Under His Hand

The journal of a slave

Call Girl

She stood still in front of the full length mirror gazing up and down her form with a critical eye. Turning to see her rear, she reached to straighten the slightly misaligned seam on her stocking. He liked them perfectly straight. Perfectly.

“He” was Mister. That was the title he’d given her on their first date. No name, no other personal information. Just Mister. She’d shrugged off the secretive nature at the time, as it wasn’t uncommon in her line of work. Husbands hiding from wives, politicians hiding from voters, employees hiding from bosses, celebrities hiding from fans. It didn’t matter to her who they were hiding from. She was paid to perform, sure, but she was mostly paid to keep secrets.

Faces and names didn’t matter. Usually. She’d been employed as a call girl with London Escort Girls 4 U long enough that the faces blurred, the names tangled. But somewhere along the way, this one had begun to intrigue her. She’d had lots of repeat clients, lots who requested her by name. This was the first one who, when she’d been told she’d been hired to see Mister again, had caused a shiver to crawl along her spine and nerves to flutter in her tummy.

That had been many dates ago now. She’d learned him well by now. Knew his preference for perfume scents. Knew he disliked her fake flirty giggle. Knew he could tell when she was faking an orgasm. Come to think of it, she thought, she didn’t actually know anything about HIM at all, only what he wanted from HER.

She leaned in close and gave her make up one more scan. Sultry, smokey eyes under perfectly plucked brows, heavily mascaraed lashes, bright red lips. Lightly blushed cheekbones highlighted her peaches and cream complexion. Enjoy it, she thought to herself. It won’t look like this when he’s finished with me. She slid her feet into high heels, gave her dress one last smooth over her hips, and then click-clacked her way out the door.

The car met her outside. Sleek, black and shiny under the streetlights. She slid into the passenger seat and immediately turned to him. His eyes crawled over her face, her hair, down to her cleavage. Politely, she inquired “Where are we going, Mist-?”

He held up a finger to silence her and thrust his hand at her crotch. She promptly spread her thighs, lifting her ass slightly from the seat; the cool night air tickled the warm moist folds of her cunt and she shivered. His fingers roughlly groped at the folds, seeking entrance. She spread farther. Accommodating.

The fingers entered her unkindly, pinching at the delicate skin. Her brow creased before she remembered to smooth it. She stayed spread, silent, waiting. He thrust in and out for a minute or more, his eyes never leaving her face. Boring in, watching, testing. She kept the mask carefully, expertly, in place. Lips slightly parted, eyes half-lidded, breathing slow. Just as he liked it.

He yanked out of her and sat back, putting his slick fingers to his nose and inhaling deeply. The silence that settled after the crude wet sucking sound of his rough finger fucking was palpable. She waited, a blush rising from her chest to her cheeks.

“It smells good.” he said, finally.

“Thank you, Mister.” she replied, her voice small.

He put the car in drive then and they rode in silence. He didn’t welcome small talk. He didn’t answer questions, he asked the questions. Arriving at the hotel, she followed him quietly down the carpeted hall and into the room.

“Sit.” he commanded, pointing to the edge of the bed.

She sat, primly.

He poured himself a drink and loosened his tie, leaning against the table across from her. She straightened her posture and he quirked a brow, giving a small nod of approval. Then:

“Are you sore? Have you been fucking lots of men?”

She looked down at her lap, suddenly not able to look him in the eye. “A little, yes. I mean a little sore, not a little bit of men….there have been some. Not a lot. Not… so many.” she stammered to a stop, flustered.

He liked to fluster her.

“How many? How many since I last fucked your pussy?”

“I..I’m not sure. I didn’t keep count.”

“Estimate.” he said softly.

She swallowed, her throat clicking. She shifted slightly on the bed, her recently violated cunt clenched, begging to be filled again. “I think, maybe, six or seven, Mister.”

“Was it six or was it seven?”

“I.. si… seven. It was seven.”

“Seven!” he gave a low, exaggerated whistle. “Did all seven of them fuck your pussy?”

“Yes, Mister.”

“Say it.”

“All seven of them fucked my pussy.” Her voice had begun to tremble and she plucked at her dress in discomfort.

“Stop fidgeting,” he admonished, slapping her lightly on the back of her hands. “Tell me more.” She stilled her fingers in her lap. “Look at me,” he said quietly and she lifted her eyes to his and was trapped. “Tell me. Did they fuck your ass?”

Her face flushed deeper. “Yes, Mister. Some of them did.”

“How many?”

“Fou..five of them.” she stammered.

“Say it.”

“I had five cocks in my ass, Mister.”

“Did you suck their cocks?”

“Yes.” she whispered.

“All of them?”

“Yes, Mister.”

“Say it.”

“I sucked seven cocks.”

He was quiet for a moment, the only sound seemed to be her heart hammering in her chest and the rapid pace of her breathing.

“Seven.” he repeated. “Seven cocks in your pussy. Seven cocks in your mouth. Five cocks in your ass.”

She whimpered, soft and low. Sweat beaded on her upper lip. It took all of her willpower to keep her hot cunt on the bed and not climb across to straddle his lap, to not grab his hand and shove his fingers back inside.

He shook his head and sighed almost regretfully. He began to unbuckle his belt.

Her cunt convulsed and she moaned.

“That’s a lot of spankings. That’s an awful lot of spankings.”

“Oh, yes, Mister,” she breathed.

He reached over and plucked at a loose thread on the hem of her dress. “And that’ll add one more.”


(A factually-based, but fictional account of my favorite love-to-hate it/hate-to-love it activity: Teh Buttsecks.)

I was startled awake by a hand, rough and calloused, pushing on the back of my knee, forcing my knee higher into my chest. I grunted my disapproval and resisted, pressing my leg back against his palm.

“Don’t move.” floated a hushed command from somewhere above my head in the darkness. I stilled, opening my eyes into pitch blackness and, sighing sleepily, lifted my leg back where he’d pushed it. I had been sleeping on my left side, my right leg slightly bent up toward my chest. He’d pushed it up far enough that my knee brushed my breast.

I stirred inside as the cool night air caressed my exposed sex, the mattress shifting as he leaned forward. I felt his hands brushing up my sides, searching, then groping down the length of my arms until he reached my hands. Tugging them upward, he wrapped my fingers around the metal bars of the scrolling ironwork that was the headboard. Fisting his own hands around mine, he squeezed, once, hard, and then let go. Understanding the unspoken command to keep my hands where he’d put them, I set my grip.

He sat back, and for a moment things were silent and still. I concentrated on dragging myself free of the fingers of sleep, a process that was shoved along very quickly when I heard the unmistakable sound of the cap flipping open on the bottle of lube. I stiffened and whimpered even before the first drops of oil splashed coolly against my ass cheek, dripping off the tip of his cock.

He said nothing, made not a sound, as he leaned over me, his cock, impossibly large and impossibly stiff, insistently poking, seeking entrance. I jerked forward, pulling on the iron bars that I clung to, and he simply laid a heavy hand on my hip, halting me before I’d moved more than a half an inch.

When he slid home, stretching and tearing at the delicate flesh, I cried out; a short, sharp yelp against the searing pain of his cock forcing its way into the tightness, my cry lost somewhere in the darkness under the pleasurable moan that emanated from him.

He began to rock; long, slow movements that seemed to pull the burn deeper. My body quivered, my muscles tight and trembling; my breathing came in shallow, noisy gasps. Sweat began beading across my skin, defying the chill of the night air, as I struggled against the instinct of self-preservation, swallowing the urge to fight or flight, and forcing myself to remain still and exposed and acquiescent to his relentless thrusting.

Burying my face into the mattress to muffle the harsh cries flowing from my throat, I concentrated on my breathing, pulling in deep, cleansing breaths, and tucked my mind inward, searching for my purpose. I let the sound of his pleasure wash through me. Guttural grunts, whispers, groans. Unmistakable manly noises, impervious to my suffering- or perhaps highly aware and feeding of it, drinking just as deeply from me as I was trying to drink from him; from his callousness, his selfishness, his singular focus on his own pleasure at the expense of my person. I pulled it all in, and used it, held it, stilling my mind and my soul. “Made for”, “Fucktoy”, “Pleasure me…”

My purpose.

Maybe he sensed the acceptance, the yielding not just of my body but of my self, for he sat back a bit and tapped at my straight leg. “Put it up, cunt,” he demanded. “Like a frog. Now.”

I moved quickly to position myself as he’d commanded and he grunted, grabbing hold of my hips and yanking my ass back against his groin, burying himself balls deep again. “Carefully, cunt,” he said, almost teasingly. “Don’t let me come out. Or else.”

Pressing with all my might back against his groin while he pushed forward, his cock seemed to slip in to deeper depths. Pain and pleasure rocketed through my belly. I shifted my leg up, both knees now pushed up near my chest, sitting frog-style. He let go of my hips long enough to push up on the backs of my knees, spreading me farther, spreading my ass, opening me to his cock and his thrusts.

Planting his hands along my sides and stretching his legs out behind him, he began to pound against, and into, me. Whimpers bubbled up anew, each one being forced out of my lungs as his full body weight slammed me. I grappled, trying to snatch some self-control, trying to regain that place of acceptance I’d found just moments before. But I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t… just couldn’t. Leaning down on his elbows, he tangled a hand into my hair and yanked my head back, lifting my face off the mattress. “I want to hear you, cunt,” he hissed, twisting my head to the side. “I want to hear you screaming.”

He began nuzzling his mouth along the meaty flesh of my shoulders. Even though I knew what he was going to do, I tilted my head, baring the tender spot where neck curves into shoulder. “Oh. Such a good girl.” I heard him breathe, as his mouth slid past my ear, and he buried his teeth into my skin. Over and over again, he chomped and chewed, ripped and tore, at my neck, my shoulders, my back, all the while grinding his cock deeper into my asshole. Pain, hot and white and burning, consuming me each time his teeth broke through my skin, searing in deep with each thrust of his cock.

I screamed. I screamed, and he praised me, lips moving against the skin trapped between his relentlessly biting teeth, words that I couldn’t make out, didn’t need to understand. I squirmed and writhed beneath the crushing weight of his body, my fingers cramped in their white-knuckled grip around the bars; I screamed.

He nuzzled his mouth further down my back and to the side, seeking the sensitive and delicate skin just near my armpit and the edge of my breast. I bucked as he bit in and bore down, pain erupted, exploded, a guttural cry tore from my throat. There was a warm trickle down my side, blood or saliva, or a mixture of both. I began to beg in earnest, a string of pleas mixed with sobs, begged for mercy, for an end, for no more, begged and pleaded against the pain, with tears and snot and slobber, and still my hands remained fisted and my knees remained up and my ass remained open and he remained above me, soaking it all in, and he rammed his cock in again and again until finally, finally, he gave one last vicious thrust upward and crowed, digging his fingernails into my skin, raking, dragging bloody rivulets down my back as climax rocked him.

He lay on me then, panting, his heart hammering against my back while I sniffled and whimpered. Rolling off, he reached up and pried my fingers off the posts. Flipping on the lamp, he examined me. My face red and blotchy, tear-streaked and snotty. Blood and bruises dotted my back and sides, and more blood smeared across my ass from the brutal pounding. Embarrassed, humiliated, feeling ugly and used, I closed my eyes to his scrutiny and a fresh tear spilled down my cheek. He reached out and caught it on the back of finger, leaned down and kissed my wet, pouty lips. Trailing kisses around to my ear, he whispered, “You are never more beautiful to me than when you are fulfilling your purpose.”

Strong Man

(I have a sick kid at home so your daily dose of vulgar kaya-porn is not on the menu. I have this for you though…)

“I want a man who is strong enough to take me,” she sighed dreamily. “Confident enough to own me and possess me. Who won’t be guided by society but by His own will!” She turned to look at him. “I want a man who will do exactly what he wants.”

He nodded and smiled and promised her exactly that. And she nodded and smiled and accepted his word. Visions of a life spent naked and chained.. of worship and adoration.. of service and need.. of training and learning.. of discipline and punishment.. of sex and love and joy and freedom found in bondage colored her eyes.. and she wept in pure happiness to have found such a man as this. A man strong enough and confident enough to do exactly as he wanted.

He was a good man. A kind man. A deep and dark and mysterious man. And she, a loyal and faithful girl. And every time she hinted at those days past, when he had so confidently promised to do exactly what he wanted, he would nod and smile and pat her on the butt. And she would smile back, only slightly puzzled, and convince herself that tomorrow would be the day. Tomorrow he woud do exactly what he wanted and she’d become a real slave.

She spent time in a cage but he took her out and bid her to serve him and she did, thinking to herself that a strong confident man would leave her there. A man who did what he wanted would have a caged slave by now.

He made passionate love to her, and as she wept in orgasmic bliss in his arms, she thought to herself that a strong confident man would have thrown her down and taken her. A man who did what he wanted would have made her a sex slave by now.

He patted her on the rump and bid her to fix his meals and she did, thinking to herself that a strong confident man would have made her serve him naked. A man who did what he wanted would have her on her knees by now.

He dressed her in fine clothes and took her to fine restaurants and she’d follow behind him, eyes cast over her shoulder to the slave cage in the corner.. thinking to herself that a strong confident man would have locked her in there already. A man who did what he wanted would have enslaved her by now.

He took her over his knee and paddled her behind when she made mistakes and she’d whimper as she thought to herself that a strong confident man would have trained her. A man who did what he wanted wouldn’t need to punish her by now.

He asked her to do small favors for him and she did, thinking to herself that a strong confident man would have ordered her to do these tasks. A man who did what he wanted wouldn’t need to be polite by now.

And time marched on as it tends to do and she waited and waited for him to start doing exactly what he wanted. Days spent cleaning his house, evenings spent at his side, nights spent in his bed and all the while she played the movies of before.. the visions of a life spent naked and chained.. of worship and adoration.. of service and need.. of training and learning.. of discipline and punishment.. of sex and love and joy and freedom found in bondage.

And she turned to him one day and whispered..” what are you doing with me Master?” While fear and confusion and need played in her eyes and on her heart and he smiled into them.. and traced his finger along her cheek and replied;

“I’m doing exactly what I want.”

~Master’s cunt~


She walked just behind Him through the store, always just a half inch from stepping on His heel. She tried to be mindful of His step, His movements. Sudden stops and turns either sent her crashing into His ass or scrambling to keep up. She thought of it as just another duty of hers, to be aware of His actions… to be aware of Him. After all, keeping Him at the very front of her mind was a sign of a good slave.

She kept one finger looped through His belt loop almost all the time. To passers-by it looked simply to be an affectionate way to keep in contact, but it was so much more than that to them. She felt tethered.. she felt leashed.. she felt confined and controlled… and she liked it. Being bound to Him in other ways wasn’t practical in public and making it her responsibility to keep her finger on Him all the time made her so much more aware of her place in His life.

He, in turn, tried to be a bit slower in His movements in order to make her following so closely seem not like a chore but as a reward. And it was, for He desired her company enough to want her close by. When she was less than pleasing, removing her from His presence was debilitating to her, it struck her very soul to think He couldn’t stand to look at her or talk with her. So, He did His part to keep her near and to keep it pleasant. Which is not to say that He didn’t occasionally speed up or turn fast, if only for the amusement of watching her struggle. He was a sadist afterall. Besides, making her work hard at it on occasion kept her appreciative of the times He slowed for her.

He enjoys that she is within earshot all the time, He likes that He can reach and touch her at any time, He likes that she does nothing at all without His approval and consent. When she wants to stop to look at something, she tugs very gently at His belt loop and He will either stop and spoil her by letting her pause.. or ignore the tug, with no words of complaint tolerated, and keep walking. Cementing to her that it’s never about what she wants… or if it is.. it’s a gift. And one that had better be appreciated.

And it’s not like she had any reason to wander off. Any purchase that she wanted to make had to be asked for and approved anyway. He knew that it stung her pride each and every time she had to ask for permission to buy things, especially personal things like tampons, and that is why He made her do it. Chipping away at the pride, and filling the chips with the mortar of His control was essential to keeping her in line. (She was quick to fall when He faltered, something He could only blame Himself for, yet punished her hard for it. It had taken her some time to realize that she was still responisble for her own failures, and would be punished severely for them, even in the wake of a fumble on His part. She was learning, slowly, to hold herself to His standards, even when He wasn’t.) He denied her things… often… things that He could well afford to buy, things that she may very well need or want… but it was imperative that she not begin to think that she deserved the comforts of those things that she asked for. That she be well aware of the fact that what He did buy her was a privilege. On the months that He was generous enough to buy her tampons, and let her use them, she was highly aware of the comfort and cleanliness He allowed her and felt deep gratitude. (She had spent more than one miserable week with one hand tucked into her pussy, catching the flow of menstrual blood in her palm and having to beg on her knees every so often to be allowed to wash her hand. Tampons, had indeed, become a privilege).

He found the process of denial and restrictions to be vital in keeping her keenly aware of her position as a slave. Far too often, the comforts and luxuries began to be expected and assumed and she would begin, unintentionally, to see herself as His equal. He was having no part of that. He was strict, and He was mean, yet every bit of that kept her in a constant state of who she is. He didn’t only deny her tampons, He extended it to every day activities and occurances. Toilets were easily replaced with pails or kitty litter boxes. He ate in front of her and only gave her small bites or a glass of water. Or she might have her food.. on the floor.. with no utensils. He denied her the use of furniture as a standard rule. She was allowed to sit near Him when He was in the mood to snuggle, otherwise she was entirely banned from furniture. He enjoyed and preferred her to lay next to Him in bed but routinely chained her to the floor next to Him. They showered together where she was required to wash Him and dry Him, and while He mostly encouraged personal hygiene, He would often tell her “5 minutes slut”… or drop the hot water to a minimum which hurried her out. She was not allowed clothes of any kind when at home and was punished quite hard if she wasn’t stripping within one or two minutes of returning home. She wore her wrist and ankle cuffs and His collar and nothing else. His touch or view was not to be blocked in any way and the cuffs gave Him quick access to restraining her when the mood struck. And it did.. often. He delighted in binding her up somehow, somewhere and just leaving her there. He enjoyed the sight of it. So in that, even her movements, when unencumbered, were a gift.

What this got Him, in return for His attention to detail and hard work, was a slave who accepted without question, all the limitations.. but who delighted with childlike glee over simple gifts of comfort and luxury. Master became the giver of all things. Even those that most consider to be basic human rights. And slipping her mind and thoughts into being His object, His toy, His whatever, was becoming second nature. Being more than that… now… was becoming uncomfortable and unfamiliar and in time… she would shy from such comforts without His constant reminder… for it would feel unnatural to her.

He also employed the benefits of isolation with His slave. Some days, total isolation, including ear plugs, gag and blindfold. There is something that shifts, deep inside, when the only stimulation is the bite of a crop, or the sting of a flogger. He greatly enjoyed the response to a whisper of a touch, for when one is isolated, any contact is multiplied by thousands. But on a normal day… her isolation was mostly to the outside world. Too many distractions led to a greatly distracted slave in His opinion. Her contact with others was highly limited and defined by Him. While out in public she was forbidden from communicating with anyone. If someone asked her something, she looked to Him to answer. And for His part in it, if the person persisted with attempting to converse with her, He would patiently announce that she was forbidden to speak and if it escalated any farther than that, they left.

It was highly humiliating to be forbidden to speak to anyone in public. She always felt borderline rude to not answer someone when she was spoken to. And it ate at her to have someone walk away.. and look back at them.. with disgust or irritation. She had to try hard to remember that the only approval she needed was from the man next to her. And if she was going to be honest with herself, knowing that she was forbidden from commuicating with others allowed her to block people out of her mind, out of her actions… and focus entirely on Him. And wasn’t that the point after all?

Their life at home was heavy D/s.. and heavy S&M.. all too often the world takes the focus away from bdsm and they were both determined to turn that around. Instead of needing to take a break from the world to focus on bdsm, they needed to take a break from bdsm to deal with the world. Consistency.. and a firm hand.. coupled with love and pride… small doses of affection.. and smothered with tons of s&m… made up the recipe of thier life together.

He used many things to keep her in the headspace of object. It. Cunt. When she indicated to Him that she was a “me” or an “I” … when she began to feel more than what she was.. He took that as a huge personal failure. She functioned perfectly for Him when she believed herself to be nothing more than another tool for Master’s pleasure. Anything more than that, led to disservice and dissatisfaction on her part and that of course bled over into lackluster performances and less than enthusiastic slavery. And that was not tolerated for long, let me assure you!

Though some made the claim that He was destroying her self esteem, He maintained that He was building it high.. and proud.. for even a lowly work horse can prance and shake its mane, in pride of a job well done. She did have pride and self-satisfaction in her role. He made sure to praise her often and lavishly for a job well done. But pride and self-esteem in no way gave her the right to be a bitch.. and He cut those attempts off at the knees. Literally.

Punishments for her were hard.. and fast.. and often. He was an ‘act now, ask later’ type of Man and she was often scrambling to explain something mid-swat. And though she would sometimes feel it was unfair and unwarranted, she was also confident in knowing that nothing would sneak by, nothing would be overlooked. That kept any thoughts of pushing buttons and testing boundaries to a minimum. The boundaries were clearly defined by HIM.. often.

But discipline was another matter entirely. Discipline and training went hand in hand in their house.. and was done almost daily. Nevermind how pleased He may be with her… or how well she was behaving… the training went on regardless. He had found, through trial and error, that adding more BDSM to the mix was ALWAYS a good thing. Rewards for being good and pleasing were not related to discipline and training. Rewards came in the form of restored privileges or small gifts, but nothing affected the discipline and training. That remained constant and unwavering… and as a result of it never being something she could change or affect, she had stopped trying.. and accepted it as fact.

He had many methods at His disposal. One advantage, out of the many, of owning another human was that the sky was the limit in what He could do. Some days He was hard, some days He wasn’t. But the beauty in it was that she had no clue, nor say, in what type of day it would be. The heightened anticipation of the daily dose of discipline made her breathless throughout the day. And as often as she was humiliated and pushed and pained and hurt and sobbed through a discipline task, she was also just as often to be giggling and begging for more. What remained a constant truth in it all was her submission to whatever it may be and His power in administering it.

His favorite form of discipline was to assure her place as object. To be used as an object, to be dehumanized, to be callously disregarded as having opinion or feelings. He would often have her kneel, put her head to the floor and clip her collar to a ring embedded in the floor. Her wrists were cuffed to her ankles and her ankles were spread wide and anchored that way and thusly, she was stuck. He gagged and blindfolded her to further the notion that what she thought or wanted to say was insignificant. And, if He was in the right mood, a black cloth was tossed over her head and shoulders, thereby completely excluding her *self* from the rest of her body. She had been well trained to know to keep her back arched and her ass high no matter what. (This had been cemented in her mind by a large meat hook inserted in her rectum and pulled to the wall over her head each and every time she “dropped” her ass.) He did various things to her in this position, while keeping a running commentary of how she was owned and controlled and useful only in ways to please Him. Or He ignored her completely, for one didn’t talk to a *thing* or a table or a flower vase. She didn’t know which was worse really, to be ignored or reminded. Both served a purpose of debasing her anyway. He fucked her.. hard and painfully. She was not allowed to cum, goodness no. This was not to be pleasurable for her in any way. He propped things up on the shelf of her ass and used her as a table. Items were inserted and removed from her ass and pussy consistently. One object, she later found out, to be a beer bottle, inserted into her lubed asshole until He wanted a drink, whereas He yanked it out, swigged.. and shoved it back in. He smacked, whipped, spanked, pinched, swatted, clamped…. and generally reeked havoc upon the exposed areas of her body.

Or sometimes.. He just left her there. And went to the bar for a drink… or to visit a friend.. or out to His workshop to play and putter. Letting her know that she wasn’t always useful to Him at all.. and stopping her from beginning to feel un-replaceable.

The Date-Fiction

Next Weekends Date

The music started slow, lazy notes of melody drifting over her ears as she watched her Master pull items out of the toy box. Cuffs were layed out on the bed, rope and chain coiled next to them. He caught her eye, an easy task since her eyes were never far from Him anyway and as He did, He nodded in the direction of the cuffs. She climbed up on the big bed, the familiar mixture of fear and excitement swirling in the pit of her stomach and began buckling on her own cuffs. There was something about doing this herself.. readying her own self to be tied down and beat.. that struck her right in her center. One can sometimes be carried away on the fantasy of damsel in distress, but this is not possible when you are buckling your own leather restraints around your own limbs.

As she worked the cuffs on, Master began laying implements next to her. Sometimes giving one a fast swish through the air next to her ear.. or slapping it down with a reverberating thwack on the mattress next to her. Actions designed to make her squeal and jump, to make her heart pound, her eyes widen and her cunt clench. No words passed between them, none were needed. She could see the fire beginning to burn in His eyes and it matched the need building in her own.

He finished making the fastening points on the four corners of the bed and roughly pushed her into position. She splayed amid the various tools, some of them poking and pressing into her, already causing her some discomfort. He meant for her to lay on them, all of them tucked under her revealed body somewhere. He wanted her to feel each one as He pulled it out, to anticipate the level of pain each would cause and to be keenly aware of how many were left to go through. Over the years they had collected an impressive amount of tools and the amount of agony He could inflict was almost limitless.

He secured her at the four points, purposely pulling the bonds tight. He wanted no wiggle room, no movement, no chance for a missed blow because she had twisted or turned. He meant to beat her good tonight. He meant to beat her hard, not missing an inch of flesh, and was determined that she feel each and every strike on exactly the spot He aimed for. Her breath caught in her throat as He stretched her arms and legs, she knew what this meant. Fear bloomed up in her gut, hot and heavy, and she whimpered with the sudden need to empty her bladder. But she knew He was past the point of caring about such things.. that any complaint in that direction would probably set Him to making her humiliate herself by wetting the bed, so she pressed down on that need. She knew she didn’t need to go as badly as she felt anyway, it was a reaction and she was actually getting pretty good at controlling some of her body’s reactions. She closed her eyes, pulling her mind from her bladder and focused on the music. It picked up tempo as the song changed, the bass thumping into her chest and she timed her breathing with the beat, an exercise in self-meditation.

He slipped the blindfold over her eyes and fastened it. This blindfold had been wet with many of her tears on many occasions, all cried for Him and because of Him. All spilled in pain and love and need and desire, lessons learned and re-learned. Walls broken, journeys made, paths forged. All under this black leather blindfold. The familiar shape pressed itself over her face and the smell filled her senses. As her sight was taken from her, snippets of past experiences under this blindfold filled her mind. And she waited then.. for this new memory to be made.. for fresh tears to join the remnants of tears long-dried. She smiled in anticipation of her next wearing of this blindfold, when this session would be another snippet of memory to flash through her mind.

She couldn’t see Him then and had no idea what was causing the delay in activity. She knew better than to ever try to guess His next action for He was unpredictable. Always keeping her on her toes, denying her the comfort of expected reactions. Complacency and boredom would never have a place in their life together. So she waited, in tense breath-holding silence and had just begun to wonder if He had left the room, to leave her in anticipatory agony when she felt Him move next to the bed and felt His hand on her back. She breathed deeply then and settled back down to wait. When He was ready, it would start. Not a moment before.

What He had been doing was fingering the gag, eyeing her displayed body. Trying to decide if He wanted to silence her of if He wanted to hear her screams and moans mixed with the music filling the room. Sometimes her noises were music in and of themselves, filling His head with a deep-seated desire to hear the pain as she took it, the cadence of His strokes fueled by her shrieks until He heard just the perfect note in her voice and that sound, that soul-bending cry seemed to pull the need from Him, and He would be sated for a time. Other times her cries and sobs distracted Him. He sometimes wanted to focus on the marking of her, of laying the lines and color of His mind on her skin. With an almost detached attitude, He’d work her body like a canvas, needing to see the results of His swings and strokes and the gag would be used. He moved back and forth in His desires tonight, though.. undecided which part of Him was needing it the most.

He finally laid the gag next to her face and she brushed up against it with her cheek, knowing immediately what it was. She loved and hated the gag. She mostly always embarrassed herself with her caterwauling and sobbing so in that respect, the gag was a Godsend as it forced her to swallow the screams but on the flip side of that, she knew He couldn’t hear her.. and couldn’t gauge her pain level and that truth scared her silly, even though she *knew* He didn’t want to know her pain level at those times, that that was the whole purpose of the gag but she hated it all the same.

She touched the gag with her cheek and she knew it was there to be used if He wanted. If her noises became too much and once again her bladder tightened into a hard little ball as the knowledge that He intended to use her hard, that the gag was there to silence her loud screams, the ones that would drown out the beat of the heavy metal music blaring through the speakers. Knowing that He expected her to scream that loud filled her with fear… and her pussy began to drip onto the sheet.

She felt His hand digging into the mattress under her hip and a crop was pulled from under her. The friction against her skin caused a flash of white hot heat and she grunted. She didn’t hear the way the air whistled as the crop swung through it.. she didn’t hear His own echoing grunt of effort as His arm arced.. the music filled her ears and blocked all of that.. but it didn’t block the searing line of fire that suddenly branded itself across her ass. Air whooshed out of her lungs in a panic and before she could draw in another breath to even think about crying out, another blistering stroke came, just millimeters above the first. She bucked hard then, her body dropped into “fight or flight” mode and she pulled hard against the bonds, still struggling to pull enough air into her lungs to get out a decent shriek, as with each half-breath, He lit into her ass again and it whooshed silently out of her. But He had tied her well and her struggles were ineffective, she could do little more than wiggle her fingers and toes. She perservered in her effort to escape though, her body refusing to believe that it had to lie there and take this pain, her brain squealing inside her ears and still she tried to work in oxygen and all the while, He swung over and over again, already breaking a fine sweat and an erection. He enjoyed this first panicked attempt to flee more than anything when He lit into her hard and fast and watched as acceptance slowly.. oh so slowly.. took over and her body would still, jerking and jumping now only in direct response to His strokes and His touch and He played her like a fine tuned fiddle then.

The first bit was always the worst but knowing that didn’t make it any easier to bear. She had clawed the sheet into a tight sweaty ball in her fist and had bitten her lip to bleeding before the endorphins took over her brain and the pain on her backside soothed into a constant but pleasant heat. She let herself drift then, giving over her body to Him, to use and to mark. To welt and to own and she responded to each stroke with a slight wiggle of her ass.

He didn’t smile as He worked, He didn’t talk or touch Himself. He focused on the flesh before Him and set about using it. He yanked each instrument from under her with sadistic purpose. (When He had finished and rolled her over, she had angry red lines all over her front from the painful extraction of each instrument and He lovingly traced each burn with His cool tongue.) He used each tool to it’s full potential, creating patterns of welts with one and then destroying that pattern with another. She bled with some, she welted, bruised, blistered, striped and streaked with others. From the backs of her calves to the tops of her shoulder blades, no flesh was untouched or unmarked. He had employed the gag about half-way through and she now lay, exhausted and sweaty, flying high, silenced and blinded and alone in her world of pain.

She jerked a little as a drop of something cold fell and then dripped down her flaming ass. It was followed closely by the unmistakable rubbery feel of the butt plug and He worked it into her ass, not too slow but not too fast. Enough to hurt but not to hurt too much. He smeared the rest of the lube across her cheeks and it felt divine, cold and soothing on the welts and cuts. But she was wrong in her relaxing as the last instrument was pulled sharply from under her thigh. She knew what it was immediately. There was no mistaking the weight and size of the oak paddle. She lifted her head and took a deep breath, preparing herself to commence begging the best that one can beg through tears and snot and a gag-filled mouth but before the first whimper could find it’s way around the gag, the paddle met her ass with a resounding thud, heightened by the wet smack of the left-over lube. The first blow was strangely dulled but He had known it would be and He followed it quickly with twenty more. On the same cheek, each blow just a tad harder than the one before it, the burn getting higher and higher and sinking deeper and deeper until it felt as if her butt bone was being pummeled with an oar and she opened her mouth and screamed around the gag. Just at that moment He switched to the other cheek and gave it the same treatment, she was lost in the haze of pain, begging her own body to shut down, shut off, go to sleep, pass out, anything, *something* to escape this agony but of course there was no escape. And He continued to rain blows on her bottom, switching now from cheek to cheek, filled with the power of Owning and Using and knowing that she would take it until He was damn well good and ready to stop. He kept His eyes on her ass, watching the colors change, the bruises blooming up, making occasional swats to the plug to keep it deeply seated.

The music swelled and grew around them, obliterating her muffled screams. The hard and heavy beat seemed to match the condition of her ass.. and He began to match His blows to the music, sometimes faster, then slower, building up towards the end as the song reached it’s finale in a hail of drumbeats and guitar screeches and then it was stopped… and He stopped.. and silence came down like a curtain, broken only by her pants and whimpers.

She lay in the middle of the bed, trembling. Spent. The plug still buried deep. Her mind was gone, lost in an endorphin wave. The entire back of her body burned and throbbed and tingled, yet between her legs, a growing puddle of masochistic need. She sensed but didn’t quite comprehend His legs straddling her body. The rough curled hair on His legs poked and itched at the welts and tears in her skin. He pulled the plug from her and even as she tried to wrap her mind around the sudden emptiness of her ass, His cock was there, pressing insistantly at the rapidly closing entrance. She instinctively pressed her hips deeper into the mattress, seeking avoidance of this new and painful invasion.. she was done, she was tired, she hurt.. couldn’t He see? Didn’t He care?

He yanked the gag from her mouth but left the blindfold. He leaned forward over her and spoke into her ear, His deep ragged voice cutting clean through the haze of her jumbled thoughts “lift that ass up to Me, cunt” and she did. As high as she could, she lifted and pressed back against Him. He slid in smoothly, deeply, pressing until His pubic hair crowded against her burning cheeks and she felt his testicles ride up hard against her cunt. Pain filled her ass and lower belly and she moaned into the mattress, tears renewed themselves against the soaked blindfold. Her Master was thick and long and her ass was small and it hurt each and every time, but that fact didn’t always deter Him. He owned that tight asshole and He desired to fuck it, to feel it clench almost painfully tight around His cock, to hear her moan with each thrust, to make her scream and cry out the answer as He pounded into her and bellowed “Who owns this ass, cunt?” and she sobbed out “you, Sir, only you”.

Then He lay on her, digging His hands under her torso, finding and latching on to her hardened nipples and pinching them hard between His fingers as He worked His cock in her ass, the pain from her anus lost as pain bloomed bright and sharp in her nipples. His mouth found her ear once again and He demanded that she cum. He left no room for refusal, it was an order. She felt His cock harden further inside of her, His fingers squeezed her nipples harder and the entire night exploded inside of her. She bucked back up against His hips and screamed out again.. not in pain this time.. in orgasm. In being owned and used and loved and taken. Her asshole tightened and milked at His cock and He growled as His own orgasm took over His mind. He rocked her hard, almost as if He were trying to climb inside of her and she felt the twitches and trembles of His cock.

He collapsed on top of her, ragged breathing filling her ears. His body hair and sweat began to work it’s way into her cuts and welts and her body lit afire again. She broke then, sobbing into the bed… overwhelmed with pain and emotion. He lay on her for a good long while, His weight constricting her breathing, forcing her to calm herself. She took comfort in the message being sent to her from His refusal to move. She was not just His whipping post. Not just His fucktoy. Not just His wife or His slave, He’d use her for anything…. even as a mattress… and she’d submit. His cock, semi-hard, was still buried in her stinging and abused rectum. And as she cried, He began to pump His hips again, driving the sting home and making her say it again and again. “It’s your ass Master.”

She didn’t take comfort in loving aftercare. In cuddling and stroking and kissing. She didn’t want coddled after being used hard. She needed hard still, just in smaller and smaller doses as she worked her way back. So this continuing of pain, this pulling out of more tears and admitting hard truths fed her starving spirit. Once He’d extracted Himself from her and untied her from the bed, He had her pose before Him. He admired and remarked on the evidence of the beating she took. He made no secret of how she’d pleased Him and He slapped and pinched and bit at the deeper of the marks… and what that cemented in her mind was that He had no regrets, He felt no apology. He loved what He did to her, and she loved what He did to her and she sank into that belief.

Once the examination was done, He placed her into the closet, cuffed her wrists to her ankles, slapped a clothespin on each nipple, one on her clit and each labia and two on her tongue and shut the door, locking her into darkness and silence. Her backside burned and tingled against the rough carpet under her and sharp waves of discomfort radiated from each placed clothespin. But as she listened to Him moving around the house, hearing the refrigerator door opening and closing, the quick fizz of a pop can being opened and she let the truth of not being important enough.. or deserving enough.. to not be in pain.. to be out of the closet.. to have her own can of pop.. wash over her and she was comforted. In who and what she was.. and her purpose in His life. She closed her eyes in the darkness and set about managing her own pain. She sat still… the various pains settling to a dull throb… and her mind quieted and calmed.. she brought herself back. Then she waited.

He opened the door after a while and surveyed her. She blinked rapidly in the sudden light and didn’t see His hand as it snatched ahold of one clothespin and yanked it off of her nipple. She moaned and pulled her chest in and He snagged ahold of the offended nipple, gripping it tight and pulling her forward. Message received. Don’t pull away. Still keeping a tight grip on that nipple, He pulled the clothespin from the neighboring nipple and she cried out but didn’t move. He reached down between her legs and she spread them wider, taking a deep breath and preparing herself for it. Showing no mercy, He plucked all three of them at once in His fist and pulled them off as she yelped. He let go her nipple then and grabbed hold of the two on her tongue. For awhile He played with them, pulling them, opening and then letting them snap shut again, as drool ran down between her breasts and He laughed as she whined. He pulled one off and immediately snapped in onto her nose. And so it bagan, with orders to not move and to not make a sound, He moved those last two clothespins from spot to spot.. nose and ears, eyebrows and lips, breasts, arms and legs, toes and inner thighs… and all the while He kept up a steady stream of words… who she was and what she was and what she always would be… and she soon became one with the truths and with the pain and she sagged against the wall of the closet. He saw the lightening of her spirit, as she exhaled her own demons in the comfort of the constant pain and litany of the words… ‘cunt, slut, whore, object, it, fuckmeat’ … He placed the clothespin one more time on her clit and unhooked her wrists from her ankles while it dangled there. He fetched her purple velvet pillow and her fuzzy blanket and tucked her into a crude bed on the closet floor. He pressed His lips to hers, hard and cruel and at the same time, He pulled the clothespin from her clit while she moaned into His mouth. Her eyes found His and locked there, her’s wet and shiny and His dark and satisfied. He kissed her again, then stood up and shut and locked the door. She was back.. she was home.. she was safe. She curled into the dreamy comfort of her pillow and blanket, not noticing the hard, rough floor or the cramped space of the tiny closet for in comparison to what she had just been through, it was the Ritz. It was the Hilton. It was paradise and comfort and she fell asleep, smiling and crying at the same time.