FollowingStars
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Joined: 12/24/2012
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*** disclaimer *** I love to write, and God knows I have a vivid imagination, but please bear in mind that I've done almost NONE of what I wrote about in my BDSM erotica, so be kind if you notice details that are wrong, and please feel free to let me know what corrections I might want to make. Thank you :) **********
Tell Me (Part 1)
The pizza is getting cold. Curled up next to you on the couch, I lean over and lift the lid of the box, snatching a piece of pineapple off one of the uneaten pieces. Licking my fingertips, I close the box with my other hand and settle back in beside you. You shoot me a sideways look… I'm aware you find it mildly annoying when I pick things off the pizza.
“It was a pineapple. You hate the pineapple on yours, anyway.” I smile innocently, savoring the taste of the fruit in my mouth. You smile slightly and shake your head before turning your attention back to the television. More dumb criminals. They crack me up.
“I saw someone in one of the groups today talking about their latest fantasy,” I tell you, knowing you don’t mind me and my endless bits of odd conversation while the TV is on. Well, unless it’s a movie. Then you might take steps to shut me up. Thankfully, this isn’t a movie. “It involved a horse, of all damned things. Not used on him, of course… heavens no. On his slave. ‘Cause, you know, women’s bodies are built to take things like that.” The sarcasm drips from my voice. I'm not one for subtle.
You glance at me again. Looking back at the show, you murmur, “Well, to each his own. You know my feelings on that. Whatever floats his boat as long as no one’s getting hurt.”
I'm irritated, taking the matter personally. Somehow I do that a lot. I adopt other people’s problems and prepare to march to war on their behalf at the drop of a hat. “But that’s my point. Someone WILL get hurt. That poor slave, if he has his way, will be split in half like a hotdog bun. Helloooooooo, internal bleeding. Imminent death? Equine episiotomy?” I poke you in the arm, prepared to debate the issue. Debate is good. I'm ready for it. Mentally I'm rubbing my hands together.
Sighing, you turn halfway toward me. Placing your right elbow on the arm of the couch, you lean your head against your hand. Your eyes are beautiful. Deep blue and full of answers and secrets. I love your eyes. Love them more when they’re not looking at me like I’ve lost my mind, but I still love them.
“It’s just a fantasy. Harmless. Odds are the man would shit down both legs if someone actually presented a sexually excited horse to his slave. Everyone has fantasies that they wouldn’t necessarily indulge in.” Your voice has that I'm-trying-to-be-patient tone that you get when you think something is obvious. To me it’s not obvious, as the man in question seemed quite intent on actually doing what he was talking about doing, but either way.
Pulling at the hem of my summer dress so that it doesn’t bunch up, I sit up a bit on my knees, facing you more fully. “Do you?” I ask. My curiosity is piqued… you haven’t yet shared with me any fantasies that weren’t fully able to be explored.
“Oh, maybe one or two,” you say, smiling more and reaching out with your free hand to rub my arm. Slowly you run your hand from my wrist all the way up to my shoulder, then over the strap of my dress to trace my collarbone. The deep v neckline gives you great access.
“You’ve never mentioned it. Them. Whatever. However many you have,” I say, laughing a bit. I'm wondering what’s going on in your head, but a bit distracted by your fingers, which are now trailing up and down and back again along the neckline of my dress. Your touch is the merest whisper against my skin, but it’s already scrambling my thoughts.
“No, I suppose I haven’t. We’ve been busy focusing on all manner of other things, though. Your experiences being so limited, we’ve had a lot to introduce you to.” You smile when you say it so that I am reassured that you’re not teasing me. I have a thin skin about some things. My inexperience in the lifestyle that I now am a part of is one of them. I came to you almost completely green, so you’ve been very patient and careful with me. It’s one of the reasons I love you so much. You genuinely care about me and my well-being. “But then, you haven’t shared yours, either,” you say, with a thoughtful look on your face.
Your fingers are now delicately sliding up and down the right side of my neck. It’s giving me goose bumps and intensifying the tingling between my legs that started when you began exploring the edge of my dress.
“Mine?” I ask. My brain stutters, thinking of things that bring a flush crawling up the back of my neck. I don’t like the direction this is heading. Weren’t we just talking about horses? Yes, let’s talk about the horses.
“Yes, Princess… yours.” Your fingers wrap gently but firmly now around my throat. My heart stops, most predictably. That simple thing, the feel of your hand on my neck that way, it does things to me I can’t put into words. You’re not really exerting any pressure at the minute, just… holding. And it doesn’t matter in the slightest. Pressure is irrelevant to my response. “What kind of fantasies do you have rolling around in that dirty mind of yours?”
“I don’t have a dirty mind,” I protest. Weakly. We both know I'm lying. I may have a hard time saying some of the things I'm thinking when we’re naked and sweating, but you’re certainly as aware as I am that nothing drives me insane faster than for you to talk to me in the filthiest ways imaginable. I'm not proud of it, but it’s a fact. I feel the flush getting hotter and spreading from the back of my neck to my face.
“Oh, now, that’s a lie. You don’t want to lie to me, Princess.” Your voice has been steadily changing, and now it’s deeper than ever, letting me know that my Master is fully present and about to make it more than evident. “You know, I think that we’re missing something.”
“Missing something?”
“Yes, indeed. Go upstairs and get the clothespins.”
I stare at you as my stomach tightens into a knot. The clothespins… God, I hate those things. I start to open my mouth and you merely cock your head and raise an eyebrow. I clamp my lips together and nearly hurdle the ottoman in my rush to make it to the playroom. The clothespins are in the toybag in the closet up there. Handy place, the playroom.
I sprint up the stairs and grab the offending bag. Rushing back down to the living room, I toss the bag in your lap as I take a seat… about four feet further away from you than I was before. I eyeball the bag balefully. Nasty things, clothespins.
I hear you laugh softly under your breath. Looking up to your eyes, I see you watching me in that way you have. Makes me think of a cat sitting outside the cage the canary sits in. The cat just waiting for the canary to get close enough it can reach in with its paw and pull him through the bars and EAT HIM. I feel very canary-like right now.
You pat the couch next to you. Softly. Seemingly an innocent gesture. Ha. I stare at your hand, trying to find a good way to stay where I am. You pat the couch again, harder this time. I shoot a look up at your face and see the smile is gone. Shit. Swallowing, I slowly slide along the couch back to my spot on your left.
“So,” you say, never batting an eye,” you were going to tell me about your fantasies, Princess.” As you speak, your left hand reaches out and slides the strap of my dress off my shoulder. It slowly inches down, finally hanging off my elbow. You flick the other strap and soon my shoulders are both bare. The dress front has hung up on my nipples, so I'm not fully exposed as of yet. I start to open my mouth to answer you but quickly draw a blank when you drag the front of my dress down, leaving the material pooled in my lap while the straps are now lying limply around my wrists.
“No, I wasn’t. I’ve told you my fantasies. Really.” I say this as I try to stamp out vivid images that are flashing through my mind. I'll take those to my grave, thank you very much. I would die of mortification on the spot if I had to say… no, it doesn’t bear thinking about.
Your left hand flashes up and grips my hair, holding a fistful of it tightly in your fist and slowly pulling my head backward. I struggle to keep my balance, my right hand shooting out behind me to brace my body before I end up flat on my back. While I'm fighting the dual sensations of sudden heat in my belly and fear in my veins, I feel your right hand on my left nipple. You’re pulling, twisting, pinching… I cry out. In seconds my nipple juts out from my breast, hard enough to cut glass. My pussy responds as it always does, becoming wet from the pleasure and the pain. And your control of me. I can’t see anything but the ceiling, as you’ve pulled my head back as far as you can from where you sit, but I can picture in my head what I must look like. Before I can say anything, I hear a very unwelcome sound…
Clothespins.
You’re rooting around in the bag, grabbing one or two or… twenty. I have no way of knowing. I'm caught in that place I know so well… dreading what’s coming and wanting it desperately at the same time. Hating the implements and loving the fact their use pleases you. Hating the pain and loving the release it brings me. I sigh deeply.
I feel something brush against my rock-hard nipple. Before the startle even registers the clothespin bites the tender flesh at the tip. I jerk, completely without thought. I've not yet built up a tolerance to them, so the pain is sharp and immediate. My lip is between my teeth as I try to maintain my composure and think my way through the sensation. It’s hard. I'm adjusting as best I can when a second clothespin sinks its teeth into my other nipple. My back arches and I start to twist out of your grasp, crying out as what feels like fire licks up from the points of my breasts.
Instantly your hand is between my legs, gently brushing along the lips of my cunt. Your other hand still holds my hair, and my body is still writhing to escape the nasty things hurting me, but now there’s a distraction. Your fingers part my lips and find my clit. Slowly and deliberately you stroke it; long, firm movements of your fingers. I feel myself throbbing almost instantly. The stinging in my nipples is still there, but now it feels… different. You move your hand from between my legs, but the sensation from my breasts seems to feed my cunt all on its own now, like they’re intertwined.
“Don’t move,” you tell me, your voice low and soft. I feel your hand leave my hair and I stay where you want me. Leaning on my hands, I'm the picture of abandon; my dress in a heap around my waist, my skirt pushed up exposing my wet cunt to you, clothespins jutting out from my nipples, my head hanging back in supplication. A picture of me now might be titled ‘possessed’. Or ‘lust’. Or maybe even ‘contented woman’. They all apply.
I hear you in the bag again. I try not to think about the implications. Soon I feel your fingers lightly pinching the skin together on the side of my right breast. The sensation is not unpleasant. Then the bite comes. In short order you have placed three clothespins in a row, stretching from my nipple to my rib. The pain is both less and more than that of the first clothespin. Less because the skin is not as sensitive, more because the number of them so close together causes a deeper, more throbbing pain. I'm also struck by the concept… I'm lying back, clothespins attached to my body, bearing pain for a man that loves me and for my own indescribable satisfaction. A man who would never truly hurt me. A man whose control I crave with every fiber of my being. The clothespins were almost irrelevant. The fact that I was wearing them because he wished it, well… THAT was what made everything so mind-shatteringly hot.
“Now, Princess… those fantasies of yours. I think you were going to share them with me, yes?” Your voice… God, I love your voice. Strong but not overbearing. Steady. Like you. It pours over me, adding to the sensations wracking my body.
“I can’t…” I manage to get out, shaking my head. I'm blushing again, I can feel it. How can I say to you things that I picture when I'm alone, touching myself? Things that I just know will shock you or appall you or make you think I'm a slut? Not in the good way, either.
“Yes, you can. You will because I want you to.” While you’re talking to me, your fingers get to work again, but slowly this time. You begin painstakingly adding one clothespin after another to the side of my other breast. I whimper deep in my throat. I don’t want it. I want more of it. I can’t think.
“I… well…” I swallow, trying to think of anything that I can force out without dying of embarrassment. “Sometimes there are… others.” I feel my face melting, I swear I do.
“Hmmm… others, Princess?” You’ve finished attaching the horrid things to my tits. The intensity of the pain ebbs and flows. I'm hoping you’re done and praying you’re not.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Others is so vague. Other people watching us?” Your voice prods at me, patient for the time being.
“Um… not exactly. Well, some are watching sometimes, but…” I trail off. God, don’t make me say it.
“This is like pulling teeth. Maybe you need more help getting this off your chest.” I hear the noise again and know what’s coming…
“No, no, no! Sir, I don’t need any help. Mostly it’s other men, friends of yours, other Dominants. They… participate.” I feel tears in my eyes and I try to blink them back. I don’t want you to hear these things from me. I want things to be just like they are and I think, I fear, this could change things.
“Ah. So you fantasize about me sharing you, slut?” Slut. You called me slut. This is usually a term of endearment between us during playtime, but now? I don’t know. I nod mutely, my head still hanging.
I feel your fingers between my legs again, pulling at my lips. Then the bite. You’re lining my pussy with clothespins. One. Two. Another…
“I think there’s more to it than that. Tell me.” You’re insistent. The hateful wooden things are clenching the tender skin of my labia, goading me to open my mouth and be open to you.
“Yes, Sir.” I take a deep, ragged breath. “I imagine, sometimes, that you’ve tied me to the ottoman, face down. You have friends here, maybe one, maybe more.”
“I assume you’re naked?” you ask, now concentrating on twisting various clothespins, making me gasp and buck beneath your ministrations.
“Yes. Naked. You’re all talking about this thing and that thing, nothing of consequence, as I lie helpless and immobile.”
“Are you gagged? Have I gagged you when you picture this in your dirty little mind?”
“No, Sir. I am silent, though, because you’ve commanded me to not speak.” I am panting a bit now. There are, I think, five clothespins on my cunt now, and I feel like I'm on fire from my chest down.
“Ah. Of course. Being a good slut, you obey and keep that pretty little fuckhole of yours closed.”
I feel a rush of wetness between my legs at your words. God, the words. I moan, unable to help myself. Yes, I'm a slut, and my mouth is your fuckhole. You know it all too well.
“So then what happens?” As you talk, I feel your attention shift. Quietly and with no wasted movements you come around behind me and take two of the large pillows from the couch and place them beneath my back. You know my arms are about to give out, even though I’ve been trying to maintain my position without showing my distress. I want to stay where you put me as long as you want me there, but my arms are shaking and my head is growing dizzy from hanging this way for so long. My neck is sore and I gratefully collapse onto the pillows at the gentle nudge you give me after you slide the pillows into place.
Now I was in effectively the same position, only without the strain. You go back to your place with my legs over your lap. I feel you inching this way and that, getting comfortable again. I can look at you now, and when I meet your eyes you once again cock an eyebrow at me. I clear my throat.
“Well, one of your friends comes over and begins admiring me, but not TO me, you know? To you. Like you’d admire a car or something. And you, well…” I choke on the words, not wanting to disobey but just dying from saying this out loud.
“So a fantasy that reinforces that you are my property. Not a bad thing.” You are speaking absently, and I realize why. Your fingers are suddenly snaking their way in between my lips, jostling the clothespins and sending a fresh wave of pain through me. As I start to twist my hips, wanting nothing so much as to dislodge those damned things and make the pain STOP, your left hand comes out and splays across my torso, pushing me down and holding me still. Your right hand continues on about its business, and soon I feel two of your fingers sliding inside me. I'm soaking wet and you enter me with ease. You begin to fuck me with your fingers, slowly. Soon you add a third finger, jamming them inside me as far as you can and curling your middle finger around to massage my g-spot. I'm panting like a dog now, humping my pussy against your hand without thought to the pain from my tortured pussy lips.
“Go on. What happens next? You’re naked like the slut you are, exposed for all these men to see… and then what?” Your fingers continue their slow, unrelenting assault, although my g-spot is temporarily spared. I don’t think I could have spoken coherently otherwise.
“Uhhh… you’re on the couch right next to the ottoman, but I'm perpendicular to you, so I can only see you if I turn my head to the right. The man has walked up and is talking to you while standing in front of my face. When he tells you how he envies you your toy… God… you tell him that he, um… he can use me if he likes.” I try not to think about what I’ve just said, but now with your fingers inside me and my nipples on fire and your voice rolling through me like waves… I can’t get the fantasy out of my head. I can almost feel it, the man standing close enough to me that the fabric of his jeans brushes my forehead, the sound of your voice as you speak with him, the smell of your cologne drifting over to me now and then.
“I see,” you say, sliding your fingers out of me. I scrunch my hips down, trying to chase your fingers, feeling suddenly bereft. But you hold me in place firmly, and before I know it your thumb is inside me, pressing me and moving in circles. Almost immediately I feel something else. Your middle finger has slid down from my opening and is now pressing into my tightly puckered ass. You move your finger in small circles, the lubrication from my pussy easing the way as you inch into me. Soon your finger is buried in my ass as your thumb assails my cunt. “So, I decide to let this friend of mine use my dirty little slut. And how does he use her, I wonder?” you muse aloud.
A second finger abruptly joins the first, invading my ass quickly. I cry out, unable to help myself. While I'm focused on the new addition, your left hand reaches up and
I scream.
There’s no other word for it. You had seized the opportunity created by distracting me and, with your middle finger cocked against your thumb, flicked the clothespin off my right nipple. The pain was excruciating. I heaved my body up and aside, your hand now pressing into me again and barely managing to keep me on the couch. You pulled your thumb out of me and rapidly flicked my clit, bombarding me with conflicting sensations. I whimpered anew, torn between how much my nipple was screaming at me and how much my clit was throbbing beneath your thumb.
The pain is subsiding. I look down at you and your eyes catch and hold mine. You sharply pinch my clit between your fingers.
“Whore. Did I tell you to look at me? Did I?” Your voice is harsher, making my pulse race and my stomach drop. Quickly I look away, staring at your hand as it goes back to twisting and pulling at the clothespins. I see you reach for another one and fear grips me. Oh, God, please don’t be thinking what I think you’re thinking…
You part my cunt lips with one hand while your other hand slowly lowers the object of my loathing closer and closer to my clit. I begin to tremble. I'm not above begging.
“Please, no, Sir… please… not my clit. I can’t…”
You cut me off. “Whose clit, whore? Did I just hear you say this was YOUR clit?” Your voice is deceptively mild. I know better.
“No, no… I mean, yes… I mean… yes, I said it’s mine, but…” I'm frantic, watching the clothespin getting closer and closer to my tender, exposed flesh.
“Yours, is it? You think so? I think you need to rethink that statement, cunt.” You clamp the clothespin on my clit… YOUR clit… and I can’t even make a sound, the pain is so intense. My mouth hangs open and I can’t breathe.
You flick the end of it idly, lightly tapping it back and forth as it hangs from the tiny nub of delicate skin. Pain rockets through me while juices flood from between my legs. “This, sweet whore, is MY clit. I can do with it what I want, when I want. Isn’t that right?”
I gasp for air, the persistent flicking of the small, wooden monster between my legs driving me mad. “Yes, Sir, it’s your clit. It is! I know! I swear I do!” I'm on the verge of tears.
You tsk-tsk and continue your strumming, playing my clit like it’s an instrument that you’re determined to wring music from, whether it likes it or not. Even through my tears I can feel my body responding to your touch. Heat roils in my belly and the folds of skin tormented by fingertips and clothespins are saturated beyond redemption. I writhe on the couch cushions, wanting to pain to stop… to go on forever… to consume me... release me. I want your cock inside me, filling up what’s empty and taking me over.
“Stand up,” you tell me. I try to clear my head and catch myself just before looking at you. Quickly averting my eyes, I take a deep breath and start to pull the straps of my dress back up. Your hand grabs my wrist, holding it while you remain silent. I understand. Moving my legs over the edge of the couch, I free my hands from my pretty summer dress. Inching carefully, wincing every time the clothespins are brushed against by the upholstery, my own flesh, or each other, I make my way to stand before you. As I steady my legs, my dress starts its journey to the floor, slithering over my ass bit by painstaking bit. It catches for a moment on a piece of wood that juts out from between my legs further than its brethren. I whine, sounding like nothing so much as a dog that’s just been scolded and hit with a newspaper. Finally I'm completely bare, standing in a circle of crumpled lime-colored cotton. I can’t look at you, but I smile slightly even in my embarrassment and dull, persistent pain. I know you’re pleased with what you see before you.
“Good girl. Now, haul that cunt of mine upstairs and get the other toy bag. Bring it down and set it beside me on the couch. Then, well… we’ll just see what comes next, won’t we?” You lean back, crossing your ankle over your knee. Waiting.
This is going to suck on all kinds of levels. Walking is hard enough, each step crashing the clothespins against one another, no matter how I try to keep my legs apart. I'm walking like Frankenstein, and still jolt after jolt of fresh pain radiates up from between my legs. Making my way up the stairs, however, is worse. I don’t know the physics of it, but for whatever reason the stairs cause my clit to get attention it wasn’t getting on the walk across the floor below me. My breath hitches and each step brings spasms to my pussy muscles, brought on by the new attention to my clit. The pleasure rides piggyback on the pain and I think I just might not make it back down the stairs.
Behind me I hear movement. I turn, halfway up to the playroom, and see you standing behind me at the bottom, leaning against the column that supports the banister. I keep my eyes on your chest for a moment, waiting to see if you have further instructions for me. You don’t. Your arms cross in front of you, letting me know that the clock is ticking. I turn, continuing my errand to the closet. My left nipple picks this moment to start screaming at me, reminding me that, unlike its twin, it hasn’t had the relief of being freed from the jaws of the tiny wooden alligator. I stumble a bit and move more rapidly toward the closet, wanting nothing so much as to get downstairs and give you what you want. Maybe then the clothespins will be removed. And burned.
Grabbing the bag and heading back to the stairs, I see the bottom is empty as I round the landing at the top. Gritting my teeth, I hurry down the stairs. I have no grace anymore… that’s been left on the couch. I am humiliated, walking like this, trundling along with the heavy toybag, my nudity only highlighted by the things hanging off my breasts and poking out from between my legs. I awkwardly make my way back over to you. You’re sitting sprawled on the couch, legs apart, arms on the top of the cushions behind you. I drop the bag next to you and wait to see what my next orders are.
“Now, Princess, I believe you were going to tell me more about these thoughts of yours. Last I heard you were lying on the ottoman and I’d just given some man… or was it men?... permission to use you. Doesn’t that sound right?” You’re leaning forward a bit now, moving as you speak to me. Your forearms are resting on your knees, your face about level with my breasts, your hands dangling near my thighs.
“Yes, Sir. That’s, um, yeah, that’s where we were.” You’re so close to me, I can smell your scent. A mixture of your cologne and the scent that is purely you. Your face is inches away from my left nipple. I can feel your breath on it as you speak. My brain is on the verge of going completely blank.
“Tell me.” Two simple words, but that tone… I get wet all over again.
“You tell him he can use my mouth, however he wants, but that he’s not allowed to cum in my mouth.” I spit it out like a bite of something I’ve bitten into that’s too hot to keep on my tongue. I squeeze my eyes closed, mortified.
I feel your fingers gently touch the underside of my left breast and then nearly go to my knees in agony… you’ve removed the clothespin from my nipple. I wail, long and loud, as my legs buckle. Your arm shoots around my waist, holding me up. Slowly the pain recedes and I shakily regain my footing. You lean forward a bit more and softly kiss the very tip of my nipple before bathing it with your tongue. My cunt pulses in reply and I pant out a weak “Thank you, Sir.”
“What words do I use, Princess?”
God, this is so hard for me. I want to look in your eyes, plead with you silently to not make me say these things out loud, but I can’t. I know I can’t. You’ll be very unhappy, and that’s the last thing I want.
“It varies, Sir, but, well… sometimes I hear you say something like ‘Yes, she’s a beautiful slut, always hungry for cock. That fuckhole of hers in front of you is begging for it. Use it all you want, but don’t cum in her mouth or on her face. Her tits, her ass, her hair… pick someplace else.’ Well, words to that effect, anyway.” I trail off at the end, tears threatening to spill out of the corners of my eyes. I feel dirty.
I feel your lips on my nipple again and I jerk in surprise. Careful not to look in your eyes, I glance down and see your hand carefully remove another clothespin from my breast. The one closest to my rib falls to the ground beside your feet. The pain rushes in again, but not nearly as severe as before. I suck in a hard breath, and feel you start to suck my nipple, taking it deep in your mouth. I moan, deep in my throat, and my eyes drift closed once again. It’s like I can feel your mouth on my nipple and my clit at the same time.
“Tell me.” Again, you urge me on.
“He stands in front of me and drops his pants. He kneels in front of me, putting his cock right in front of my face. I turn to look at you, knowing what you’d said but still shocked at the idea of you letting someone else use me this way. I need to know that I'm really supposed to do this. You look at me, a mere foot or two away, and tell me quietly just one word…”
“What word is that, Princess?” Your breath fans over my skin, sending a chill straight down my back.
“ ‘Obey’, Sir.”
You ease your hand between my legs, gently parting my cunt lips, probing my opening with your middle finger. Sliding it inside me, you curl it inward and rub my g-spot. I cry out, so sensitive there that it feels like a branding iron is burning inside me. While my back is arched and I tremble around your finger, you quickly take the clothespin off my clit.
I pitch forward, my head hitting your shoulder. I can’t hold myself up. The pain, oh my god the PAIN… I sink my teeth into your shoulder, reflexively and violently. Your left hand comes up and wraps around my throat, squeezing firmly but without malice. I release you from my teeth, still choking on the hurt inflicted on my poor clit, but gradually being forced to focus on the finger inside me. You’ve got two fingers in me, working me without mercy. I shove myself against your hand, not caring that I'm bumping the remaining clothespins. I can feel the heat building, building…
You slowly remove your fingers and use your hand on my throat to move me back to my standing position. My legs are so wobbly now that I can barely stay upright.
I'm staring at your chin, as it’s the closest I can come to seeing your eyes without getting in trouble. I see the intent look on your face and know you’re gauging how far you can push me. You seem to come to a decision.
“Sit back on the ottoman and spread your legs.”
I immediately do as directed, leaning back on my elbows to allow me to give you complete access for whatever you intend to do. I feel my face heat up, embarrassed even as I yearn to please you. Your fingers are on me again, efficiently and rapidly taking the remaining clothespins from between my legs. For a minute I feel nothing. I sit, rather bemused, and then…
I'm on my side, crying, as the feeling rushes back in. You reach out to try and turn me back over but I'm stiff as a board, riding a wave of intense pain. I struggle against you, you that did this to me.
“Look at me!” Your voice cuts through and I obey without thinking. I turn my head, nearly breathless with how much I hurt, and look into your eyes. You are leaning over me, drawing me into your arms, trying to get me to bend. I hiccup a bit, sniffling loudly as the pain goes from excruciating to merely awful. I give myself over to your embrace, melting against you.
“Such a good girl,” you murmur against my hair, “enduring so much for me.” I sigh contentedly, knowing that for the moment, at least, you’re proud of me. Maybe I cried, but I took those horrid clothespins for what felt like forever. Because it pleased you. And pleasing you brings me peace. Well, and lots of other things. My clit is still throbbing and I desperately want to feel you inside me, even with clothespins still biting into my breast and my pussy lips burning from their recent experience.
You lay me on my back across the ottoman. I know that, tenderness aside, the same rules still apply. The moment has passed and I'm no longer under orders to look at you, so I close my eyes. I feel your touch on my breast… I can’t bear to look. Whatever is coming I will bite my lip and accept it. I want to please you, want to be used by you. The pain is part of it, a release all its own. One of your fingers presses against my skin, right next to one of the remaining clothespins. I feel the clothespin release, but before the pain rushes in, your finger slides up and presses the skin that had been locked in its hungry teeth. The pressure dulls the agony, muting it down to a bearable level. Gradually you slide your finger off, ever so slowly. I'm breathing shallowly, almost high from the relief and gratitude for your kindness.
“Thank you, Sir. I love you,” I whisper.
You lean down and kiss my reddened skin. The feel of your lips is like heaven. One by one you repeat the steps, until all the clothespins have been removed. The echo of both pain and humiliation reverberates through me, but it only makes me feel closer to you. Owned by you. I feel like I'm floating, inches and worlds away from my own body.
Before I can drift too far, I feel you shift beside me. You move to the couch, and my skin chills in your absence. I'm watching your back as you rummage in the toybag. I close my eyes again, my thoughts beginning to spin. I know the evening has more in store for me. My cunt clenches and I feel moisture leaking out of me and trailing down between my ass cheeks.
“Sit up, Princess.”
I push myself up as quickly as I'm able, much better now than I was just moments before. You’re standing, my collar and leash dangling right in front of me. I eye the leash warily. I have a love/hate thing going with the leash. On one hand it makes me feel very connected to you, in more than the obvious physical way, and stresses my position in our relationship. On the other hand? It most often leads to humiliation of one sort or another. And frustration. I love and hate both of those feelings just as much as the leash. When you humiliate me, embarrass me, well… it mortifies me but also makes me burn with want for you, with wanting to be completely consumed by you. The leash is both beloved friend and hateful enemy. I should have hidden it before you got home.
Knowing what is expected, I reach up and lift my hair out of the way. The warmth of your touch sends prickles down my skin as you fasten my wide, leather collar around my neck. Once it’s firmly in place, I drop my hands to my lap. You attach the leash to the large silver ring at the front, letting it trail down limply between my tits. I gasp and jump as the cold metal kisses my flesh. Deliberately you drag it left and then right, pulling it across each nipple in turn. They respond immediately, hard enough now to cut glass. You tighten your grip on the leash, taking it off my body so that it’s now stretched between your hand and my neck.
“All fours.”
I drop down off the ottoman and get on my hands and knees beside you. I look straight ahead… the perfect pet. You nudge my legs further apart with the side of your foot. The cool air drifts across my wet cunt, making me tingle. My position refreshes my need to be fucked. I close my eyes for a moment, imagining you behind me, taking me, forcing yourself into me as hard as you can.
A quick jerk on my leash brings me back with a snap. You’re leading me off and not about to put up with me sitting behind and daydreaming. I crawl, beside and slightly behind you, my leash firmly in your grip. The hardwood floors are punishing my knees, but it’s not intolerable. Yet.
We’re in the bedroom. Wonderful carpet. The simple pleasure of the soft padding beneath me is enough to make me smile. You walk over to the closet with me in tow. When you drop the leash, I kneel as I’ve been taught, remaining silent. The leash brings silence unless ordered otherwise. You disappear briefly, and when you come back you’re holding your tall, black, leather boots. My stomach pitches.
Picking up the leash, you give a quick yank again. I get back on all fours and follow you to the bed. Sitting on the edge, you drop the leash again. I kneel, watching as you slip into your boots. Everything changes when you have those boots on. You’re… different. My nipples are rock hard again, and I eyeball the crotch of your pants, wanting nothing so much as to lean forward and nuzzle the erection you have hiding there. I bring my eyes up to your chin, whimpering slightly to get your attention.
I feel your eyes on me as you pause with one boot still in your hand. “Something wrong, Princess? Something you need?”
I whimper again, staring at the zipper in front of me. You drop your boot and lean forward, grabbing me by the shoulders. Your legs go wide as you take my face and press it between your legs. You’re grinding against my lips, my nose, my cheeks… rubbing and pushing into me so that my lust is ignited in a fresh burst of intensity. The smell of you fills me and my clit jumps and twitches, aching for your touch. My lips part and I frantically mouth you through the denim, feeling the length of you bulging and growing beneath my hot breath.
Abruptly you push me back on my heels. I'm panting and my face is red. My fingers grip into fists, fighting the urge to plant themselves between my legs and pinch and rub my clit into a thrashing orgasm. You sit there, watching me, and reach for your boot. Calmly, you return to putting it on, ignoring me again. I whimper, louder than before. Your foot reaches out and steps on my leash, dragging it and holding it down until my face is forced to the floor. Leaning over you administer several rapid, hard slaps to my ass.
“Quiet, bitch.” Your voice is hard, unyielding. I moan almost silently, not able to stop it but trying to keep it beneath your notice. You’re apparently satisfied with that, as you stand and take the leash once again. I feel the tug and resume my position on all fours. You lead me back to the living room. I gratefully reach the area rug under the couch and ottoman, my knees cursing the hard surface every inch of the way.
I’m still in my pet position, the leash in your hand. You hold it loosely, so I know not to move when I see you take a step. No pull on my collar indicating a direction to go. You disappear around me to my left as I keep looking straight ahead. I can sense you behind me, but you’re not saying a word. You nudge my legs further apart before running your boot up my thigh. I quiver before you, the rabbit knowing the fox is watching and preparing to leap. Your boot travels up, glancing over my labia and then going down the other thigh. For a minute there is nothing, then your boot is on me again, sliding along my skin toward the wetness seeping from between my legs. I wait for the grazing of the leather, knowing it is coming. Instead, you plant your boot against the soft folds of skin, rubbing my clit and teasing my unfilled hole. I close my eyes and push against you without thought.
The boot is immediately removed. I whine, my body slightly rocking back and forth. From nowhere I feel the crop land on my cunt lips. I didn’t see you get it from the toybag, but you’re sneaky like that sometimes. I jump as it hits me again, my lips swelling under the impact. I can feel my pulse beating hotly where you’ve struck me, a commingling of pain and pleasure that is impossible to describe. Again you bring it down. I cry out. You step around me and I see your boots by my hands, the right one glistening wetly from my juices. The crop is now in front of my face, and you smack my lips with it. Not hard, but hard enough to sting. The contact also leaves my mouth with a coating of the evidence of my own need, transferred from the crop’s indecent kiss… the smell and slight stickiness of it clinging to me. I want to lick it off, but know better. I don’t have permission, so I have to just wear it until you decide it’s been on me long enough. Wait and be quiet.
_____________________________
Don't make someone a priority when they only make you an option.
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Tell Me (Part 1) - 
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