me a text message from the next room telling me to get in there.

Now he was fully erect in my left hand, my right was teasing his balls and my head was pressed to his chest.

“And I suppose you want me to come for you, huh, slut?” he asked. My eyes were barely open, just enough so I could see his cock in my hand. I pressed my crotch against him again, feeling my cunt clench with the arousal of being in his bed so close to him.
“Yes, please, Mr Stern,” I said softly. I love morning sex and nothing makes me happier than making Mr Stern come. The combination of the two was sure to start my day off right and might even make me smile while dealing with my ex in a few minutes.

“In that case you’re going to need to lick my balls,” he ordered as he grabbed my hair and pushed my head between his legs. I wiggled around so I was laying on my stomach with my legs curled under me. He braced his feet against my thighs as I started licking his balls. My right hand was still on his cock, my left was draped over his leg until he grabbed it and put it against his balls.

The taste of his skin in my mouth was heavenly. I licked everything I could reach, twisting my neck so I could get down below his balls, then stretching back up to the base of his cock. He held my head firmly to stop me moving when I got to what he calls “the spot” – the one place he likes to be licked more than any other, slightly below his balls, with just enough pressure from a flat tongue to make him moan. This combined with one of his secret turn-ons – having fingernails run lightly along the underside of his balls – almost always helps push him over the edge.

Mr Stern took his cock in his own hand after a minute leaving me to concentrate on licking his balls and perineum. With his legs spread apart and his feet against my legs he was able to adjust his hips so my tongue hit all the right places. I could hear the sounds he was making as he got close to coming and redoubled my efforts.

This time, like so many times before, the combination of my tongue, his hand, and my fingernails worked amazingly well. He came within minutes, complimented my ball licking ability, and got up to clean himself up. I dragged myself off the bed, retrieved my boots from where they’d ended up under the bed, and shoved my feet into them. My head was a little foggy from lack of sleep and a thoroughly humbling night of service to Mr Stern but I had to get home to receive my kids from my ex.

I smelled Mr Stern’s scent on my hands and face as I headed to the living room to retrieve my belt and coat. He shooed me out the door after a quick check to make sure I was competent to drive and a reminder not to obsess about the night before. I headed for home reassured that all is right with the world if I can make my Mr Stern come and the knowledge that whatever emotional turmoil I endured would simply have to be given to the universe.