This is a continuation of a previous story – click here for part one.
What are you waiting for?
I realise that message has been on my screen for several minutes. I read the instructions and it’s now I notice the chair, a low ottoman positioned three feet from the end of the bed. I reply:
“I am your owned little slut.”
I put down the tablet and kneel in front of the chaise longue, head down as required, but I can see the opening door reflected in the TV. I close my eyes and breathe deeply, suddenly aware of my rising and falling chest, the cool air on the bare arms at my side. And the slight tremble in my fingers as the door clicks shut. I swallow hard. I feel your presence at my shoulder. I look at the carpet, trying to keep my breathing even and my body alert, ready to respond.
A pair of black Fuck Me shoes containing sheer black stockinged feet appear in front of me. They shift slightly as you sit, and then slide apart as your legs spread wide. I focus on a spot on the carpet in front of the chair between your knees. We sit like this for maybe 30 seconds, but it feels like forever. My stomach starts to cramp under the sheer tension of wanting someone to break this thick silence. Eventually, you speak:
“Look at me”
Slowly my eyes rise to meet yours, past the sheer stockings and a black leather one-piece corset and skirt. Above the pushed-up breasts your face is almost hidden by jet black sunglasses and a fountain of fawn hair that sits on your shoulders. Dark, heavily painted lips, somewhere between blood and red wine. Somehow you seem taller than the cropped images and censored scenes you’ve allowed me to see, bigger, more overwhelming from my prone position. To reinforce this you lean down and whisper into my face:
“Do you have something to say?”
All through today’s journey I have been memorising the lines I’ve prepared and which I now hope are good enough for you.
“I am your fucktoy. I’ve given myself to you in my thoughts and daily practice, but I’ve come here today with no expectations except to be used for your pleasure, as you see fit. My body, my cock, my orgasms are yours. Take me and use me and leave me with nothing but the pleasure of having served you.”
Your face still inches from mine, you deftly clip a clamp to each of my nipples, linked by a chain, with a threaded bolt on each to adjust the tension. The setting is in the middle, which means I feel them but will stop noticing unless they are tightened. A ‘reducer’ to ground me a little and create a baseline for the pain.
You continue to lock eyes and bring out a MagicBullet. It vibrates almost imperceptibly until you press the point into each nipple, between and around the clamp, and it feels like I’m grasping an electric fence. I feel a dry heave starting in my guts and I’m trying to control the roll in my shoulders, but the shivers in my neck betray me. You alternate between sides, and each time you switch, you tighten the clamp. I gasp and that feeling of nervous sickness moves lower, I feel it sat in my groin, I feel terrified of letting go. It is so intense: you, me, the clamps, the pain and the buzz and the touch of the bullet, your heavy breath, the prickling carpet burning my knees, so I look up because I need to focus on the plain expanse of ceiling as I groan low, long and hard through bitten lips and clamped jaws.
You open me up with a thumb in my mouth and I gratefully, instinctually suck it as something to cling to with my tongue and my mind, and now you are holding my jaw with the rest of your hand. A single tear has tracked down onto your forefinger as the buzzing at my chest ceases and I falter; I can’t seem to concentrate on kneeling right, as though I can’t work out which way is up. You are now holding me up with your hand and from the force of your breath I sense a growling from somewhere deep inside. You are pressing the MagicBullet between your legs with your other hand.
You push forward into me, like a shoulder charge frozen at the moment of impact as your straightened arm presses the relentless toy harder, for longer. I feel the pulsing pushing through you into me. Your other hand is now cradling the back of my head, and I’m trying to support our weight kneeling, but still reeling from everything, just a foot from the edge of the bed. And I feel the waves of your arousal beating through you, each one thrusts up into my neck, each one a tighter grab of my hair, your nails digging deeper into the flesh of my nape.
And then we are over, you finally push me backwards into the edge of the bed as you launch off the chair, possessed, your groin in my face grinding my head down into the bed, your body folded over me, the sudden smothering of my face with your slavering cunt barely gives me time to breathe. Between your hungry thrusts I can hear your voice commanding me to “fucking lick me, you fucking bitch”, and from instinct I paddle my flat tongue against you, pressing your hard, swollen clit and flicking inside you with the tip. But soon I’m little more than a mounted tongue as you fuck my face with urgency, and it feels like you’re going to break my neck. My head is wrapped over the edge of the mattress, the rest of me following onto the floor like a Dali watch.
Every breath I draw is between your legs, the air sticky with the wetness of your aroma. Part of me considers calling upon THAT word, bailing out to breathe. But deeper inside I find a focus, and feel like I’m falling into a controlled tailspin that turns alternately night and day until suddenly I KNOW everything is all right. This is fine because you have led me to a place of safety.
At some point I realise we have finished up on the floor, and you are now sat over me yet I feel so in control of myself, it’s like our moods are merging in concert. I seem to anticipate your moves, and I can no longer tell whether I am responding to them or dictating them. This is what I have come for, and I cry out for that pain you promised. Hit me, hit me harder, build up a frenzy of famished biting – claw and pound my body with fists, knuckles, wrists and anything you have free that can connect. Grind me into the ground. I’m the nothing that is not there and the nothing that is. A blissed-out oblation.
I don’t know how long I’ve been here. I’m only half aware of where I am, now lying in the recovery position, my breathing easier and my mind seems shrouded by a veil, with sensations occasionally billowing the sides.
Then I feel the cold of the paring knife against me, but I’m not afraid. You are tracing arabesques across my back with the lightest drag of the tip. A slip, and the bra is released by the blade. Then I feel it snagging, pricking then slitting the seat of the knickers. I’m no longer wary of the cut of the steel, I am completely immobilised by trust. A snap of latex gloves and I feel you push a plasticised finger through the hole and inside me – I’m so relaxed it slips on the sweat and inside, and you quickly press on my prostate, testing by my response until you find it. It slides me deeper into the anaesthetic of submission, each press holds me down and seems to skewer my whole body. I try to wriggle but the drug is too strong – I’m feeling any power drain out of me, and the rhythm of pump-and-release is building a tension so tight inside me, I need to feel everything harder. I need to be opened up to you completely.
The knife is no longer cold. I’m willing you to do it. And as you hold me firm with your gloved forefinger, you mark me in the way that completes me.
To be continued…