Friday, March 22, 2013

Scene: Punishment?

I hung suspended by my wrists in the center of the room. My toes just brushed against the floor. If I stretched, I could barely relieve the pressure on my wrists for a few scant moments. Then my balance gave and the full weight of my body was returned to them. I knew why I was here.

I fought them when they found me. I had marks on my body from where they had struck me. Two shockingly small wounds where the tazer probes had been cut from me. Blood had seeped from them down my side. My clothes were dirty and torn. I had escaped into the brush and put up a fight when the search party came upon me. Now, I waited for my punishment. Punishment for daring to run and for resisting. I contented myself with the thought that he wasn't going to be here. I ran when he was gone, I was certain that he wouldn't possibly have time to return for at least a few days. I dared to hope that I could win free.

Now, I silently attempted to isolate myself from the discomfort of hanging by my wrists. I was so focused on turning within myself that I missed the sound of footsteps coming into the room. My head hung down and my eyes were closed, as I mentally forced myself to come as close to full relaxation as I could manage. I realized that I was not alone when the footsteps stopped before me. Still attempting to resist, I kept my eyes closed and my breathing slow. A familiar scent hung in the air, one that shot terror through me. It was him.

I told myself that it wasn't possible. I told myself that my tormentors were still the trio of brutes that brought me into this place. “It was just a matter of time, wasn't it?” he said. I couldn't help the gasp but I closed my eyes tighter. “I knew this day would come,” he said calmly, as though he were discussing the weather. I held my breath, unable to restrain the trembling that ran through me. “I actually planned for it,” he continued, turning away from me. He stepped away from me. In the hot, dry air of the summer afternoon, my mind attempted to flee into memory and the image of the old barn where I hid as a child.

Something rustled ahead of me and then a sound like thunder rang in my ears. My eyes flew open as my head whipped up and away from where he had cracked the whip near my side. The motion set me to swing slightly, increasing the agony in my shoulders, arms, and wrists. I stared at him, unable to quell the sudden terror that washed through my mind. His expression was placid, almost pleasant. His eyes, however, burned with unholy fury.

The single tail was held double in his right hand as he looked me over. With the looped end, he struck me in the stomach, making me swing harder even as he knocked the breath out of me. “Filthy thing,” he spat, anger contorting his face. He delivered another blow, snarling, “Ungrateful wretch. Did you really think you could leave here?” He uncoiled the whip, stepped back, and snapped it again, the lash mere inches from my arms.

I cringed away from him, unable to suppress a whimper of fear. He stepped up close and gripped my jaw, forcing me to look him in the eye. “I own you,” he growled, “You are mine.” I closed my eyes and bit my lips in a vain attempt not to show fear. He took his hand away from my jaw and struck me neatly on the cheek. My head whipped to the side as I gave a small cry of pain.

Even as the pain of the blow made my skin burn, I felt the same wash of arousal that I did every time he did it to me. And my cheeks then burned with shame. He snapped the whip again, this time letting it strike my right side. I screamed in mingled terror and pain. It felt as though someone had put a scalding hot length of wire along my ribs. Though the cut left was shallow and it hadn't truly begun to bleed, I dreaded what would come next. He walked around me, frowning as I stared up at the rafter overhead with tears rolling down my cheeks.

He gripped the back of the neck of my shirt and twisted it hard in his grip. As the fabric tightened around my throat, my eyes went wide and I gripped the length of chain between the manacles. He pulled me back against him. “You never fooled me,” he hissed in my ear, “I knew you weren't like the others. But you'll break, just like they did.” He pushed me away from himself with a hard shove.

As I swung away from him, I bared my teeth and hissed in pain at the effect of the motion on my body. He stepped back away from me and the whip cracked again. A searing, blinding bolt of pain ran down from my shoulder to the middle of my back. I screamed wordlessly. He did it again and I twisted in my restraints, attempting to move myself away from him out of reflex. This sent greater pain through my arms and shoulders, making me sob.

“Count,” he said, his voice wintry. My mind reeled in confusion when the next blow fell. I screamed again. “Count, or it will be worse for you, cunt,” he said warningly. He then let fly a second blow. To me, it was incandescent pain that washed away any thought of resistance. I sobbed incoherently, too caught up in the agony and fear to clearly enunciate the number I was attempting to say. He paused for a moment.

“Two,” I sobbed, “two.” So it happened that we repeated this eight more times. By the fourth blow, I was certain that he was going to leave me a bloody ruin. When the sixth blow fell, I miscounted and then corrected myself, unable to stop myself from wetting myself in terror. When the final blows had landed, I wept like a broken thing. He walked past me, tapping the coiled whip against his thigh.

I watched him, afraid that we were going to resume but with my chest as the target for his blows. He put the whip down on the table and turned to face me. The rags of my shirt hung from my neck and arms. With a cool look of consideration, he looked me over from head to toe. He turned back to the table and picked up a pair of scissors. He cut the t-shirt off of me and kicked it under my feet to stop up the mess I had made. He opened the scissors and put the edge of one of the blades against my neck.

My eyes rolled in horror. “Oh god,” I wailed, “Don't, please don't.” He pressed it a little harder against my wildly racing pulse. I squeezed my eyes tightly closed and sobbed. He looked closely at me, stepping up so close to me that I could feel his clothes against my bare skin. I realized that somehow, something changed. The fact that I just begged him for anything in earnest had captured his attention.

“Don't?” he mused, lightly dragging the edge of the scissors down my throat to my shoulder. I turned my face away from him, beginning to hyperventilate with panic. “Don't do what?” he asked, pressing the edge down against my left shoulder, “Don't hurt you?” I sobbed but I could feel something shift in the atmosphere of the room. I didn't know if it was a change in my favor or not, which made me shake harder.

In a sudden gesture, he cut me. While the cut wasn't deep enough to do major damage, it hurt and got a shuddering gasp. “Don't kill me,” I sobbed, “Please, don't kill me.” I opened my eyes and looked imploringly at him. His hard look of anger had faded. It was replaced with something else that was equally distressing, a mixture of amusement and fascination.

“Kill you?” he laughed, “Oh no, I'm not going to kill you.” I shuddered and wept with relief. He smiled. “You don't get to escape that easily,” he said, his tone rich with amusement. He stepped away from me and reached blindly back to the table. In a smooth motion, he dropped the scissors and picked up a cat-o-nine tails. As he turned, he let the lashes fly.

As they slammed into my left side, I cried out. Again, he swung and struck me, this time with a back handed motion on the right side. The lashes snaked across my abdomen, feeling like a thousand tongues of fire. He continued to whip me, walking casually around me. When he had returned to standing in front of me, my ribs, back, and abdomen felt horrible. The part that was especially tormenting, however, was how the heat of the blows had ignited a fire in my blood.

I could feel pleasure pooling in my lower body. He lightly flicked the lashes at my breasts, snapping them quickly over and barely touching my nipples. I yelped in surprise and flushed with shame as my nipples stood out proudly. He grinned, his eyes crinkling with amusement and his dimples standing out. In the aching pain of my body, I couldn't help but have butterflies in my stomach at that beautiful smile.

He cracked the whip harder across my chest. My flush of delight at his smile turned into a white haze of pain as I shrieked. Between my thighs, I could feel my clit throb. He did so again and I tossed my head, sobbing. “No, no, no,” I babbled and he laughed again. The sound of his pure amusement and my unconscious arousal melted together with my pain and somehow transformed it into something intoxicating.

I panicked and thrashed, attempting to pull myself free from my restraints. He leaned back against the table and watched. I tossed my head and kicked my legs, setting myself to swinging. After a time, it became clear that I wasn't going to win free. I hung my head and I sobbed. That terrible arousal and shame that flooded with it stormed through me. I wept.

He set the whip aside and stepped forward. Passing his hands over the welts on my sides, he looked at me with deep amusement. That terrible and beautiful smile lit his eyes even as his expression was solemn. I shivered, desperately telling myself that I shouldn't be aroused by this. In my futile effort to will myself out of arousal, I failed to notice his head dipping down.

I was gasped as his mouth closed soft and warm over my left nipple. His hands glided around my ribs to my back. I gave a strangled noise that I didn't recognize. He brought his hands up to my shoulders and sank his nails into my skin. With a soft growl, he dragged them down my back. I threw back my head, arched, and screamed as an orgasm blindsided me.

He bared his teeth and caught my nipple between them. Slowly, he closed them down harder against the sensitive nub of flesh. His hands splayed against my back, holding me tightly against him, and his nails digging into my raw shoulders, I couldn't help but cry out again. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I tossed my head futilely.

“Oh god,” I wept, “Stop! Stop...” He ignored me and moved his attention to my aching right nipple. I shrieked as the world turned white and I shuddered in another unexpected orgasm. His hands moved with glacial slowness down my back to my hips, his nails digging into the raw welts left from the whips mercilessly. When he reached my hips, he lifted his head and stepped back.

His hands moved around to the front and unzipped my pants. With a smooth motion, he peeled them and my sodden panties off of me. The acrid scent of urine mingled with a musky, heavier smell, the smell of my arousal. He put a hand between my thighs and pressed a finger into my sex. I shuddered and groaned. Relentlessly, he pumped and tickled deep inside me. Soon, I arched and came in his hand. “Hmm,” he mused, “You seem about ready.”

He took his hand away and turned away from me. He took a curiously shaped small device in hand and turned to me again. He pressed it into me and I squirmed at the sensation of fullness inside me. He held up a little remote control before my eyes. “We're going to have a conversation now, slut,” he said, all warmth gone out of his tone, though is eyes burned with lust. “Answer correctly and you get rewarded,” he said, turning the dial. The device began to hum and vibrate.

My eyes rolled as I shivered in pleasure He turned and picked up what looked like a glass tube with a coil of wire in it attached to a plug in vibrator. I looked at it in confusion when he flicked a switch and it lit with a purple-blue electric arc. “Answer incorrectly and you get punished,” he said, moving the device towards me. An electric spark jumped from the device to my skin.

The pain was worse then anything I had experienced. I gave a throaty, hoarse scream. “I'll be good,” I babbled, “I'll be good.” He smiled. There was no warmth in his expression, only a predatory hunger. That was when I realized that he had been restraining himself. If my bladder had still been full, it would have emptied. Instead, I cringed away from him with a low wail of fear.

“Who owns you?” he said.

“You,” I answered. The vibrator was turned up a notch, bringing back that bubble of pleasure.

“Who do you serve?” he said.

“You,” I answered. The violet wand was brought close to me and I flinched away. As the spark jumped, I wailed, “You, I serve you. Only you!” My words devolved to a high, thin scream of pain as he moved the wand along my ribs. The sharp smell of ozone in the air only added to the terror I felt. While it had only been mere moments that I was subjected to the wand, it felt like longer.

I wept pitifully when he took the wand away from me. As I wept, he turned the vibrator up a notch again. “Who do you serve?” he said again. I sobbed, unsure what to answer. He increased the vibration of the toy inside me again. “Are you allowed to run?” he said. I shook my head. “Are you allowed to do anything with out my consent?” he continued. Again I shook my head. The wand touched me again and I shrieked.

“I don't know...” I screamed, “I don't know. Oh god, please stop...” He moved the wand away and looked at me thoughtfully. I wept. I had no idea what to say or what he wanted to hear. I had thought that I had given the correct answers. He brought the wand before my face. I stared at it with dread. He slowly moved it down towards my abdomen. My eyes widened and I flailed.

In my flailing, I swung close to the wand and I got shocked. I shrieked and then was shocked again. He chuckled in amusement, choosing to hold the wand still and allow me to zap myself. As this happened, he switched the setting on the vibrator to a pulse and set the vibrations to high. I literally swung between the poles of pleasure and pain, screaming. He reached forward and put the violet wand against my abdomen, turning the device off before he did so. I screamed, resting against the device and his hand, expecting excruciating pain.

He stepped back and set the device back on the table. He then set the control for the toy buried in my sex aside. As a powerful orgasm made me shudder and grind my teeth, he divested himself of his slacks. He parted my thighs and took the toy out of me. I mewled senselessly in protest. When he introduced his rock hard erection, I gave a throaty groan and came again.

I wrapped my legs around his waist as he swung me back and forth on his dick. The pain in my shoulders simply became another sensation that inflamed me. I whimpered and began to cum with each thrust. As he used me to get off, he said nothing. It dimly occurred to me that I was nothing but a toy to him. A fleshy thing to masturbate with. The perverseness of this realization shot through me and brought on harder orgasms then I had ever felt before. Lost in the pleasure of being used, I made all sorts of primal sounds. Somewhere in it all, my consciousness became dim and then I lost all awareness, vaguely hearing myself begging him to use me with frantic desperation in my voice.

Friday, March 8, 2013

Scene: Plaything

I lay bound, waiting. There are others here, but we don't speak. This is a place where women go to be forgotten. The work of the daylight hours seems a pleasant memory to this confinement and what is yet to come. Nude and helpless, I stare up at the ceiling in an effort to remove myself to somewhere else in my mind. My concentration is shattered when the door into the long dormitory hall opens.

Booted feet make their way down the row. Somewhere, someone weeps. Another person babbles please to be released to the new arrivals, unaware of what their purpose is. I simply wait, knowing it is just a matter of time until they choose who will be their entertainment for the evening. The matron makes her way down the hall, pausing to release women as they are chosen. One man decides that he wishes to engage in his revelry with a full complement of viewers. He and a couple others of similar minds laugh. The woman who had been sobbing shrieks at his rough hands on her body. Her tormentors merely laugh.

The sounds of their amusing themselves by toying with her body makes a catastrophic background to the other women being taken off to where they will serve the whims of their respective men. Foot steps halt at the end of my cot. I can feel the man's eyes on me as the matron walks up to him. They speak quietly in a very low tone. The sound of her keys jangling as she searches for the proper one to my restraints sounds suddenly ominous.

As I am released from my confinement, the man at my feet says, “Get up.” I sigh and sit up. He looks at me, his dark eyes filled with a brooding quality that threatens like a thunderhead. I straighten my shoulders and place my hands in my lap, looking down at my toes as I sit at the edge of the cot. “Come with me,” he says. I stand and follow him. I do my best to ignore the looks of his companions as I walk past them.

I try to focus my attention on the heels of his boots as he walks before me. I can't help but have my gaze pulled from there to admiring his long legs. A part of me was screaming with sexual hunger. It had been almost two weeks of torment. I could hear others being used, their bodies giving up the resistance and moving from sounds of pain to sounds of pleasure. Some women were just making noises of pleasure from the start. Sometimes, hands would settle on me and idly toy with me but I had no release.

We passed down a hallway with a luxuriant runner down the middle. As we walked, I mentally counted down the doors we passed, having spent my day cleaning the rooms in preparation for the night. We reached the sixth door, across from the stairs. Standing there at the top of the stairwell, I knew any other guests of the house could look right up at me. I shivered and did my best not to care about any possible gaze on me.

I followed the man before me into the bedroom. He walked off to the right as I stopped in the middle of the space between the large bed and the door. Behind us, the matron shut the door. He poured himself a drink as he looked me over. Little did I know that this was the author of my sexual torment, the one who had paid handsomely for me to be brought nightly to the edge of release and left squirming by any hands willing to do the work.

I avoided looking at him as he walked around me with his drink in hand. He reached forward and flicked an errant lock of hair off of my shoulder. I looked over, torn between the urge to back away from his touch and to shiver from it. Dark eyes seemed to drink me in with an almost physical intensity in the gaze that looked me over from head to toe. He held the glass of brandy to my lips, tipping it just enough so that the amber liquid was against my lower lip.

“Drink,” he said in a tone that brooked no argument. I took a sip and he tipped the cup further, forcing me to take a deeper drink. The alcohol burned its way down my throat as he took the glass away from my face. His black leather gloves flexed like a second skin over his fingers as he turned the cup in his hands. I found myself staring at those hands as though I were entranced, unable to stop myself from wondering if they would be gentle or cruel when the finally settled on me.

He noted my fascination with a smirk. My eyes flicked from his hands to his face. He took another drink of the brandy and held out the glass. “Take it,” he said. I took the glass in hand as he turned his attention to his gloves. With a mild expression, he slipped them off, ignoring my looks of keen interest. He turned and walked away from me, putting his gloves down on the table. “You had better be worth what I paid for you,” he said in a mild tone as he took off his jacket.

He set the tailored black wool jacket carefully on the back of the overstuffed chair beside the table. As he began to unbutton the collar of his shirt, he sighed. I watched him out the corner of my eye, my breath catching in my throat as he continued unbuttoning his slate gray shirt. He folded it neatly and set it on the table. He then sat down in the other chair and began taking off his boots. I looked away when he paused and looked over at me.

“Bring me the glass,” he said. I walked over and held out the glass to him, my head bowed as the matron had taught us. “Take off my boots,” he ordered, leaning back in his chair. I knelt beside the chair and started work on removing his footwear when a free hand settled on my head. I froze for a moment surprised by this casual touch. He said nothing but continued to toy with my hair as I resumed removing his boots.

As soon as I had his boots off, I set them beneath the table and sat back on my heels. He looked thoughtfully down at me as he finished his drink. He stood up and opened the fly of his pants. As he pulled his semi-erect penis out, I felt a mixture of shame and heady exhilaration. “Well,” he said, “say hello.” Cautiously, I took him in my mouth.

Carefully, I ran my tongue all over him as I gently sucked at his member. A hand settled at the back of my head, holding my still as he stiffened. I closed my eyes when he suddenly gripped the hair at the back of my head in his fist. My eyes opened in surprise and I looked up at him in shock. My face nestled against his hips, I looked up and blushed with shame at the powerful wave of arousal that washed over me. With a bemused smile, he thrust into my mouth a few times. He chuckled as I gagged on his hardening erection as it tickled the back of my throat.

He pulled himself out of my mouth and let go of my hair. “Stand,” he said. As I did so, he let his pants drop down to the floor. He pointed at the bed and I walked to it. I stood at the side of the bed and looked at him, waiting and half dreading what ever he was going to do next. He walked up to me and put a hand on my shoulder. With a hard shove, he knocked me back onto the bed.

My surprised yelp quickly turned to alarmed silence as he loomed over me. He knelt and pushed my thighs apart. As he closed his mouth over my sex, I again made a small noise of shock. This dropped down into a low groan as he delved deeply into me with his tongue. Relentlessly, he sucked on my clitoris and teased it with his tongue. As I gradually grew louder in my moans of appreciation, he gave a dark chuckle. I froze and shivered as his teeth brushed against my clit.

Softly, he closed them against it. I meweled in fear and then wept with pleasure as he teased the tip with his tongue. Gently, he rolled it between his teeth, pressing just hard enough that it was caught between them but not enough to cause pain. Soon, I was shuddering and sobbing, my hands alternately gripping and open splayed against the sheets. As he ripped my first orgasm out of me, I groaned and sobbed loudly.

He lifted his head and slipped a finger deep into me. Soon, his clever fingers had me writhing, wordlessly making noises of pleasure, and nigh on senseless. He stood, his solid erection resting in his hand like some sort of fleshy weapon. He put my legs against his chest and thrust into me with out preamble. I gasped and shuddered from head to toe. With an almost furious effort, he slaked his lust on me, thrusting hard enough that our flesh slapped together. When his orgasm had stormed over him, I lay whimpering and sobbing, on the verge of another.

Satisfied with his work, he pulled out of me. “Move,” he growled. I started to slip off of the bed when he shook his head. I made my way to the far side of the bed as he lay down. Tormented by my own frustration, I listened as he dropped down into a light doze. Quietly, I wept, struggling with the urge to beg him for more.

Scene: knife play

Steel kisses my skin (ice to fire as it drags and cuts ever so slightly). Blind and bound, I shiver. (Did I push to far this time? Is this too much?) My blood wells up and trickles down my body (hot on my skin). I gasp and try to arch against my bods as the velvet heat of his tongue follows that scarlet ribbon, searing my senses and soothing that biting pain. A firm had at the base of my skull (a fist full of hair, hard and unyeilding) guides my face back and he kisses me.

Is it a hard savage kiss (with a growl of ownership) or a slow seductive one (sweet with blood's iron tang)? The cold blade's flat is pressed against my cut, teasing a few more ruby drops. It is then put to my mouth. I open my mouth (my heart hammering) and lightly lick the precious drops from it. The edge turns and with the greatest of care, I lick the edge breathlessly before it is taken from my mouth

It wanders slowly down my carotid artery, playfully pressed to it for a moment. (Oh gods, my heart nearly stops. This is too much. My body burns with fire.) It then wanders down over my collarbone. It traces lazy spirals and designs over my flesh (a whisper, a threat of more pleasure). A soft chuckles comes from him as I struggle to be still as per the rule of our little game. A mock taunt as it lingers lower, tracing along my hip. An edge (the blade, a fingernail?) teases my clit and I freeze. My heart pounds. I tremble. (The fire beneath my skin becomes incandescent.) I dare not move. Then blinding light bursts behind my eyes and I shudder as I climax again and again, helplessly whimpering.