“Will I get to come by the end of this session?” I asked.
“Probably not,” he said, turning back to me. “We already know I can make you come. We’re trying to figure out other things. Now, no more conversation. Don’t speak anymore unless I ask you a question.”
I closed my mouth and watched him take a pair of silver, rubber-tipped nipple clamps from the rack. He tested each on his fingertip as he returned to me.
“I’m going to run some experiments on you,” he said. “Learn your reactions to different things.”
“Oh, okay. Yes, Sir.”
“I wasn’t asking for permission.”
Oh my God. He cupped my right breast, ran his thumb over the nipple. Then he leaned and sucked my nipple into his mouth, worrying it between his teeth. My arms moved reflexively to push his head away. When I couldn’t move my arms more than an inch, I arched against the polished post behind me. He placed a hand on my back before he moved to the other nipple, so when he sucked it, bringing aching pain to the tip, I couldn’t do anything to get away.
“Oww,” I whined through my teeth. It hurt more than I wanted. It hurt until it wasn’t pleasurable. He drew back and looked at me, and pinched the nipple he’d just sucked, rolling it back and forth between his fingertips. When it was tender and sore and horribly sensitive to the touch, he lifted the first clamp and arranged it over my nipple. When he was satisfied with the placement, he let it fall closed.
I thought the clamp couldn’t hurt as much as his tugging and biting, but it did, because the pressure was constant. While I gasped for breath, he attached the other clamp, letting the silver chain fall down against my skin. I felt cold, hot, shivery, scared. I pulled at the cuffs, desperate to slap the clamps off me to ease the pinching pain. The only result was a faint rattle and sore arms.
“It’s okay,” he said. “I know it hurts.” He tugged each clamp to be sure it was secure, then moved back to the wall and picked up a short, thin, braided leather whip.
“Are you…” I almost choked. It was one of the most wicked-looking implements on the wall. “Are you going to start me out with that?”
“Hush.”
He whacked it against his palm. The flicky sound almost made me wet myself. I thought he’d start out with a fur-lined paddle or something. Actually, I didn’t see anything fur-lined on his dungeon walls.
“That looks like it might really hurt,” I said, staring at the whip in his hands.
He stood in front of me, close enough that we almost touched. “Do you remember when I told you not to speak anymore?”
I nodded.
“You can make sounds,” he said. “You can beg or swear or sob once we get started, but we’re not making any more conversation. I’ve told you several times now to be quiet. I can’t gag you during your first session, so you need to control the random comments, because they pull both of us out of the scene.”
He reached out and I flinched, needlessly. The whip was in his other hand. His palm moved up and down my stomach, across tense muscles. He tugged at the nipple clamps, pulling my chest forward and renewing the pinching torment. “Don’t cringe away. You’re mine to hurt. You wanted this.”
“I know, but it’s so painful.”
I didn’t say anything else. I wasn’t supposed to keep chattering, so I bit my lip to keep the words inside. He lifted the chain and smacked the underside of one breast with the whip.
“Oh my God, no.” The screech burst out of me as a hot line of pain seared across my skin. That didn’t deter him. No, he flicked me again, this time right across my tender nipple. It was fleeting contact, but it hurt like hell. I couldn’t turn away because his hand was still against my stomach, but I tried, pressing my forehead into his shoulder.
He flicked my other breast, and the flash of pain stole my breath. Each time he flicked me, I gasped and jerked, yanking on the cuffs above my head. I wanted to ask how long he’d do this, but I knew it wasn’t allowed. He flicked each breast at least a dozen times, tugging the clamps in between. By the end, my chest felt hot and swollen to twice its normal size. My nipples ached in a numb tempo, and the skin around them throbbed with fire.
Through all of this, his expression didn’t change much, except to look mildly pleased.
“Time for these to come off,” he said, tugging the clamps a final time. Somehow, I knew it would hurt for them to come off, just as it hurt for them to go on. He opened each one, removing them and inspecting my nipples while I endured the agony of returning sensation. His fingertips nudged each nipple, testing my response. I gritted my teeth. There was no blood, no injury, although I felt maimed. He finished with a hard pinch to each breast, followed by a series of stinging slaps.
“Ow, ow, oww…” I protested in a whisper.
“Turn around,” he said, ignoring my complaints.
When I didn’t react, he put his hands on my shoulders and turned me. I hunched against the post, resting my forehead against the wood, but he made me straighten by pulling back my hips.
“Posture’s important,” he said. “You can flinch and cower all you want once the pain starts, but while you’re waiting, I want your shoulders up and your ass out. You want this, don’t you?”
I sucked air through my teeth. He spanked my ass, then grabbed a handful of my hair. “The correct answer is ‘Yes, Sir.’”
“Yes, Sir,” I hurried to say, because my ass felt like it had a target on it. I watched over my shoulder as he went to the wall and returned with a leather strap, a striated bamboo spoon that was big enough to work as a paddle, and a slim wooden dowel. I prayed he’d start with the dowel; it looked relatively harmless. Instead, he set the dowel and wooden spoon on a nearby table—in my line of vision—and stood behind me with the strap.
I started shaking, really shaking. The strap looked huge, even in his massive hands. It was thick, black, and rectangular, designed with a sturdy handle.
“Posture,” he said, when I started cringing.
I stood as straight as I could, making a soft, pleading noise. He held the strap doubled over in one hand and used his other hand to spank me a few times.
“Ow, ow,” I said, mostly to myself. It was so hard to stand straight and still as he whacked me, his palm and fingers stinging me up and down my ass cheeks.
“This is a warm-up,” he said. “I’m getting you ready to take a little more pain.”
A little more pain? There was already quite a bit of pain. My breasts felt hot and sore, and any lingering arousal had been chased away by the sight of the strap and the “warm-up” spanking that hurt like hell.
I couldn’t see him, but I could feel his presence. I wondered what he thought of my submissiveness so far. I wondered if I looked pretty to him, if my ass looked round and spankable. His hand left my hip, and my round, spankable ass had its first taste of the strap.
Ouch. I made a strangled sound. It felt heavy and intense, but not unbearable. The next stroke, though, was harder. I could feel the strap lifting my cheeks, glancing over my tender skin. Still, I could take this.
Well, I tried to take it. By the fifth stroke, my posture was bullshit and my legs could barely hold me up. If not for his firm hand on my shoulder, I would have jerked around and begged to be left alone. Instead, I sniveled into the post in front of me. “Ow! Please, ouch, God!” Seven strokes. Eight.
He put the strap down and I breathed out, sagging in my bonds. The whole strapping had taken what, less than five minutes? I was exhausted.
“I don’t know if I can take anymore,” I said.
He touched my neck and nuzzled his cheek against me. “I’m pretty sure you can. You’re doing great, Juliet. I know it’s hard to be hurt, really hurt, but that’s what these implements are meant for. If I didn’t hurt you, it wouldn’t be much fun.”
Fun? He had the bamboo spoon now. He started tapping my ass, delivering a steady tattoo of sharp, zinging smacks. I’d been scared of the strap, but holy hell, this felt so much worse. I bounced on
my toes, then hopped. I pulled at the cuffs, desperate to reach back and stop him.
“Please, please. Stop!”
He had to be bruising me. The pain mounted, smack smack smack smack smack. I tried to twist away and he grabbed my neck. I felt the spoon trace down my thigh while his erection taunted me through his jeans. Torturing me—that’s what aroused him. That’s why he was so hard.
Aside from the massive cock against my bare, sore ass, I could tell he was turned on from his breathing. He used the spoon to nudge my legs apart, rubbing it over my clit. I pressed back into his chest, shocked at the hard squeeze of arousal, but he interrupted my pleasure by smacking my pussy with the stinging implement.
“No,” I moaned.
“Oh, yes.” Pure pleasure for him. His voice was low and rough. His cock felt huge enough to bust out of his jeans.
He stroked my clit again. Hit me again. I pressed my legs together, trying to stop him, but then he smacked the front of my mons and ordered, “Open.”
I sobbed and opened, wriggling as he slid the devilish tool between my pussy lips. The smooth edge made my hips jerk each time it contacted my overstimulated clit. Then whack, and hot pain suffused my pussy. Whack, whack, whack. I jerked, arched, and sobbed, trying to climb him by bracing on his legs.
We were tangled together, bound victim, unbound force with two capable hands to grasp and punish me. Next time he stroked my clit, I ground back against him. I wasn’t sure if I wanted sex or if I wanted mercy. His arm tightened around my shoulders. I started to cry.