Dark as Ivory 2

Ivory

She was trying to drive me insane, I was convinced of it, and wondered if she hadn’t already succeeded. The night she sent me the watersports videos I might as well have been her slave. I loved watersports, fucking loved them and adored using them as humiliation play because that was hotter than hell. And she had messaged me with such eagerness for that kind of debasement while I thought about how the dress I’d gotten her wasn’t enough and never would be. She had me enthralled by my heart strings and I didn’t even fucking do love.

I knew she was going to keep playing too, was eager for it. She was going to be a dirty, bad little girl in some way. What exhibitionist behavior would she taunt me with now? What would make me want her, crave her, even more than I already did?

It turned out I wasn’t ready for what she wanted to do. Oh, I should have been. The game she played was something I would have been all over with every other playmate I had ever had because sharing my submissives turned me on. I got off on watching them cum all over another guy’s cock so I could shame them for it and watch them break down sobbing when I made them feel like a filthy whore.

And then I could lick the tears away and praise them for being uninhibited and for their bravery in their hedonism with me. I loved it.

I loved it until I got involved with Tuesday, anyway.

She knew I was watching her through the weekend after our spree of fetish messages. Little Tuesday wasn’t an idiot and she was learning me in similar ways that I was learning her. I couldn’t play these games with her and not have her learn me. It might have been a strange long distance start and continuation but we had a relationship and there was no denying that. So she was being a playful little thing when she brought another guy home, someone who wasn’t even into fetish. She used him to play a game and she still had Flatline Whore on her tits when she took her shirt off for him. Of course I knew it was really for me because she was facing the window and he stared while she shoved him back, laughter on her face. She dominated him easily like I knew she could likely dominate the hell out of anyone who couldn’t handle her and her unbridled desires. He didn’t know what to do with her, a college kid that she had found for a playful one night stand. He looked like he thought he was using her when she was using him for something far worse like the little devil I knew her to be under that sweet face.

The setup was insanely perfect. It was everything I should have loved to play through. My dick wanted me to message her while she was fucking so I could watch her lift the phone to read my instructions and filthy profanities while trying to hide it from someone who had no idea what fire he held in his hands.

But the rest of my body wouldn’t let me. My mind seethed with the thought that he wasn’t mean enough or hard enough to deserve her. She didn’t even orgasm though she faked it. And my blood burned hot with the thoughts that she was mine. She was fucking mine and it was the stupidest thought I had ever fucking had.

I stared at my phone blankly instead of playing, my sexuality finally broken and I closed my eyes because I knew why. It wasn’t a good thing. It was a bad thing.

I had loved before, though I didn’t love easily. Which made it sound like my love was a kind of rare gift, but that wasn’t the case.

Not even close.

My love was a terrible thing, a torturer’s love. I had heard doms talk before of how they had been so hardcore and then fallen for a girl and they’d been tormented with thoughts like “if I love her why do I hurt her?” They’d go softer, walking a line between their need to care for their loved one and their desire to give the partner all the hard kink games they had come to enjoy.

That hadn’t been the case for me. I turned worse, far worse, with my love. My attention on one girl? It was consuming, life altering, and it was terrible. If I only playfully tormented with a playmate, I started to torture them when my feelings rose. If I had tortured them already?

I made to break them. I commanded them to orgasm denial until they started to beg me for the cane so that the pain would help distract them from the terrible frustration build. It was one of my favorite games. In my mind I saw Two kneeling and her eyes tearful as I coldly commanded her to another week of denial. After the first week, her eyes would get that tortured, hopeless look. She wouldn’t even beg me to let her cum anymore with that same hopelessness. She would start miserably begging for torture in my dark dungeon instead, her days turned to hell. I would so thoroughly break her that it would be more punishment to not give her pain than it would be to cane her so hard she screamed.

It scared me. I was already in the darkest, deepest waters with Two and I already enjoyed things like turning her name into a number and raping her in her back room when she didn’t know it was me. And I knew what my act was. I knew that, while it had been a game, she didn’t know that. It had been fucking dangerous and I couldn’t be careful enough to play that way. It was so dubiously consensual that when it was happening, it could be called rape and that wasn’t a wrong term for the sheer violence of what we’d done, what I’d done.

This was the girl I had fallen for. I knew that. I knew that now because I got so fucking violently angry when I saw her with someone else that it was painful. It actually hurt how hot my blood went and while I was a violent person, a deviant fuck, I was rarely an angry person. So I knew that I had fallen for Tuesday Holter and fallen hard. Somewhere in watching her for my games and flirting with her and fucking with her head while I talked to her of heavy metal CDs, I had fallen to some kind of feelings.

And what would I do to Tuesday, who was already so far down the edge line with me that it was hard to be careful enough? When my love was a torture that made me wilder, what would I do to this girl who was already dangerous? No one else had suffered through my affection, if it could even be called that. No one else had ever been able to handle my Valentine’s Day when it involved finally introducing them to my dungeon. Because no playmate had ever elected to go back a second time to my dungeon. Even if I sent pictures beforehand, they didn’t like the actual acts that happened there.

How the fuck could I ever expect Tuesday to suffer me when my Valentine card for her would be the worst I ever sent? I remembered her words when she thought I was gone after I made her kneel on the floor while waiting for my permission to take her blindfold off. “But I already belong to someone.” She had whispered it so brokenly before she had had time to think through the trauma of my crime and realize it was me. It had made me stop and stare at her where she knelt so obediently because I knew she was talking about me owning her.

God, it wasn’t fair. My phone vibrated with her messages in between her fucking with the college kid who was touching what I apparently considered mine even though I hadn’t collared her and wasn’t dating her. My cock couldn’t even get hard enough to play and I ignored the messages, closing my eyes and suffering this torture because I deserved it for loving her when she was a diamond, a treasure, and deserved a dom who would eat her little pussy out so hard and often that she could orgasm on command.

But in the back of my mind I had another thought. That type of dom wouldn’t satisfy her and she’d walk all over them just like she’s walking all over her one night stand.

And then right on the heels of that thought was another. I’m sorry, Tuesday.

Sorry. Not because I was fallible to emo shit but because I knew she was going to suffer so much harder than even I had planned. She hadn’t signed on for this shit. She hadn’t said she wanted a relationship at all, had even talked about how her relationships had all been failures because she liked it a little too rough and it caused things like insecurity problems in her partners. I wouldn’t have issues with that but she might be relationship wary if her heart had been wounded.

I closed my eyes, ignoring my phone, and covered my face with my hands instead. I fell asleep with the pump of violence choking me, the need to tame and punish my wayward submissive for daring to let another touch my body. Harsh lust beat me senseless and my dreams were wild things that were on the verge of murderous. But they weren’t quite because I knew in my soul that I would never be able to maim or kill little Tuesday. Even in my dreams I couldn’t think of her dead, though I had gone through my fair share of snuff fantasies and necrophiliac play with submissives who didn’t mind ice and thought it was as hot as I did. But not Tuesday. No, I wanted her beautiful eyes open and filled with tears whenever I had the urge to see them. I wanted the glow of her face when she came so fucking hard from my torture that her cunt constricted my cock. I wanted to see her struggling in ropes in my dungeon, alive with fear and wondering where she’d been kidnapped to when I invariably had her blindfolded the first time I took her there. I wanted to wait in hiding for her and have to cover her terrified scream when I assaulted her in her own apartment, wanted to feel her writhing and shaking in more of that delicious terror that warmed me to my heart.

Pretty Tuesday. Hardcore Tuesday. My Torture Toy Tuesday.

I didn’t answer her. I couldn’t. Instead I lay still and collected myself and let the feelings bathe me, rethinking my games with her.

————

Tuesday

He wasn’t answering and it was terrible. I remembered what he’d said when he played off my orgasm denial as punishment. That he wasn’t so cruel as to cut me off. But he was cutting me off now and it was even worse than it would have been then. I was sad without my playmate, worried that I might have done something to hurt him and hating that I didn’t know. Would he ever talk with me again? Had I severely fucked up with my slutty little game? I wasn’t sure but knew that I missed him, a lot. I missed having someone to talk with about things like how awesome Pantera was. And I missed having someone who understood how much of a freak I was. Because where every other dom or relationship I’d been with had eventually slipped up with something judgmental or shocked, Flatline hadn’t been shocked about anything. I could throw things like piss play fetishes at him on a spur of the moment horny spree and he wouldn’t judge at all. He would play back. I had never had someone to talk with so freely and now that he wasn’t talking I felt the absence. It was only four days but by the fourth I wore my cuffs sadly, for comfort. It was stupid if you considered I didn’t know who he was and didn’t even know his name, couldn’t even visualize him in my head because he wouldn’t let me see him. I worked with my automatic customer service but inside I thought of my cuffs and how I would give all of his gifts back if he would just give me one message or sign that he was still alive and didn’t hate me. I was sorry, so sorry I had crossed whatever line had been crossed and I’d never do it again. He didn’t have to fuck me and he didn’t have to ever let me see him if I had wounded him. But I wanted his talking back so I could have a friend who understood again.

The day was boring but productive. During the middle of it I didn’t have my phone calls or my texts to give me something to think about while I sorted Magic cards and comics and that depressed me a little bit. I wasn’t trying to be totally dramatic. Even if Flatline had just gotten what he wanted and left I would have recovered. It would have felt weird because I didn’t think he was that kind of guy at all. He was the opposite of that, confrontational and right in the face in the most abrasive way possible. He would have told me to my face if he just wanted to fuck.

The phone rang while I was closing and I jumped with both hope and fear. It’s probably not even him and you’re going to be disappointed so get hold of yourself. I tried and it was harder than I cared to ever admit. I answered with my greeting, my voice soft with the longing I was trying to control.

“Take your sweatshirt off. Go back to the same fucking bookshelf, get the mask, put it on, and wait. And no fucking bullshit, Tuesday, because I’ll torture you if you do.” My head snapped up from the first word because it was him, but there was something as intense as fury in his voice and somehow it made me even more scared than I’d been when I wasn’t sure who it was.

Obediently I went to the shelf, sitting the phone on the table because he’d tersely said his command and hung up. The mask this time was serious leather and I staggered through figuring out the straps with shaking hands, trying to be quick because he didn’t sound like he felt all too patient. I had pushed my luck, I realized now, and that thought was terrifying. I hadn’t meant to make him angry. It seemed like the kind of games he would love so why did my stomach feel sick with what might be coming?

I jumped to the sound of the lock, too scared to say anything, but wanting to say I was sorry a thousand times over. I had always been a pleaser personality but college had at least made me a little tougher, a whole lot less of a coward. I could handle confrontation now, things like that.

But he made me a little coward again. I turned into a mouse with him, a squeaking, frightened mouse. So I didn’t say anything because he hadn’t told me to say anything. He was all over me when the door was locked and the shutters closed though, one hand locking my wrists behind me. Again, he manhandled me, shoving me forward with all his roughness and he had so much of that. I staggered in front of him blindly, knocking into a shelf when I panicked and tugged against him in confusion. “Helpless little fucktoy.” He used his other arm to make a kind of cage around me after that.

“Please…” I whimpered it even though it terrified me to say anything at all. But it escaped, a single little plea for some mercy because his energy and the words when he said them indicated a black mood, so dark it made me tremble. He was pissed at me.

No that wasn’t right. There was no real anger in his voice. It was heavily controlled, but there was hard violence and stern ferocity. “Shut your fucking mouth, Tuesday. I’ll tell you what to say when I want you to talk and you better mimic the words I give you like a goddamned recorder.” When he stopped walking with me, he released me only to start ripping through my clothes again. “I think you got the wrong idea about some things, Tuesday, so we’re going to correct those things.” I felt the knife and whimpered, shivering. My hands raised to my stomach in a self protective instinct, but I didn’t dare lift them to try to stop him. He laughed and merely cut through my bra. The jeans and shoes he pulled off too until I stood bared for him, and blinded, shaking.

He shoved me forward, forcing me into position against my spare table again, but this time I felt rope quickly tying my ankles to each table leg. I might not have been in the same panic as before, but when I was tied and felt hot dread at his wrath I thought the panic might have been preferable over this slow building terror. This was a sense of foreboding, a sense that intensified with his every action and word. Something bad was coming.

I flinched when his hands reached up to cup my tits and then slap them harshly. He was like a dark cage behind me, a wall again, so big while I was small. At first I moaned when his fingers touched my nipples but then he cinched them and I yelped and bit my lip, quieting myself. When he stopped I heard the clink of metal and my foreboding intensified.

“Cup your tits.” He said it softly and it was more frightening than his normally so commanding voice. “I want you to offer them up to me for punishment.”

My pussy ran wet even while it was so mean, but my hands lifted to obey anyway. They were shaking, but I cupped them around the base of my breasts and tentatively lifted. He reached around me, cold metal brushing me and then there was a pause while he opened the clamps. When they fell, it was the worst I had ever had. I had experienced clover clamps before but I knew they came in larger sizes and I had no doubt that an evil motherfucker like him would use clover clamps, but these were something out of a nightmare. I choked at the shock of how much pain there was, actual bile rising in the back of my throat, which had never happened to me before, literally never. My pain tolerance was goddamned high. The second clamp closed and I sucked in air through my teeth, my body vibrating while I danced on my toes. “That’s it, breathe through it.” His voice was calm, but menacing, and I felt the chain between my breasts tugged hard while something heavy swung against my chest. I was already crying because even while he soothed me with his evil voice, he was adding weights to the worst clamps I’d ever experienced. A second weight followed and then a third and by that point there was so much pain I wasn’t even sure another weight would matter, but he stopped there anyway, while the chain swung heavily, each arcing curve a trial for me. I didn’t even pay attention when he twisted my arms behind me and locked my gorgeous cuffs together. He pressed me over the table and I was left cold for just a moment. And then I heard a skittering on the tile floor that almost made me wet myself. I knew what that skittering sound was. It was horror and fire hot pain. That sound had been bad with other playmates. What would he do to me? He, who had clamps larger than any other and then had still added weights?

I choked out a sentence in a sense of surreality, a sentence I was barely aware of that was a thought I didn’t even remember having. “The table isn’t sturdy.”

He chuckled behind me. “Oh, I’m well aware. I’ve got you.” And, indeed, his hand was at my wrists, holding me, and he was a dark force behind me and to the side and I knew he really did have me.

I didn’t hear a thing before I felt the first cane track, didn’t have a warning, but I had been right to be afraid of it in his hands. It was hellfire, like something out of a nightmare and he connected it with the most tender area on the backs of my thighs. I couldn’t even scream from the shock of the first one and that was just fucking one. And he made it clear he had no intention of stopping. The second was right at the seat of my ass and his hand had to hold my wrists tighter to keep me from kicking the table off balance. The third was right in the middle of my cheeks. The fourth was somewhere in the middle of those two and by that one I felt like I should be bleeding. I had seen bloody cane tracks in videos and I wasn’t sure what it felt like but the farther he went the more it seemed this must be it. This was the feeling that went with those torture porn videos. I was crying, actually sobbing with terror and agony. He couldn’t see my eyes and we had never set safe words and I wondered now how I could have been so stupid as to not ask him about them. How would he know if he was breaking me? How would he know if it was too much and I didn’t come back from it okay? Five left me breathless for a second so I couldn’t draw my protest and he was still playing. Six. Seven. The number went up. I finally managed to talk after eight.

“Please!” It was choked, a jagged screech. “Please, you said you wouldn’t hurt me!”

But it was a weak protest. I knew why he was hurting me. He hadn’t liked my game over the weekend, hadn’t liked it at all. I thought he would stop at ten, but he didn’t. I had to focus like hell to keep my cries down and it was the hardest thing I’d ever done, but I was terrified of being too loud and raising his ire. He continued my caning without answering me and I sobbed, losing any hope that he’d ever stop and that this would be the last thing I ever felt.

“Please,” I whimpered when he paused. “Please…” It was so soft and weak and pathetic. I thought we were at 20 but didn’t know for sure anymore. I had lost track.

I heard the ripping sound and for all of 20 seconds I had hope that he was done with hurting me. The weights from my clamps shifted under me across the table and I breathed deep breaths, thinking of how bad they would hurt when he removed them. But then all my hopes were shot to hell when I felt his fingers thrust in my asshole with lubricant and then felt the broad head of the cock that had caused so much pain in my pussy, but now it pressed to my asshole.

I panicked, seriously panicked. The cane stripes were like lines of fire all over my ass and thighs and he was big, too big. I struggled and he laughed at my efforts. “Go on, then, fight me. But this lube will let anything in that little hole and besides, you’re such a whore that you want this. But if you keep fighting I’m not going to let you cum.”

I went dead still, instantly, shaking. I didn’t know what this was but it felt like one hell of a punishment so I hadn’t dared hope for an orgasm. When he suggested I could have one I grabbed hold of the thought like a lifeline and even managed to arch for him. He laughed behind me at my acquiescence and pressed inside my hole while I tried my best to relax and take it.

I definitely didn’t do a very good job. His cock felt like it was ripping me apart, lubricant or no, and he pressed inch by inch… by inch. He was merciless and slow, while my world narrowed down to nothing but the cock that was the most massive thing I’d ever felt. It was a hundred times worse than the toys. I moaned when his balls tapped my pussy, the feel of the denim of his jeans inflaming cane strikes that flared with his movements.

I vibrated beneath him and I couldn’t think. All I had was feeling and all of that was feral. He lifted me from the table, holding me up by my hair while he taunted me, his voice cruel and unforgiving. “Now, let’s correct some things. These tits? These are my fucking tits, Tuesday, do you understand?” He yanked the heavy chain so that I squealed in torment.

“Yes, sir! Yes, master!”

He released the chain but then he did something worse and caned the tops of my breasts three times quickly before he switched to the tender underside. My asshole pulsed on his cock with every torture. “Tell me then. Whose tits are they?”

“They’re your tits! They’re yours!” I shouted it and I’d sing it if he wanted me to. If it would please him so he would show me mercy.

“That’s right. Mine.” I choked when he released the clamps, my world spinning behind the blindfold. Before I got my bearing he pulled partially out of my ass and reached down to pinch and twist a cane track, a particularly brutal one by the way it felt. “Now, you little fucking whore, whose tortured ass is this?”

He shook me by my hair, his intensity and furious command rising. “Yours, master.” I mewled it desperately. “It’s your tortured ass.”

“Good girl.” But he gave me more pain instead of a reprieve, squeezing and slapping my asscheek before he abruptly thrust inside my asshole. He fucked in a punishment rhythm, possessing me more than words with his cock and his hands still holding me still. He worked me into a painful frenzy before he stopped and I moaned in protest. “Whose gaping, foul asshole is this? Whose tight little hole am I ruining?”

His words sizzled through me after his brutality and cruelty. I felt enslaved and owned, filthy and desecrated. There was a tempest burning through me, a dangerous storm that felt like it wouldn’t stop building until it killed me and burned out my nerve endings. “It’s your gaping, foul asshole. Your tight little hole to ruin.” It came out breathy and surrendered.

“Good girl. And whose dripping, greedy cunt is this? Whose horny little pussy am I ignoring to hurt you instead?”

I squealed when his fingers brushed over the slit of my sex, forgetting that I was even capable of feeling pleasure in the midst of all the torture but I felt a lot of pleasure. I felt a fucking ton of pleasure.

“Yours!” I shouted it, eager and needy, squealing desolately for him to keep going and finish this and I didn’t even care how he did it anymore. I just knew he would and could. I just knew that I was lost in that whirlwind inside me but he had the keys to the kingdom. “It’s your dripping, greedy cunt to ignore to hurt me instead!”

“Good girl.” It felt like I had earned those two words and I savored the way they felt rolling across my body. The way they made me arch to him in impossibly deep, mindless submission. He laughed and gave me a few more thrusts before he stilled again. “And what about this swollen little clit? Whose is that?” His fingers were on my pussy again, spreading me. They brushed across my lips and I squealed, eyes going wide when he flicked my piercing. But then he lifted my ring and I felt pain with whatever clamp device he applied right on my clit.

I pant through the answer, fucking myself back on his cock as a coping mechanism. “Your swollen clit, master! It’s yours!”

“Good girl.” He banged into me, making me pant and struggle in my cuffs, his body an unforgivable force while he held me and hurt me harder. His cock had passed the point of pain and was into a wide, terrible stretching pressure that transformed my subspace into something hotter and blissful. My nerve endings screamed and he didn’t give me an ounce of pleasure. He fucked my asshole with dominant possession and all of me hurt from his punishment.

I sobbed, trembling when he stopped and lifted me by my hair again, holding me up at an angle. I heard something opened on the table, rustling that made me both salivate for whatever came next and shake with dread for the pain that went with it. “Once again, so I know you understand it, one more time. Whose tits are these?”

Before I could answer I felt him use one hand to hold my breast still and felt something touch the top. And then torture and pain lanced through me as whatever he held was punctured and forced into the flesh of my breast. I cried harder, struggling. “What are you doing? Don’t, please, don’t! Oh God, no!” I screeched it because another pressure started, followed by the sharp, hot pain, and I couldn’t do anything to escape.

“I’m torturing you,” he answered softly, amused, and again I felt that sharp hatred of his amusement, that he could feel it so cruelly when my world was being ripped apart by his smallest whims. “I thought of nailing these tits and being meaner but there wasn’t much to play with you here, so nice, pretty needles will have to do through the meat of them instead.” His words were deliberately nauseating and I choked on bile again when I felt another on the other breast, sweat coating me as the pain rose and fell in such sharp shocks. “And why am I piercing these tits? Whose tits are they?” He said it almost pleasantly, conversationally, and I felt something that made me cry all the harder even while he pierced me again.

His cock was turning even fucking harder inside of me with his arousal. He was horny as fuck from what he was doing to me, from the hell he was giving me. From the fact that I was sobbing in actual misery for him. “I- it’s…” I couldn’t fucking think to give him what he wanted. “Please.”

He growled softly. “I was going to be kind and stop at two through each since that’s a nice, even number and you really have been such a good girl. But it seems you need some more torture to help you think.”

I squealed when he added another needle and my teeth chattered. And there was something else. I arched back on that harsh cock inside of me and there was something like an abyss on the verge of swallowing me, like I was approaching a timeless event horizon. Nothing mattered anymore, nothing at all. There was only pain and my dark, horrible world of surrender to him and he felt more like my master and cruel owner than he ever had. That event built ever higher and I was almost scared of it.

A needle went through my other tit and he paused, waiting. “Well, little Tuesday? I asked you a question.”

I gasped, panting. I knew the answer. I could think enough to say it, too. So why didn’t I?

“Alright, then, naughty little whore.” Another pierce that made me cry and whimper. I wondered if there was any blood to them and my cane tracks, hoped there was. I wanted these marks of his to be terrible and harsh to look at in the mirror. I wanted to be able to see my body and flinch at the sight of them when they garishly reminded me of this wild possession. 

And then there was the second pierce, always in the same place on the other tit, always even. “They’re your tits to hurt and pierce and nail.” It came out a hoarse whisper, a lost little sound that was only capable of parroting him.

“That’s fucking right.” He shoved me forward and pulled out of me to slap my ass, pinching a cane track before he slapped again. His cock brutalized me when he started again and his fist was in my hair, painfully holding me. “My tits, Tuesday. My cunt, my clit, my asshole, my ass. Those are my lips and my throat and my tongue.” He reached around to grasp my throat with his other hand, releasing my cuffed wrists and suffocating me instead. “My air to take from you.”

I barely whispered the words with the last of my breath. “Yours, master. Yes, master.” I wasn’t sure he even heard and I didn’t even care because I was lost to him. That dark abyss was growing more demanding in its pull and my body was chanting his, his, his, his… his cunt and clit. His everything. He could have killed me then and I wouldn’t have even been aware enough to protest him. I realized he had released me to let me breathe and couldn’t remember when. He was flicking the clip on my clit instead, railing my asshole so hard that I didn’t think I’d ever be the same.

The orgasm roared through me, shrieked like a demon inside of me. I heard hard laughter over the roaring in my ears and felt my mouth covered but I didn’t care how loud I was, didn’t care that he was laughing at me, didn’t care about anything except every last shudder of exquisite agony.

I don’t know what was after that for a few minutes. Maybe I passed out or was simply lost to orgasm aftershocks. What I did know was I came back to him and he was growling through his own wild orgasm and that growl set me off again in a smaller shock of pleasure because it wasn’t his usual growl. It was harder, laced with feral animalism. And it thrilled me how that growl owned me. Those sounds of his were punctuated with soft breaths of amusement when he felt me squeezing on his cock some more.

I went still on the table when he pulled out of me but my legs collapsed like last time and I had a brief terror that the table wouldn’t hold me and I would bring it down. But that didn’t happen. He held me up with a calming shush sound and I felt the knife at my ankles, cutting through the ropes. He removed the clit clip and I fell at his knees, my head falling in a bow of exhausted submission, my asshole sore. I felt a tugging at my breasts, but no pain, and it took me a full minute to realize he was removing the needles. “Don’t move, pretty little whore. You be a good girl while I clean the blood you’ve given me.” 

“Yes, master.” I kept my head bowed, respectful, afraid of him, in awe of him.

When he came back I leaned to his touch, lifting to him with a soft whimper while he cleaned the tops of my breasts. I was practically liquid in his hands, moving how he guided me, falling forward when he gently nudged me so that he could clean my ass with the soft cloth he used. He washed my pussy and hurting asshole afterwards while I shivered. “Now, what lesson did I teach you?”

“It’s your tits you’re cleaning and your pussy and ass, master.”

“That’s right, Tuesday. This is my body to use and abuse, no one else’s, understood? I give you pain and make you cum. Those orgasms are gifts from me and I say how much they hurt and how much torture you take. From now on this is mine, sweet little whore.” His hands rattled the chain tethering my cuffs and I shuddered with the harsh gesture, at odds with the gentle way he pet my hair.

“Yes, master.” I was happy to agree to it, thrilled with what he had done in a way that almost horrified me. How could I like that? And yet I did. I loved him a little bit for what he’d done, for how cruel he had the balls to be while he was so careful at the same time. So, being his? It hadn’t been planned but I didn’t give a shit. “I’m yours.”

“Good girl. I’m going to make you my pain craving slut. I’m going to condition your body to need it to even be able to cum, baby. And it’s going to be a nightmare that others would dread and I’m going to make you love every second. Your little boy toys don’t deserve a chance to touch you anyway.”

“W-what?” Didn’t deserve it? How was I supposed to take that?

He kissed my head. “You heard me. You would be wasted in a vanilla relationship. Now, same rules as before.” He removed the chain from my cuffs and I wasn’t sure I was ready for him to let me up from the bondage. But he wasn’t quite done either and I was grateful for it. He bent me forward to rub cream on my ass and then on my breasts and I lifted my head in the direction I thought he was, wondering if I was pleasing to him now. “Sweet little whore. See how nice I can be when you behave?”

“Y-yes, master.”

He chuckled and settled me back on my knees, placing the phone in my hands. I cradled it and there was a smile in his voice. “When it rings you may take off the blindfold, but until it does stay right where you are.”

“Yes, master.”

There was silence for a long time like last time while I shifted on my knees and waited quietly, feeling a strange feeling. It was kin to the last scene he’d done, where I’d felt hollow and emptied by his force. My body was sore in a hundred places but every shift that ignited some heat left me hot and needy. I sniffled, a few tears leaking from the blindfold, because I loved it. I loved every sore feeling and my caned tits and the needles and holy hell, the needles. The phone broke my reverie and I lifted it.

“Hello,” I said softly.

Like the last time, he didn’t answer and I swallowed nervously, tearing the blindfold off, wondering if he would be waiting to get in a party with me again when I got home. But then that thought scattered because I saw what he’d left me.

It was the kind of dress I only dreamed about, a red dress with chiffon gracefully making a cover skirt, and a matching shawl went with it. It was a soft delight when I put it on and immediately never wanted to take it off. He had left my jeans this time and that made me laugh and feel grateful. They would fit just fine in my backpack and I’d start running out if he kept taking them. I had way too many shirts but not as many jeans and little to no skirts or dresses. I pranced in my new one, using the shawl to cover the lettering I had put on my tits since it hadn’t fully faded. I cleaned over my back room and closed up, rushing to get home even while I danced and turned a circle. I felt owned and sexually charged. Someone knew how fucked up I was and that someone didn’t just accept me. He enjoyed it and reveled in it. He was just as bad. This felt like cloud nine and I thought about his voice in my ear, thought about how rough he was and his scent. Because he smelled like my own personal aphrodisiac. Or maybe that was because he already so aroused me. I didn’t message him even though it was hard to refrain. I just didn’t want to break the spell. I wanted to feel his lead some more, like a rope around my throat, like the way he’d taken my breath.

I still wore my cuffs even with the gorgeous dress because they made me happy.