Message-ID: <58975asstr$1242389402@assm.asstr.org>
From: "Ms. Which" <whichmiss@gmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Daily Delivery (MF, nc, bd, blackmail)
Lines: 259
Date: Fri, 15 May 2009 08:10:02 -0400
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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Author: Ms. Which
Title: Daily Delivery
Keywords: MF, nc, bd, blackmail

Standard disclaimers apply. This story contains graphic scenes of sexual
violence. If that's not your bag, then turn back now. If you are under the
age of 13, do not even think about reading this.

Feedback is always welcome and may be sent to whichmiss@gmail.com. An
archive of my other stories may be found at
http://www.asstr.org/~mswhich<http://www.asstr.org/%7Emswhich>
.

--

The clock chimed a single tone, telling her that it was half-past the hour.
11:30 AM. She got up from the couch where she'd been half-heartedly reading
a book and went to the front door to unlock it.  She pulled the curtains
closed, first peering outside to check. Nothing yet.

She stepped into her bedroom and took off her blouse, jeans, bra, and
panties. It was a little bit silly, she thought to herself, that she
bothered to get fully dressed on these mornings, but she couldn't bring
herself to sit around the apartment all morning in...the outfit. It was hard
enough for her to concentrate as it was. It had been a month since she
managed to get anything useful at all accomplished before noon.

It had been a month, not coincidentally, since she'd left the curtains open
in the morning.

She opened the top drawer of her dresser and got out the corset, the
thigh-high boots, the garter belt, the gloves. It was difficult for her to
put these things on by herself, but she had little choice, did she?  She
glanced at the clock again.  11:40.  Twenty minutes left.  It would take
fifteen to get into the tight, form-fitting garments.

At 11:55, slightly out of breath and glazed with sweat from her exertions,
she pulled the overstuffed chair into the center of the living room and bent
over it, her stomach pressed against the chair back, one hand grasping each
arm, and her legs aligned with the chair legs. She pressed her cheek against
the soft fur of the upholstery and waited, listening to the clock tick.
11:58.  Two more minutes.

At noon precisely, just as the clock was striking, she heard footsteps on
the front step and then the click of the door latch.  He came in and let the
door close behind him. He always left it unlocked, to save time. She kept
her head down and gripped the arms of the chair tightly, gritting her teeth,
knowing what came next.

A rustling sound, and then a loud crack as his riding crop (compact,
portable; easy to fit into his satchel) struck her on the back of the
thighs. She flinched, but didn't yelp. He didn't like her to make noise.
Another crack, and another flinch. Her knuckles were white. A third crack.
This time tears of pain leaked out of her eyes, and a nearly-inaudible
whimper escaped her throat.  She clenched her jaw together more tightly,
hoping he hadn't heard.

A fourth crack. Usually he stopped at three. She could feel heat rising from
her buttocks and thighs where the whip had landed. She wanted badly to reach
behind her, to protect herself with her hands, but knew not to. That would
be a bad idea. No matter how much it hurt.

And it did hurt. A fifth crack. She gasped audibly. Tears were streaming
freely down her face. Six and seven followed in rapid succession; she
flinched badly, angling her hips and her buttocks away from the whip.  She
heard him chuckle; it sent a thrill of terror through her. And then he
spoke:

"I took a long lunch today."

She knew what this meant. It meant that instead of a few brief minutes like
usual, he had a whole hour to spend. She started crying, not just tears of
pain this time, but full-body sobs.  The whip landed on her again, and then
again, and then again. The pain was unbearable, and she let go of the chair,
turning around to protect her back and face her tormentor.

"I'm sorry," she sobbed, "I just can't, I can't! It hurts too much."

He grinned.  "You can and you will. Unless...you've had enough?"

Her face flamed red, and she shook her head silently. She turned back around
and assumed her regular position again, but he said, "No, I liked the other
view better."

She turned back around to face him. Still grinning, he made her to lean
backwards over the chair, doing an uncomfortable back-bend with her arms
stretched behind her. He bound her wrists to the exposed wooden arms of the
chair with cable ties that he produced from his bag.  Her ankles were bound
similarly. He said, "Now, this time keep your mouth shut," and the whip
landed on her breasts.

She bit her lip so hard it drew blood, in the effort to remain silent.
Another crack on her breasts, and then one across the tops of her thighs.
The fourth landed again on her breasts, and then one between her legs that
made her shriek loudly in pain and writhe frantically and involuntarily,
trying to escape her bonds.

"I liked that one," he said, his voice calm and amused. Another whip crack,
this one in the same place.  He took a balled-up rag and stuffed it into her
mouth to stifle her screams, then hit her between the legs again, twice
more.

"Enough of that," he said, and then undid his pants to release his prick.
He entered her where she lay, stretched backward over her own living room
chair. She made garbled, unintelligible sounds behind the makeshift gag. He
said, "Shut up," and slapped her, hard, across the face, leaving a bright
red mark and bringing fresh tears to her eyes.

"I liked that," he said, and thrusting inside her, began rhythmically
slapping her face, left, then right, then left, then right again, over and
over, so hard that her head was jerking violently from side to side with
each blow.

"Tell me to stop," he said, and when she tried to cry out from behind the
dirty rag in her mouth, he laughed cheerfully and said, "Guess you like it,"
and went back to slapping her.

Eventually he tired of this and began pinching and slapping her breasts
instead. They were already raw from being whipped, and this elicited fresh
sobs and screams from the woman. She was twisting her body, trying to escape
her bonds, but this only had the effect of rubbing her wrists raw and making
her breasts bounce. He liked it, so he didn't make her stop.

After a while, he paused, his prick buried deep inside her, and pulled the
rag out of her mouth.

He said, "Should I stop? Or shall I continue? If I stop, you know what that
means."

One month ago, she'd been dog-sitting the neighbor's dog. It was a friendly
animal, and as she watched it sniffing and licking its dog bowl, she had an
idea...

The next day, the doorbell had rung, and the mailman had been there. She'd
politely asked if there were a package, and instead he'd shown her the
pictures he'd taken with his cell phone camera the previous day, when she'd
forgotten to close her drapes. Pictures of her with peanut butter smeared
over her cunt; pictures of her moaning, arched in pleasure, as the dog
lapped at it.  He grinned at her and told her that he knew her name, and
that with the press of a button, the photos would be on the Internet. On
Facebook. Emailed to her employers. Her family. Her friends. Unless...?

And so here she was, tied to her chair, face bloodied, purple-black bruises
blooming on her thighs and ass, and the mailman's prick deep inside her.

"I'm waiting," he said.

Sobbing, she said, "D-d-don't stop."

He grinned, a huge grin of genuine amusement.  "Say please."

"P-p-please."

A wider grin. "Now say you love me."

"Wh..what?"

He slapped her again, hard.  "Say you love me."

"I...I... no!  I can't!"

He shrugged, and gave her a hard thrust with his cock.  "OK. Your choice.
You and Fido will be online within the hour."

She made a strangled, agonized noise, and then cried out, "No!" and then,
"I..  I love you."  She was weeping.

"Say it again."

"I love you."

"Again." He was fucking her, hard and violent.

"I love you!"

"Now kiss me like you mean it."  He leaned down and pressed his mouth to
hers, and she kissed him back, vigorously, lots of tongue, tears streaming
down her face the entire time.

"That was nice." He pinched her nipples, hard, making her cry out again. He
squeezed them tightly, rolling and pulling at them, stretching them and then
driving his fingernails into the soft, stretched-out flesh. She was making
noises like a trapped animal.

"Beg me to stop and I will."

She cried out, "Please, stop!  Please!  I'm begging you!"

His cock was still sliding in and out of her, thick and fast.

"That sounded sincere. More."

Louder yet, "Please!  Please stop!  I'm begging you to stop! Oh God, it
hurts, please stop!"

He drove a fingernail so far into one of her nipples that it drew blood.
Her back arched even farther than it already was, and she screamed.

"It feels nice when you scream. But I don't want the neighbors to hear." He
stuffed the rag back into her mouth and went on grinding and twisting her
nipples, eliciting fresh cries and sobs, now muffled.

Her body was taut with agony, arms pulled over her head backwards and
strapped tightly against the chair, back arched, legs strapped firmly apart,
with the mailman's swollen cock pounding in and out of her cunt. Just as she
thought he was about to come and end her torment for the day, he stopped
instead, and pulled out of her trembling, shaking body.

"I liked your mouth earlier when you were screaming."

She started shaking her head back and forth, no, no, no, but he laughed
again, and moved to the other side of the chair.  He straddled the chair
legs, positioning his prick in front of her upside-down mouth.  Then,
rapidly, he pulled the rag out of her mouth and shoved his cock into it.
The pressure forced her head painfully against the back of the chair, but
she had no leverage, no ability to stop it or even to move. He started
swinging his hips back and forth, shoving his cock deep into her throat.  He
heard her gagging and choking, and pushed it deeper.

"Now tell me to stop, and I will," he said.

Her choked, muffled cries were immediate, but garbled. He laughed, amused,
and kept fucking her mouth.

"Didn't quite get that. Did you tell me to keep going? Did you say that you
love having me fuck your throat?"

More anguished but unintelligible cries.  He was using the weight of his
body to pin her head against the chair back, working his cock in and out of
her faster and faster.

"More tongue, please," and he grinned again, a big wide grin of sheer
pleasure, as she unbelievably did as he told her, even now, even in as much
pain as she was in.  She was working her tongue over and around his cock
head; this plus his hard, heavy thrusting into her throat finally brought
him to massive orgasm, jets of ejaculate shooting into her throat and
overflowing from the corners of her mouth.  She gagged and choked on it, but
he kept his cock in her mouth to make her swallow.

The clock chimed a quarter-chime. 12:45 pm.  He withdrew from her and put
his clothes back on, buckling his uniform belt carefully and adjusting the
cuffs on his shirt. Only then did he cut the ties on the bruised, bloodied
woman, who collapsed to the floor crying.

"See you tomorrow," he said cheerfully. "Noon sharp."

And then he shouldered his satchel and walked out the door, stopping on the
porch to deliver her mail.
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