Or, an alternate title could be “Master is a conniving butthead.”
We were getting ready for bed, I was already in and naked, when he tossed the bullet vibe at me.
“Get yourself ready.” was all he said, before walking away and sitting across the room.
(What a meanie. Forcing me to masturbate! How awful. 😉
So I’m lying there, naked, exposed, knees up and falling open, leaving all of my pink parts fully visible to him. That only heightens the arousal.
I’m lucky in this world of sexual frustration that I’m pretty easy, I can reach orgasm quickly. But “get yourself ready” certainly does not mean “finish yourself off”. Even though I was ready in a very short amount of time, he apparently was not. It then became an exercise in control for me.
I don’t do self-denial with a whole lot of enthusiasm or success (no! really?) but on the rare occasion that I can get into it, I find having to sit on the edge of orgasm is more fun than the actual orgasm itself. Such was the case this time. This is also the time when I’m horny enough that fantasies of various s&m activities sound like the best thing since sliced bread.
He just waits for it. Though I typically go about my business with quiet determination, when forced to wait and wait and wait and hold myself there, inevitably I’ll start to talk about what I’m picturing in my head. I’m apparently powerless to resist, because I do TRY to resist! I *know* that I don’t want to voice the things I imagine, not to him, not when knowing that once it’s spoken, once it’s *out there*, it ceases being my secret masturbation fodder and transforms into HIS mission in life.
But I speak up, my voice all husky with need. “You know what I want to do sometime?”
I wish that I could accurately describe the glint that begins to sparkle in his eye. The way the corners of his mouth twitch up when he hears my voice. The lilt in his voice when he responds with a very amused “What is it that you want to do, cunt?”
And I talk. I babble. I describe scenes of extreme pain and I request MORE meanness and MORE sadism and LESS caring and LESS empathy and MORE calculating coldness and LESS concern… it’s an unstoppable stream of filth and smut and perversion. String me up by my tits. Whip me until I can’t stand up. Beat me bloody. Cut me, poke me, fuck me, hurt me, hurt me, HURT ME. The whole time he just sits there, nodding, with the occasional “mm-hm” or “that sounds fun”. Until I start to run out of words.
“What else, cunt?”
“mmmm… the tack bra.” (I’m so close. So close to coming. Close enough that had I had a tack I would have jammed it into my nipple and shot that orgasm out my toes.) “Really make it hurt, Master.”
Him, his voice low and quiet, pulling the details from me. “Just the tack bra?”
“All day. 24 hours straight. Sleep in it and everything.”
“A whole day.”
“Mmmhmm. And then.. then.. when it’s really bad, when it hurts really bad? Grind it. Smash ’em.”
“Beat on them?”
“Yes!” (Another minute and I’m going over the edge. I won’t be able to stop it.) “And don’t, don’t be all Mr. Nice Guy. Don’t let me whine out of it.. and…stuff. You gotta be mean.”
At that point his demeanor changes. Gone is the gentle tenor in his voice. Gone is the amused glint in his eye. Gone is the easy atmosphere of whispering secrets. He straightens up in the chair, catches my eye and states, firmly, decisively. “I am DONE being ‘nice’ to you, little girl.”
Of course he is! He’s gotten all the info out of me that he needs for the time being. I’ve given him a fresh slew of ideas to work from, he’s coerced me into baring my soul so he can pluck what he wants out of it, so pat me on the head and send me on my way.
I went on my way. Much orgasming followed that conversation. The full fear didn’t really sneak in until the next morning.
“Um, Master? You know what I was saying last night? About the tack bra and that other stuff?”
“Yep.” (oh he’s cocky. So fucking cocky.)
I tried to play all cute, all ‘shucks Master, I’m a silly girl’ innocent look. “I didn’t mean it all you know.” (cheeky grins and eyelash batting) “I was just horny and stuff. Being goofy.”
“I know.” But that smile. I KNOW that Chesire cat grin of his.
“Soooo…” (hope springs eternal) “It’s all good then?”
“Sure it is! You can start your 24-hour tack bra session on Thursday.”
He pretends not to notice my jaw on the floor or the panicked expression on my face.
“It’s all good, cunt. It’s all very good.”
Hmmph. Good for which one of us I have no comment on.