Painslut.com is the working title of the next piece that I'm working on.
Here is a teaser, Ch1.
Be welcome to leave comments. That will stimulate the creative flow.
Only a draft though.
If life gives you lemons...
If life gives you lemons, you should make lemonade. Only two months ago, we were your garden variety, secure, solid middle class couple, with a few kinks thrown in for fun, like me, being an abject sex slave, for my husband’s use.
Now, we are unemployed, laid off, staring ruin in the face. We are sitting in our den, watching the pile of bills on the floor, and staring at each other. I try to focus on the positive:
All the bills are current.
John scratches his thick brown hair, "Until the end of the month."
After a few moments of silence he adds, "Then it’s kaput."
I turn to the computer. As things stand now, the internet is our cheapest form of entertainment and, boy, do we need it.
I log in to the bdsm forum we frequent, wondering who is there to chat with today. While I look at the personals, more for fun than anything, since we have never played with anyone else, Steven nibbles at my neck. I sense his tension, his stress; it has been eating at him ever since he got laid off from his accounting job. I rub his hair. His hand makes its way, under my blouse. It sneaks in, under my bra, and cups my breast. I inhale; he squeezes. I close my eyes, feeling his hand around my soft globe. He squeezes again, hard.
I yelp and open my eyes. On the screen, I see an ad:
Wanted: Female slave for a weekend. $5000.00. No permanent damage. Taskmaster234
His head is nuzzling at my cleavage," Stop it!" I say.
He looks at me. I never tell him to stop, ever. I am his slave after all.
"Look at this," I tell him, pointing at the ad." It will hold us for a month; two if we stretch it."
"You are joking," I can see he is not amused.
"Do you have any better ideas?"
He doesn’t need to answer. The expression in his eyes is answer enough. I’ve seen it only twice before and both times it broke my heart. It is the look of defeat plastered on the face of someone who never admits defeat; who always goes down fighting. The look that says he’s fired his last bullet, and it was a dud.
The last time I saw that look on his face was when his business collapsed, during the dot com debacle; I woke up alone, in our bed; a horrible premonition shook my guts and I rushed out of bed, barefoot, and went looking for him. I found him in the living room, sitting on an armchair, looking out the window into the dark night; there was no moon. In his hand, he had a gun. I remained, frozen at the door of the living room, unsure of what to do. After long minutes, he saw me.
"I thought I heard something," he said, getting up.
He left the gun on the kitchen counter and returned to bed with me. Had it been true, had he really heard something, he would never have left the gun downstairs, out of reach. I did not sleep that night.
I kiss his lips, my hands around his face.
"I can do this," I say.
He shakes his head.
"Let me do this for you, I beg, let me save the day."
He looks at the screen again. I see he is at least considering it.
Good question. Could I?
A spark of an idea blooms in my mind.
"Order me to do it."
"Yes, order me to do it. I couldn't do it on my own, I'm sure. I am your slave, am I not? Well, simply order me to go spend the weekend with this Taskmaster234. You make the arrangements with him and just order me to do it."
I feel the tiniest drop of moisture peeking out of my nether lips. He looks me directly in the eyes and, after a moment, I see him smile.
"This excites you?" he asks.
My hands open the buttons of my blouse, "E-mail the man."
I turn my chair around so I see him, typing on the keyboard but no longer see the screen. He hits enter. My hand cups my breast; my fingers find the nipple, already erect. I am breathing faster, deeper. My other hand opens the button of my jeans. He watches the screen and starts typing again. Taskmaster234 must be on the chat room since John types frantically on the keyboard. My finger finds my folds, already slick with my love oils. One finger slips inside.
He turns around, looking at me pleasuring myself. He does not interrupt me; instead he relaxes his back on the chair and, over the thick fabric of his jeans, caresses his cock. I wonder what arrangements he made with Taskmaster. My pussy gushes juice at the thought. I slide over to where he sits, straddling one of his thighs. My mouth is already open when his lips meet mine. He crushes my lips with his; his tongue penetrates my mouth, seeking mine. My nostrils fill with his smell. Leather, he smells like leather. His smell invades my brain throwing my body into overdrive. His arms come around me, crushing me into his chest.
"Go to the bedroom and strip," he orders.
Gasping for breath I walk to our bedroom. As soon as I reach it, I remove my blouse, shoes, jeans, socks and panties. I am not wearing a bra today. My C size breasts float free on my chest crowned by pink nipples that, already, stand alert. Once I am nude, I kneel on the carpeted floor and await his pleasure. My thighs are open, knees spread apart; I feel the cool air on the moisture that beads on my dewy lips. I rest my butt against my heels and lay my hands down on my thighs, palms upwards. I concentrate on my breathing, taking slow, deep breaths, trying to slow down my racing heart.
He enters the room, carrying a glass of scotch. The sight of the liquor, and the two ice cubes, tinkling in the glass fills me with joy. John likes to drink but, as opposed to many, he does not drink when he is troubled; when he has problems, he does not drink liquor; he will continue to drink wine with meals; he is of French ancestry after all, but he only takes strong drinks when he is happy. He has not had a glass of scotch or brandy in more than a month.
"Get the black crop," he orders, stepping into the bathroom.
Attached to the wall inside the walk-in closet is a locked cabinet; it wouldn’t do for the cleaning ladies, when we could afford that service, to find what it contains. It is a museum, a record if you will, of our exploration of the S&M world. Inside hangs our very first flogger, a ridiculous cat of nine tails, made of black velvet. I remember the breathless excitement I experienced when I went into the sleazy sex shop to buy it; I would have bought it over the internet but John told me to get it at the store. We haven’t used it in years, having graduated to more authentic devices still; it hangs, unused from its peg.
I pick up the black crop. This one is a worn, ordinary leather riding crop, with a wide flapper on its end. I like it a lot; it stings but doesn’t cut the skin. It hurts, a lot if used hard, but does not fill me with terror as does, for instance, the cane, or the bullwhip. This, plus asking his choice of venue, the bedroom instead of our insulated basement, tells I will not be cropped too hard; unless he gags me, of course.
"Bring the gag too, while you are there."
I pick up the ball gag, the only one we keep here. Most of the equipment we keep in the basement, where it is usually used; the whips, canes and crops we keep here, so we have access to them on the spur of the moment, as now. Also it pleases John to have me come up the stairs to pick up the tools of my torture, and take them down to the basement. I find the walk up, and even more, the return trip down the stairs, carrying a whip, crop, or God forbid, cane, so exciting that often, I can barely walk with need by the time I reach the basement.
John sits on the chair; he’s removed his shirt and wears only chinos. Naked, carrying the black crop in one hand and the ball gag in the other, I approach him. I kneel in front of the chair, placing the gag on the floor and extend my hands to him, the crop lying across them. He picks up the crop tapping the palm of his hand with it.
He delays, watching me kneel in front of him, my eyes cast down, my breasts trembling on my chest, the nipples erect, betraying my arousal. I keep my thighs open, feeling the cool air on my moist lips. My nostrils detect the faint musk of my own arousal. I wonder if he can smell it too. He taps my breasts with the crop, its flapper flicking my nipples, little stabs of pain, hidden in the intense arousal they elicit. I gasp for breath.
I risk a peek at him; not at his face, no, that would be easily detected; no, instead, I peek at his crotch. He is hard, that much is obvious even under the thick fabric of his chinos. He flicks my nipples again and I whimper; not in pain, but in need. Need that burns in my loins, need that bulges in my tunnel, need that grows, like a basketball between my thighs.
"Yes, I shall crop your breasts," he announces. Get ready.
I take the ball gag and put it on, fastening the strap behind my head. I take my own breasts in my hands, holding them up for him. Now that he has announced his decision, I look up at his face, resting my eyes on his strong features. His brown eyes look through rather than at me; as if he could see inside me, see my deepest desires, my deepest fears, and my strongest needs. He gestures at me and I turn, at right angles to him.
He does not tell me how many strokes he will give me. He starts, high on the targets that I hold up for him. The first cut of the cane falls where the breast meets the chest. I yowl in pain, although, through the gag it comes out as a muffled Mfffff.
The next one falls just below, and my muffled scream is louder. Even though this is a mild crop, all things considered, it is still very painful and brings tears to my eyes. More cuts on my breast follow, until the crop hits the edge of the areola. I’ve managed to remain, quietly in position until now. This last cut makes me jump back in startled pain. I let go of my breasts and rub them gingerly. I come back to my senses soon and resume position offering my breasts up for sacrifice.
He signals the bed with his hand. I get on the bed, supine and, holding my breasts by the nipples, pull them up towards my head. The soft and tender underside will be the crop’s target now. I cry even harder as he cuts a new series of red stripes on the underbelly of my globes. Sweat flies off my titties with every stroke. They feel twice their size and about to fall off, or be ripped off.
He stops. I look at him hopefully, but it is not to be. I sit on the side of the bed and squeeze one of the breasts with my hand. The yet untouched nipple beckons, standing proudly at the end of my boob. I scream through the gag as the crop hits it. He hit it hard, and he does so again, a total of five times. Tears flowing freely I release my breast and pick up the other one.
When it’s over, I kneel in front of him and undo the button and fly on his chinos. He is not wearing underwear and his cock, all ten inches of it, stands proud, rigid, awaiting my attention. My lips engulf the red head and I slobber my saliva over its smooth surface. I take him in my mouth, sensitive to every gasp, every whimper of his breath, and the least vibration of his shaft. My entire world centers on the triangle of dark curly hair in front of my eyes, and the throbbing rod that rises from it and penetrates my mouth. I suck it, as if my livelihood depended on it. My breasts, rubbing on his legs, hurt me, and I whimper in pain through the pole that impales my mouth. I feel his orgasm mount, I suck harder. He pulls his mighty battering ram out of my mouth and spurts gobs of his warm milk on my face and mouth. His spunk covers my face. I rest my body on my heels, smiling. He did not see fit to let me swallow his essence today, but it doesn’t matter, so long as he takes his pleasure on me. I smile at him, come drying on my face.
"I love you," I say.
"Go wash your face."
I go to the bathroom to wash my face; in the mirror I see the stripes on my breasts, angry purple and red lines crossing the white mounds, and my formerly pink nipples, now turned fiery red. I wash his spunk off my face carefully; I would have preferred to wipe his juice off my face with my fingers, and then to lick it off my fingers but such are not his wishes, not today.