Scuttling across the floor behind Mistress, I swallow a whimper. Bare floorboards scuff my knees, the gaps between the planks leave stinging prints on my palms. I stumble a bit, gasping for breath when she yanks on my spotted tie to stop me from face planting.
“Keep up, boy,” she commands in her whip-lash voice.
I choke out a barely intelligible, “Yes, Mistress,” and do my best to pick up the pace.
She tows me from one side of the room to the other. Guiding me around the sofa, weaving me in and out between the coffee table and armchairs. I follow obediently, head held high, arms bent at the elbow, back arched, ass in the air. Presenting myself as per her instructions, performing as perfectly as her Schnauzer did at Crufts.
Around and around we go until I’m blood rush dizzy. When I stumble again, Mistress knots my tie around a coffee table leg. My nose is almost touching the wood and my neck aches in this new position.
On top of the table sits two champagne flutes. Crystal. Expensive. They’re perched precariously close to the edge. Nervousness makes my belly churn. Some people call that sensation butterflies, but I prefer to call it wasps because whenever I feel this quivering type of tension, I know there will be a sting in the tail.
“Those glasses,” Mistress says. “If they fall, you suffer.”
Oh. If they’re in danger of toppling over it means that –
The shock of an unexpected strike across the back of my thighs makes me jerk and I hear the crystal flutes chink. How do I do this? How do I remain completely still when she’s –
– when she’s tiger striping me with a cane? Fingers digging into the rug beneath the table, I try to relax. Try so hard not to tense up, to be ready, to anticipate the impact so that I can breathe into it. I don’t want to rock the table, I don’t want to upset my –
“Ow! Ow, fuck, oh my God, please!”
Five lashes, one after the other, moving from mid-thigh to the bottom of my cheeks to the centre. The sting creeping over my skin like a hot, viscous fluid conjures images of blood. I try to suppress visions of her cane cleaving my flesh because I know she would never allow it to happen, but I can’t stop the horrors my mind floods itself with. Fear has caused my heart to beat dangerously fast, but that’s nothing compared to what it’s done to my cock. I know it’s dripping precum on the floor. I know that, if she keeps up with these blows, the drip will become a pour.
Luckily for me, she stops. Instead of hitting me again, she straddles my ass. I can’t feel anything but welting heat and her careful weight, but I can hear how wet her cunt is. She’s rubbing it on my abused flesh, not for my comfort but for her own pleasure.
I wonder what she’ll do next. Last time she pulled me around by my neck she’d fucked me. Her strap-on wasn’t small, and neither was my orgasm. I’d cried all the way through. I’d begged her to stop, but every time she told me to use my safeword if I was sure I’d pressed my lips together and deepened my back’s arch.
Would she fuck me this time? Would she just rub her pussy against my welts until she came, letting her juices trickle between my cheeks to pool amongst my precum on the floor?
My head spins as she frees my tie from the table and drags me across the room. After taking a second to loosen the choking knot, she throws herself into an armchair. I take a deep breath just in time, because before she’s even had time to get comfortable my face is buried in slick, musky cunt.
“Eat me!” she growls.
Then she doesn’t even give me a chance. Try as I might, I can’t keep up, her need runs away with her, leaving me flailing. She’s rolling her hips, fisting handfuls of my hair and rubbing me against her. Using me. Treating me like an object that exists only to give her pleasure. It’s more than I was expecting. To be put to use in such a way is more than I deserve. This is a treat, she’s spoon-feeding me my favourite meal.
So much for her desire to humiliate me, she’s delighting me. I’m bucking my hips, straightening my legs, grinding my cock into the floor. She’s pushing me down, sliding to the edge of the chair, holding onto my hair to angle my face up.
“Open,” she pants, slapping my jaw until my mouth gapes wide.
I’m staring right at her cunt, at her swollen inner lips, her erratically twitching clit. Her deep red opening pulses once and then I hear a gasped command.
A fountain of hot, tangy fluid sprays my face. It’s in my mouth, trickling down my throat, bubbling in my nose. The smell makes me cringe, the knowledge of what she’s done makes my dick throb once, twice, three times, then shrivel, leaving my balls heavy, my gut twisted up in knots, my humiliation complete.