Through all of this, he made me look at him. Every few blows, he’d stop and gaze into my eyes, and I understood why. I knew by now why he insisted on that rule. He was taking me as far as he could without breaking me. In some way it made me feel cherished, that he was being careful and closely monitoring me as he carried out this torture. In another way it made me feel like I was slowly going insane, that I was even allowing this to happen. Why didn’t I jump off the horse? Why didn’t I run?
I only wanted to help Simon. Why are you hurting me so bad?
But the hurt went on. He was hurting me for yelling at him, and hurting me for lying. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
There was no sex, not even a blowjob. I prayed for a blowjob. I would have given him the world’s most ardent and salacious blowjob if he would only stop, but no. I’d been punished before, but never this long and this hard, with no sex and no respite. My body heaved with sobs, not that I thought they might move him. I simply couldn’t hold them in. There was snot everywhere.
When I started to choke on the gag, he took it off and wiped my mouth, and made me lie face down on top of the padded bondage table. He cuffed my wrists, waist, and ankles so I couldn’t move. I gritted my teeth together so I wouldn’t start pleading please, no, no, no more. My whole body felt bruised and bloodied, even though I knew there wasn’t any blood. He was an expert at keeping hurt on the surface.
He flogged me with a heavy leather flogger all over my back, until everything hurt the maximum amount possible. Ass, shoulders, calves, thighs, back, everything burning, and then he turned me over and bound me again, and made everything on my front hurt. Breasts, hips, stomach, thighs. He made me spread my legs and brought the flogger down on my pussy in a fiery punishment that made me arch in agony.
I wept for mercy. I couldn’t talk, but I wept, and finally, when my pussy felt like one big center of throbbing pain, he put the flogger and everything else away, and let me rest.
I lay just as I was, arms bound over my head, waist bound, legs bound apart with my pussy on display. For all I knew, he might begin again. If he did, I’d have to accept it. That was our deal. I belonged to him, to cherish or to hurt, to nurture or destroy.
At the moment, I felt destroyed.
When he returned from putting everything away, he checked over me, touching all the places he’d hurt me. I knew he enjoyed examining the welts and bruises. He released me and made me stand while he inspected my back. Then, finally, after he’d touched and caressed all the marks, he pushed me to my knees to assuage the hunger my pain and suffering had created in him.
He was rock hard, straining at the front of his pants. When he undid his fly, his cock flopped out and whacked me in the face. It was something we might have laughed at in other circumstances. Now, I clutched at him and opened my mouth, and sucked him with frantic concentration, my eyes fixed on his face to make sure I was pleasing him.
Because when someone had just punished you that severely, you pretty much wanted to do whatever they demanded. As he pushed into my throat, yanking my hair, banging my tonsils over and over, I felt myself relax. My body still hurt, but my punishment was over, and I could take this violent blowjob if that’s what he wanted. I was his, absolutely, one hundred percent his to use, which I supposed was the outcome he’d hoped for after beating me for almost an hour.
He came in my throat with a growl, jamming himself into me as I choked and tried to swallow. As soon as he released me, I coughed and collapsed on the floor. I hurt everywhere. I didn’t want to move.
“Look at me,” he said, pulling me back to my knees.
I stared at him, biting my lip. Please, no more punishment. Please, I feel like I’m about to die, and if you’re still angry with me…
“Who owns you?” he asked.
“You do,” I rasped through my sore throat. “You own me, Sir.”
“Who makes the rules in our relationship?”
“You, Sir.”
“I do, and I punish you when you break them. I punish you when you treat me with disrespect. You don’t get to sleep in my bed tonight. That’s a privilege for good slaves who obey and show respect.”
I pressed my face against his hand, but there was nothing to say. He wasn’t asking a question. He wasn’t asking my opinion. He was telling me I had to sleep alone tonight, in the guest room, the horrible room that made me feel conflicted and isolated. It pretty much meant the punishment was going to continue all night.