I was prepared for this, but I wasn’t prepared for this. You have been prepared for everything. I sit on the edge of the bed but I barely feel I am touching it. The shredded knickers now feel tight across my cock, which has swollen like fruit in the sun. The weight in my guts has gone. My neck is stiff, my shoulders feel shot through with a dull ache, and I can feel bruising rise around my face and upper body. But I feel a lightness in my limbs that I haven’t felt in years and a sudden clarity like I’m finally seeing a landscape after fog has lifted.
You are kneeling behind me, pressing a cool cloth to my shoulder. Beneath it, four marks that in a few years might look like the result of a fall, but might also be construed as a letter ‘M’ if you were looking to see a pattern. Four strokes as though from a miniscule cane or a paw scratch from a wildcat. A couple of them were controlled – deliberate, shallow slices that burst the ripened skin. The other two shakier, one slightly gouged as though a shaking hand was holding the knife, struggling to press as the bearer was overwhelmed with a force greater even than her desire to see the marked flesh.
I don’t know how long we sit like this. I’ve lost all track of the hours that have passed since I entered this room. This anonymous, mass-produced space that has sucked all reference points from it, including time itself. This stasis is shifted by a single press of soft, dry lips on my scabbing shoulder and gentle hands at my neck, drawing up the remains of the bra into a rudimentary gag. I’m jerked out of my reveries by a sharp tug backwards of my head. Your hands tying the errant strands of straps, hooks and corsetry.
“You’ve been a good boy today. I’m proud of you.”
Those are the longed-for words that now burst like whisky through my chest. Your voice is gentle but even, in tone, pitch and pace. It’s granite wrapped in silk.
“Stand up and slip those knickers off for me, pet.”
And here I stand, once again looking at the floor, my back to you, with the saliva building in my mouth, offering a pair of breached panties for your use. You take them and, pulling back on my arms, slip them up to my elbows as a connecting strap behind my back. With one hand holding the strap, you can pull and twist to control my hands like a marionette. But now, you slip your own lubed fingers under my arm, running them between my legs.
Gently, you cup my balls and rub across them with your thumb, and run my cock teasingly through your fingers, smearing greasy prints along its increasing length. You are kissing my scarred shoulder as you work me to tumescence with increasing vigour. My breathing is now so hard yet muffled, and the moans are stifled with a gentle tug at the gag from behind. Your voice is so close I can almost feel your tongue in my ear.
“Tell me how you want it, fucktoy. Tell me how much you want to come”, your breath like a furness now, over my ears and neck, your tongue tracing the ridge of my trapezium.
“I want to come, ma’am.”
“Say it again, slut”
“I WANT to come.” Then “Ma’am” added as a desperate afterthought, as though it will tip the balance in your decision. Your hand lets go, leaving my hard cock straining in its upward trajectory, and you squeeze my nipples hard, which are still indented from the clamps.
“Touch it for me, slut. Stroke it like I want you to. Slow, long, deep strokes. Feel me in every inch you pull.”
I touch and connect, suddenly taken with the need to draw this desire from me. My knees are shaking, and feel like they will buckle soon, I stroke with urgency, feeling every receptor in my cock sending electric impulses through my whole body. Yet it feels heavy with a burden, like a length of lead piping.
And your tongue now moves to the other shoulder. You open your mouth and I can feel your teeth resting on its surface, squeezing gently as if testing for pressure points or weaknesses. I’m light headed from the lack of extra oxygen I need, and instinctively bite at the gag, trying to lift it with my tongue, feeling it snap back as I let go. One way or another I need this to end. I no longer care how, I just need you to take this away from me. This arousal that started as a worm in my guts and has now blown into a thrashing cobra on which I’m struggling to stay aboard.
I stroke on harder, quicker, blowing fiercely through the gag, and through the pain in my body, driven by the furious need in my cock to find that cliff edge. Where I can dive beyond this bodily self, into the safety of that space.
“Please let me come, ma’am” I now whimper, no longer even sure if you hear me.
“Not yet, slut. You need to work harder.”
Then your teeth are back in my flesh, slightly deeper.
And you haul hard on the straps and my elbows are pulled tight to my side, hands fly away from my cock leaving it flapping like a flag in the breeze.
“Touch. It. Again. GENTLY”. The ironic fierceness in that last word not lost on my otherwise spinning mind. I need to refocus. For you.
I touch myself gingerly, picking it up like a cudgel and gripping with a new sense of purpose and skill. And I stroke, riding the foreskin harder, drawing down the precum from its weeping eye, ears alert to your commands, conscious of the grip on my shoulder, but already the cliff edge is here and I need to feel myself free falling. You are now sensing everything with me, and bark low in my ear:
But soon even I will be powerless to stop piling over into blue oblivion. My fingers feel like they’re trying to pull back on the reins, as the runaway force of my desire bounces roughly over the headleads of those cliffs.
Then, finally, in my ear you whisper “now” and I can give in to those forces greater than me, my body and, ultimately, my mind. I’m flying free as you bite down hard on my shoulder and pull at the straps, releasing my grip on my pumping cock that is strewing my seed like an irrigation sprinkler, kicking bursts of fiery liquid onto scorched earth.
It’s like the final searing in a series of brands, burning the pain into my shoulders, my chest, my body and my cock. I slump to my knees, almost hanging off the strap you hold me by, spent, broken and ruined as the orgasm you have just dealt me. I’m lying curled up my own fluid like a lanced boil, withering visibly each second. The carpet now feels as harsh as the light streaming through the gap in the curtains. And your fingers at last unhook the sopping gag from my mouth, releasing a low outpouring of cries and anguish and desire and pain, and joy and hurt and bafflement at how many emotions can pour out of a man so entirely drained of all reserves of energy and resistance. There is no ‘I’ any more. It feels like there is no space left for me in this claustrophobic room where everything I have lies spent on the ground.
I am awake. I am in the bed. Shivering slightly. And alone. Without looking I can sense my utter solitude in this room. My eye is caught by the flicker of a new message on the tablet on the bedside table. As I stretch to reach it, I am reminded of every stroke and their meaning across my tired frame.
“You did well, pet. Better than I dared hope for a novice. I’ve watched the video and the photos Cindy took for me. Your performance has made this so real – I hope it felt as real for you at the time. It certainly looked it, from what I can see.
“I hope you don’t feel disappointed, pet, because this is as real as it gets. We play for real, but our desires, and the urge to get what we need from each other, live inside us. There is no place where ‘we’ live. There is no ‘next’. There is no waiting room where we sit in anticipation of the real thing. This is the space where we live.