“Life can only be understood looking backward.”
I wasn’t thinking about how much it was going to hurt when I sat down to pee. I was distracted, berating myself for being such a stupid cunt.
It’s not a urinary tract infection. I haven’t had one of those in a long, long time. It just burned so bad–
But first, that ‘stupid cunt’ part…
I have a tendency to start slacking when it comes to asking for permission to use the bathroom. I don’t NOT ask, I just stop asking properly. I’ll announce it with a hurried “gotta go!” or I’ll gush it out in one single unidentifiable word “canipeepleasesir” or I don’t wait for the answer, I’m asking as I’m shutting the bathroom door.
None of those are acceptable. What is expected is that I find him, look him in the eyes, and ask “May I go to the bathroom, please, Sir?” and then wait quietly for a yes or a no response.
Me? I’m in a hurry. I just wanna pee and get on with whatever I was doing. This slow, methodical, formal business of pottying is… bah… yanno?
Master tends to give me time to self-correct before taking any corrective action. And, truthfully, at this stage of the game, I should be able to catch it and correct it before he has to point it out. One of Master’s favorite expressions is “I’ll give you just enough rope to hang yourself, cunt”.
Apparently, I’m quite good at swingin’ on a noose.
So it was that this time, as I zipped past the doorway of the room he was in, I hollered in “Gotta pee!” and, hesitating just a millisecond to see if a denial was forthcoming, I headed toward the bathroom.
Then I heard him clear his throat. Very deliberately.
That’s the audio version of The Look™, in case you didn’t know.
I paused in the hallway, hoping that perhaps he just had a frog in there. It could happen!
“Come here.”
I slumped, closing my eyes. Shit.
I went into the room, at least having the decency to look ashamed. I smiled sheepishly at him.
“Shut the door.” He said, unamused.
Double Shit.
“Now then. What did you say?” Stonefaced, he stared at me.
“May I go to the bathroom please, Sir?” I recited.
He reached up and snatched both nipples –both very sore and very tender nipples– and pulled me to him. “Is that the same thing as ‘gotta pee’?” he asked, mocking me.
“No, Sir.” I groaned.
He gave a little twist and I gave a lotta gasp. “Are you sure?” He asked, almost singing it, taunting me.
“Yesyesyes. Yes, Sir.” Letting go, he made me ask properly one more time ‘just to make sure I knew how’ and then let me go.
So, I was busy mentally reprimanding myself. We’re coming up on six years of asking for permission to use the bathroom. Stupd, stupid cunt, I tell ya.
The burning when I started to pee took me by surprise and I hissed. I continued to silently ow to the empty bathroom as urine flowed, stinging my raw and abraded lips. Snatching a handful of toilet paper, I hurried to wipe it off, only to find that that hurt even more than peeing did. The lips were swollen and tender. Wiping felt like poking a bruise.
I pampered myself with a moist, soft babywipe instead. I decided I’d earned a little pampering. Because-
Earlier that morning, an hour or two before the sun was up, he poked me out of a sound sleep by pressing his rock hard dick against my asscheek. “I’m ready for Round Two. Get up and go pee,” he said.
“Uhn.” was my oh-so-coherent reply.
“Do you have to pee?” he asked, now actively humping my leg. I nodded without opening my eyes. “Then go. Now.”
I stumbled to the bathroom, still more asleep than awake. How on earth he wakes up all randy just boggles the mind because I find mornings to be painful. Hateful. Mornings suck. I sat on the toilet, trying to blink myself into a semi-awake state. I needed to be somewhat on my game for this.
His insistence that I pee first meant one of two things: He was either so concerned about my ability to orgasm and enjoy this morning romp in the sack that he didn’t want me distracted by a painfully full bladder–
OR
He was planning on fucking me up with his cock and didn’t want me to give him a non-consensual golden shower.
Which, I’m embarrassed to admit, has happened. Because he thinks it’s hot as hell to pound me so hard that I lose control of my bodily functions.
I think he’s a sick fuck.
But I digress.
As I sat there on the toilet, picking gummy boogers out of my eyes and trying to pry them open, I was pretty darn sure that Option Numero Uno was probably NOT the one.
I’m no a psychic but I think I know him pretty well. He’d been a mean fucker all night long and I didn’t think he was done yet.
And, surprise surprise! I was right!
First, he pushed me to knees and elbows and snapped a couple of clothespins on my sore nipples. Then he took me from behind, forcing his way in my already tender pussy.
He pounded and pounded and pounded while I maintained a white-knuckled grip on the bedposts, trying simply to remember to breathe and to hold my position. The pain was immense, the brutality shocking.
After one particularly long burst of rapid, deep thrusting, I broke, crying out and falling forward. It hurt and I just wanted to curl up in a ball and cover my crotch.
Instead, he rolled me over and took me again, missionary style, with orders to “keep those fucking legs spread, cunt”. The urge to close them, to squeeze shut, to protect myself as much as I can from his full-body-weight slams into my person was strong, to fight it I kept my hands under my knees, pulling my legs back and wide. All I could think of, all I could focus on was submitting. Holding. Just that. Nothing more.
Leaning down and panting heavily in my ear, he told me how the whimpers turned him on. How the look on my face made him hard. How much he enjoyed my pain, how much he loved dragging it out of me. Then he ordered me to come, ordered me to do it right then, right now. Do it or else!
And I broke a little, sobbing that I was trying trying trying and that I couldn’t. I couldn’t get on top of the pain enough to find it, to find that place, and I couldn’t. I just. couldn’t.
He laughed. Laughed and drove in harder until he came, finally, ohmyfuckinggodthankyou FINALLY, he was done. He left me then and I did curl up, my hand cupping my pussy as it pulsed and throbbed. God-fucking-damn, did that hurt.
It might not have been quite as painful as it was had he not torn my shit up already that night. Just 5, maybe 6 hours before, he’d shoved his cock in my mouth while he twisted my nipples, fucking my face before flipping me around and taking my cunt.
That time had been good. It had been great! It was smooth and hot and juicy. He’d sat back on his knees so he could push in deep, grinding and pumping against my clit and I’d creamed underneath him, lost somewhere in a world of deliriously delicious orgasmic heaven.
We had both been so hot and so horny because just prior to that fucking he’d finished from tying me up and working me over with a knife blade and the singletail. Front, back and sides, from shoulders to knees.
It felt, to me, like he’d focused on the breasts, which were mighty sore from having been clamped and then snapped with rubber bands only minutes before he got the whip.
He’s deadly accurate with his aim on the nipples. As much as one on the receiving end wishes for the one on the giving end to have good aim when one is snapping a whip just inches away from one’s face- that can be a double-edged sword when one’s aim is concentrated on a tiny, half-inch round area of flesh. Flesh that was already singing, tyvm.
I, however, was NOT singing. Not only had he (smartly) gagged me before starting, I was alternating between floating off to LaLa Land and then snapping back to curse him a blue streak- that he could neither hear nor understand.
He got the message though, stopping only long enough to make sure I finished each verbal assault on his personage with the required ‘Sir’ at the end. Somehow, ending it with Sir makes it less-offensive and quite funny.
I failed to see the humor myself.
Another place that suffered hugely that night because of his bullseye aim was my cunt. My poor, poor cunt. His repeated demands to keep my legs spread so he could pop the singletail against those tender pink folds was NOT well received. Sascrotch provides no discernible amount of padding or protection.
Oh I did it, I spread em and he popped it, over and over again. But if looks could kill? He’d be so dead. I’m just sayin’.
It hurt. So. fucking. good.
Not when I peed though. That just burned like a bitch. Dayum.
Like
Uncategorized | kaya | 
Monday March 15th, 2010 10:14am
oh my goodness. and, ouch!
[rq=2392249,0,blog][/rq]New firsts and bling!
Haaawt :-P
Mmm sorry
All i can say it’s…. HMMMMMMGGGHHHHHHHH!!
and ouchy aswell.
[rq=2400577,0,blog][/rq]Dominación: What is this i don’t even
poor thing…
Doesn’t any of that hair protect you? i thought i was going to die having my clit hood single-tailed off (or so it seemed lol). At least i didn’t have to do an after show show *smiles*.
Hope you’re doing a little better today hun.
[rq=2401066,0,blog][/rq]So much to write about…
Well I have to say that I understood most of the blue streaks you cussed up. lol If I understood from the other room I KNOW that he understood lol. It was fun to watch thou…