Own My Soul (Sixty Days 3)

I wasn’t ready for him forcing me backwards on the mattress. I wasn’t ready for the way his grip slammed down on my wrists as he shackled me into the cuffs and chains and pulled them taut to the headboard.

I was ready for the way he shackled my ankles.

I was ready for the looming shadow of his body standing tall over mine.

My eyes opened and found his staring down at me. My eyes opened and saw a strange gritted uncertainty on his face like a shadow behind his fire.

I forced my body to writhe and wriggle for the viewers. Forced myself to appear like I needed this. Wanted this.

Forced myself to believe I really did want this. Because I should.

I should want this.

A man from the same gorgeous cloth as the one I was devoted to. A man who’d know how to play my body in the way it needed playing, and not just some idiot desperate to get his dick wet.

“Please hurt me, sir,” I said, and this time I meant it.

“I’ll decide when I fucking hurt you,” he growled and his hands landed hard on my spread thighs.

I was craving the action when he started slapping. Craving the action when his palms rained down in brutal rhythm. Craving more when I whimpered on instinct and squirmed at the onslaught.

I wasn’t expecting it when his fingers hooked inside my knickers and ripped them clean off. I gasped when his thumbs spread my pussy lips open wide and told the cameras what a sweet little cunt I had waiting for them. I gasped again when two fingers pushed in deep and hooked inside to find the pressure point.

“Yes, sir! Please!” I managed to hiss, strung tight on the mid-point between my body taking over and my heart giving up.

His fingers were still curled deep when his free hand tugged my tits free and tweaked at my nipples. I clenched my teeth at the pain as he crushed my flesh hard against my ribs and brought another round of slaps down on top.

Like his brother.

He hurt my tits like his brother.

My skin was pinking up and my cheeks were burning, eyes watering as I stared up at the man in charge of my destiny in this space.

“Please, sir,” I said again. “Please make it hurt.”

And he did. He did make it hurt.

His hands were decent weapons, finding all the right spots. He slapped my pussy until the shackles strained, my thighs quaking as they tried to close.

“Take it,” he growled, and I did. I forced my legs spread wider as he rained down a fresh load of blows, and he praised me by hacking up a load of spit for my clit, rubbing it in hard circles until I cried out fresh. “Good girl. Good fucking girl.”

I closed my eyes and soaked it up. Soaked him up. His scent. His breaths. His manner.

His everything.

I thought of the man I wanted more than anything. The man who’d surely be watching.

The man who’d hopefully regret his haste in casting me aside as nothing and come back calling.

“Ready for more?” my current sir said, and I nodded.

Three fingers plunged inside. Three fingers my pussy sucked in hard. My tits took another beating, and I grunted and writhed. Another hack of spit had me whispering as a thumb ground it hard.

I guess that’s when I truly lost myself. Gave up the ghost of everything I’d wanted down south and accepted my lot in this place.

I looked up at the man who’d become my controller and accepted him as god in here.

“Please, sir,” I said, and this time I meant it beyond all else. “Please, hurt me more. Always more.”

“My fucking pleasure,” he growled in return and set to work unfastening my shackles.

I knew what was coming on instinct. I moved to his touch without needing force, back up on my feet and along to the side, raising my arms high above my head as he tugged down a whole new set of cuffs on chains overhead.

I knew this position.

I knew the strain of being forced up on my tiptoes with my thighs trembling hard. I knew the vulnerability of having my body so totally on display, begging for torture and torment.

I knew he was going to the rack when he disappeared. I knew the sensation of a riding crop as he trailed the biting end down my spine and stepped up closer.

“This is gonna hurt,” he said, and I nodded.

I tipped my head forward as he swept my hair aside, arms straining taut as he teased my rump with some swishes.

“Ow!” I cried at the first blow.

I jiggled on my tiptoes, the crest of adrenaline coming in hard as the second swipe landed.

“Ow, sir!” I cried out, and stretched taller.

But it didn’t matter where I stretched or wriggled. It didn’t matter how I jiggled and jostled and lurched. I was there, tight and bound and subject to every swipe.