========
This story is intended for the amusement of adults. Be warned: It contains
VERY rough sexual behavior, though entirely consensual.
file: SHCOM1-2.txt
She Comes to Submit
by
J.P.
(Part One)
The Call
The game always started the same way. She'd be at work,
maybe, or at home. It didn't matter. Perhaps it would be a
phone call, sometimes a package from a messenger. It was almost
always after she hadn't heard from him for weeks, and it was
always a surprise. They both liked it that way...
This time, it began when she was sitting at her desk one
fine Friday morning. The phone buzzed. The receptionist said
there was a call for her. She picked it up.
"Hello, Annie," he said. It wasn't her name. He'd picked
it out for her, and he was the only one who knew it.
"Hello," she said, already feeling her heart beginning to
pound.
"Write this down," he instructed her, and gave her an
address she wasn't familiar with. "Come straight from work, no
stops. Be there at six."
The phone disconnected before she could reply. He wasn't
interested in what she would say. He never was. She stared at
the paper for several minutes, feeling the delicious fear,
shocked at how he could make her sweat, even after two years. Of
course, she was free to not respond, but that wasn't even an
issue. Like an addict, she returned to him at his command, time
after time.
The rest of the day passed with miserable, frustrating
slowness. She ate lunch, but couldn't remember having done so
even an hour later. When she made the same foolish mistake for
the fifth time in an hour, she gave up. Telling the office
manager that she wasn't feeling well, she left for the day. For
three hours, she wandered the streets, stopping to stare into
shop windows, but seeing nothing.
After their last weekend together, so long ago, he had told
her that the next time would be "different". Time for a new
level, he had said mysteriously, time for something...harder. At
the time, the thought of what he might mean had left her aroused
and desperate for his touch. Now, just a few hours from finding
out what he would demand from her, every nerve in her body seemed
electric with new sensitivity. She felt her lips tingle, felt
the thrust of her breasts and her already stiffened nipples
against the restraint of her bra. Her knees felt weak already,
and when she walked, she was hyperaware of the occasional brush
of nylon-covered thighs against each other. Hours from his
touch, her pussy twitched and dampened maddeningly.
5:15 found her walking through the dark parking garage to
her car. As she approached the driver's door, she paused, her
hand which held the key shaking. She had no illusions about what
she was going toward. Although she trusted him implicitly, and
knew he would always make her safety his first priority, she also
knew full well that he would never show her the slightest mercy,
or be in the least bit gentle. Of course, she wouldn't have
wanted him to. After all, what she so craved in their encounters
was that perculiar liberation which came from placing herself
willingly into the grip of a force, a will for which she had no
resistance, from which there would be no escape.
As she slipped into the front seat and started the engine,
her arousal mixed with powerful, and perfectly reasonable, fear.
There was a sense of loosening deep in her bladder and bowels as
she slowly drove off to meet an uncertain fate.
The House
Five minutes before six found her sitting in her car, the
engine still running, her heart pounding. It was always this
way: She would arrive early, then debate with herself as to
whether to walk the final steps which would bring her to him, to
the fate he had in mind for her. Silly, she thought, as if
there's really any chance I won't go!
She looked out of the window, away from the street. The
house loomed before her, partially hidden behind the trees and
shrubs which lined the fence. Beyond the wrought iron gate and
up the flagstone path, she could make out the imposing stone
walls and many-peaked roof. The house scared her. It was so
unlike any setting he'd ever come up with. There was a gothic
atmosphere about the place which conjured up images of dark
passageways and hidden rooms full of unknown (and unknowable)
dangers. She wondered how he'd managed to get the place.
Perhaps he'd arrainged to use the home of a friend, perhaps he'd
rented the house, hell, perhaps he even owned it, she would never
know. No doubt about it, he was always full of surprises. LOTS
of surprises!
Realizing suddenly that she'd forgotten the time, she tore
her eyes away from the house and looked at her watch. She cursed
silently as she saw the time: 6:02. Hurrying out to lock the
car, she prayed his watch was slow. If not, she knew, she'd be
in for more, much, much more. She raced through the gate and up
the path as quickly as her skirt and dress shoes would allow, her
heels clicking in the gathering dusk.
A massive brass knocker hung on the heavy wooden door. She
reached for it, but the door was flung open before she could
knock. She stepped back, startled. He stood before her, his
large frame filling the doorway. He was dressed in deep gray
trousers and jacket, over a heavy black turtleneck. As she had
every time she come to him, she was immediately struck by how
small, how helpless she felt in his presence, even though she was
tall, for a woman.
"You're late," he said flatly. His face had taken on a
dark, brooding, even angry countenance. "There will be a price
to pay for that, later. Do you understand?"
"Yes," she whispered. "I do." She found herself unable to
meet his gaze, and kept her eyes lowered.
"Be sure you understand and accept," he said, his voice
thickening. "Entering this door will be your last act of free
will. Once this door closes behind you, you will have no
choices. You will do what I demand of you, accept what I impose
on you. If you resist...you know from experience that I am
perfectly capable of making you comply. There will be no
discussion, and no reprieve."
He paused to study her face. She felt his eyes explore her
body.
"Do you understand what I've said?" he said.
Taking a deep breath, she stared past him down the darkened
hall.
"Yes," she said finally. "I understand."
"I hope you do," he said softly, and stepped back from the
door. "Make your choice."
There was no choice really. She knew it, and so did he.
For a moment, she struggled to get her trembling legs to accept
the truth, then straightened her back, and stepped past him into
the gloom. The door slammed behind her, and the lock was thrown
into place.
Preparations
She followed him down a darkened hall and through two large
dark rooms. She was impressed by the sense of solidity of the
place, and by its elegance and distictively masculine grace.
Once the door had closed, a profound silence had surrounded them,
a silence she'd never truly experienced in her more modern urban
apartment, or even in his home in his upscale neighborhood. The
thick rugs muffled their footsteps, and it seemed as if the walls
were absorbing the rustling of their passage.
They went down another dark hall, then he led her into a
warmly lit sitting room. Bookshelves, laden with heavy, leather
bound volumes, lined the walls, which were paneled in a rich,
deep mahogany. The heavy velvet curtains admitted no light from
the outside. A stone fireplace dominated one wall.
Without looking at her, he settled into a padded leather
chair, and rather casually pointed to a spot on the rug to his
side. She knew from experience what to do, and knelt at the
indicated place. She spread her knees a little, straightened her
upper legs and back, and laced her fingers behind her neck. Then
she waited, eyes straight ahead, body held rigidly upright, for
him to tell her what to do.
He ignored her, not even glancing in her direction, so
confident was he of her obedience. Picking up a remote control,
he switched on the television, and began to watch the news. As
the minutes slowly passed, her knees began to ache and her back
cramp from her position on the floor, but she remained immobile,
picking a spot on the wall in front of her and concentrating on
staring at it. She half expected that he would turn to her after
just a few minutes, as he had done in the past, but then reminded
herself that she could have no such expectation. This time, he
had promised, everything would be different.
The minutes passed so slowly. The pain in her knees spread
steadily through her legs, cramping her thighs, calves and
buttocks. So intense was the concentration required of her to
hold her position that she was only fleetingly aware of the
television droning on. As her muscles approached exhaustion, she
began to perspire with the effort. Moisture formed on her palms
and neck, beneath her mass of curly brown hair, on the small of
her back, and in her armpits. A single drop crept ticklingly,
maddeningly over her bra and down the side of her ribcage,
finally absorbing into the silk of her blouse. Her entire body
burned and cramped, but she remained still. The time passed.
Finally, it was over. The news program ended, and he muted
the television and turned to her.
"Out of the door and left down the hallway, you'll find a
bathroom. The lights are already on. Leave the door open. I
may be in from time to time to see to it that you're doing as
you're instructed. You'll find some envelopes on the counter.
Open the one marked 'one', and follow th instructions." He
paused for a moment, studying her. "Go now."
Having dismissed her, he restored the television sound, and
turned from her. She rose unsteadily to her feet, her legs
protesting the effort.
The bathroom was ordinary, though well appointed. There was
a large brass trunk open on the floor. She glanced out of the
open door and into the dark hallway, apprehensive at the idea of
being so available, so open to interruption and observation while
in such a private place. Shaking her head to clear such
thoughts, she turned to the counter and found the envelopes. Her
hands trembled as she opened the first one, and read the note
inside.
Leave the door open. Do not delay - you only
have twenty minutes to accomplish your instruc-
tions without incurring further punishment.
Open each successive envelope only after complete-
ing the instructions in the one preceding it.
You may not use the toilet. If you have to go,
too bad. Immediately remove your clothing, and
any jewelry you may be wearing. No foreign objects
are to remain on your body. Place all of this, and
your purse, in the brass trunk. You'll find a pad-
lock on the counter. After you have locked the trunk,
open envelope #2.
She quickly unbuttoned her blouse and dropped it into the
trunk. Her skirt, shoes, garter belt and hose followed. For a
moment she hesitated before removing her bra, then took a deep
breath and dropped it into the trunk. Her nipples were painfully
swollen already. She shivered as she dropped her panties into
the trunk. She was aware of the delightful tingling, dampening,
which had begun between her legs, and smiled at how easily he
could get her aroused with just a few words. Her bracelets,
necklace and ring fell into the trunk.
When she slid the lock home, sealing her things away from
herself, she shuddered involuntarily. She looked again out into
the dark, feeling suddenly terribly vulnerable and exposed, even
though she'd been naked in front of him many times. She knew she
had little time, so she pushed these feelings aside and opened
the second envelope.
I want your hair in a pony tail. You'll find a
holder on the counter. You'll also find a new
razor and some creme. See to it that your legs
and armpits are properly shaved. Any stray hair
on your belly or chest should also be removed.
When you're done, open the third envelope.
Managing the razor was a bit difficult with her shaking
hands, but she drew warm water, soaped her legs and under her
arms, and complied with the instructions. A few quick swipes of
the blade removed the stray hair between her breasts and the
single strand which grew between her navel and her pubic thatch.
Drying off, she opened the third envelope.
She froze in shock at his words.
Don't bother to put the razor away. There is an
electric clipper in the medicine cabinet. I want
you to trim off all of your pubic hair, then give
yourself a good shave down there. See to it that
you're as hairless as the day you were born, or
you'll be in for a "special" punishment, which I
assure you you'll hate. When you're done, open
the fourth envelope.
For a painfully long minute, she was completely paralyzed.
He had never demanded such a thing of her. When she could move
again, she rolled the clipper in her fingers, afraid to begin.
There was something overwhelming about this, something she had
trouble identifying at first. It was a different sort of
nakedness, a different degree of vulnerability that he was
demanding of her. From the unfamiliar surroundings unto which
she'd been required to deliver herself, to his offhand, almost
disinterested treatment of her, to the written, impersonal
instructions she'd had to follow alone, the open bathroom door,
the personal belongings sealed away by her own hand, to this
final, intimate assault on her defenses, the entire experience
seemed clearly designed to tear down the last of her defenses, to
destroy, once and for all, any illusion she may have clung to
that this was still just a lovers' "game".
The clippers screamed, unnaturally loud in the silent house.
She hesitated as she lowered the humming blades to her most
secret place. So great was the racket that she knew he must
hear, and that he must be smiling to himself with great
satisfaction at the knowledge that she was so willing to comply
with any demand, however shaming it may be. For an instant, she
instictively considered rebellion, but then comforted herself
with the reminder that she had relinquished choice upon entering,
and really had no choice in the matter. She held her breath and
lowered the furiously buzzing clippers.
It seemed to take forever. She had never shaved herself
there before, and the process terrified her. Finally, though,
she stood before the mirror, the delicate flesh surrounding her
tender lips tingling and burning a bit from the razor. She was
shocked at what she saw. Her pussy lips, which had always merely
peeked from behind their bushy shields, now seemed absurdly large
and protruding. This impression was only further advanced by the
obvious signs of her increasing arousal, for along with the
tell-tale flush she always experienced just above her breasts,
her vaginal lips were becoming engorged and reddened. Staring at
herself in the mirror, she realized that she had never felt so
utterly naked in her life.
She suddenly remembered the time. Having already been late
once today, she didn't dare disappoint him again. The fourth
envelope contained the shortest note yet:
Blue perfume bottle on the counter. All the
normal places, and your crotch, too. Then
the final envelope.
She carefully perfumed herself as he liked: Her neck, her
wrists, a hint between her breasts, under her arms. She used the
faint, subtle perfume sparingly. He'd once told her he hated it
when women "stunk like whores". She applied a whisper of scent
behind each knee. Finally, she gingerly applied the perfume to
the freshly shaved pubic region. Despite her great care in
shaving, the expensive liquid stung visciously as it absorbed
into the tender skin. She winced, waiting for the pain to pass,
and was amazed to feel herself becoming even more aroused in
response to the burning sensation. This is what he's made of me,
she thought, a silly whore who turns on for pain. A bright blush
filled her cheeks at the thought.
Sighing in resignation, she opened the final note. She
smiled with relief at its contents.
Behind the towels in the cupbord, there is a
package. Put on what's inside, then return
to me immediately and resume your proper
position.
She greedily rooted behind the towels and found the slim,
beautifully wrapped parcel. Carefully opening the seals and
unfolding the paper as to not tear it, she laid the contents out
and smiled. There were only two items. She picked up the tap
pants, which were made of soft creamy satin in a deep burgundy.
The smooth material caressed her thighs as she pulled them on.
When she moved, the wisp of fabric tickled the newly bare apex of
her thighs and the vulnerable tissue her shaving had revealed.
The second item was a lovely nightshirt, made of the same
material. It felt cool and comforting on her shoulders. The
shirt fell to mid-thigh, covering the little pants, and the
sleeves to her elbows. In the front, the nightshirt closed with
four tiny satin ties, which began just above the swelling of her
breasts, and ended about three inches above her navel.
She finished tying the four little bows, and studied herself
in the mirror one last time. The color of the outfit perfectly
complimented her skin tone and brought out the fire in her deep
blue eyes. The material clung to her skin slightly, following
the curves of her back and hips, accentuating her breasts. Her
nipples, so stiff, displayed themselves proudly. Each time she
moved, the brushing of the fabric against the tiny points only
served to insure that they would remain as hard as tacks.
She smiled again, this time with some gratitude. It was
obvious that he'd spared no expense in selecting these items for
her, and had given a great deal of thought to selecting styles
and color which would compliment her. She was also comforted
that her would allow her to be covered. She needed time to
adjust to her new, profound nakedness, and the outfit afforded
her at least the temporary illusion of protection, security, even
(she laughed to herself) modesty.
She reminded herself that time would be short, if she hadn't
gone over her allotted twenty minutes already. With a final
glance at herself in the mirror and an adjustment of a runaway
curl of hair, she padded down the hall, moving through the cool
darkness, her belly quivering at the thought of what she might be
hurrying toward.
The Meal
When she had once again knelt before him, he studied her in
silence for a long time, his eyes dark under his furrowed brow.
The position she was required to maintain, back arched slightly,
breasts thrust forward, fingers laced behind her neck, caused the
bottom hem of her shirt to rise almost to her hips and flared the
lower part of the shirt, below the lowest bow. Thus, her belly
was exposed in a pretty inverted "V". She knew he would be
pleased to see her navel rising and falling with increasing
rapidity.
It soon became apparent that he was far from pleased.
"We seem to have a problem," he growled. She felt a knot
form in her middle. "Twice already tonight, you have failed to
follow my instructions. First, you were late in arriving. Now,
you've seen fit to ignore my instructions in the bath. Do you
realize that you're over fifteen minutes late?"
A faint cry escaped from her unbidden, and tears began to
well in her eyes. Of course, he hadn't given her enough time,
but it was not her place to argue, to protest or try to reason.
She had failed her master, and that was all that mattered here.
"Well," he said, "do you have anything to say?"
"I'm...I'm sorry, master," she cried softly. "I know I've
failed you. Please..." She fell silent, a tear slipping down
her cheek.
"What do you think I should do about that?"
"I deserve..." She struggled to control her breathing. "I
deserve to be punished."
He gave a short, harsh laugh. "An understatement, if there
ever was one!" She was suddenly terrified. When he promised a
punishment, she knew, he never changed her mind.
"Oh, you will most certainly be punished," he continued.
"And quite severely, at that. It seems I need to make an effort
to remind you of your position here."
The urge to throw herself at her feet was almost
overwhelming, as was the contrasting impulse to leap to her feet
and run from him. Continuing to cry silently, she did neither,
instead focusing on maintaining perfect posture. She hoped this
would demonstrate her willingness to obey.
"Well, don't think I'm about to interrupt my plans this
evening to deal with this foolishness," he growled. "When we're
done tonight, you won't sleep with me in the bed. You'll sleep
where you deserve, in the basement in a cage. You'll be severely
punished when I wake up tomorrow, then you'll spend the rest of
the day in corrective service. Perhaps by tomorrow night, if
you've served...and suffered...well, I'll be prepared to forgive
this failure on your part. Do you understand?"
"Ye..yes, master, I understand," she sobbed. She didn't
care anymore, as long as he forgave her, as long as he wouldn't
be angry with her anymore. At that moment, she knew just how
completely she was his, his to do with as he pleased, and all by
her own choice.
He delivered the coup de grace. "It pains me to have to
deal with you this way, Annie, especially considering how much I
have planned for you this evening, but I suppose that's the way
it will have to be. For what it's worth, I assure you..." he
paused to smile. "This will hurt you far more than it does me!"
Holding herself rigidly straight on the floor, afraid to move a
muscle, she couldn't help the tears flowing down her face and the
occasional shudder which coursed through her body.
"Well," he said lightly, ignoring her suffering, "enough of
this unpleasantness. Time for dinner. Stop that silliness and
come with me." He rose and walked from the room without a single
further glance in her direction. She struggled to her feet,
drying her tears as best she could.
He led her to the opposite side of the sprawling house.
After they'd walked in silence through a maze of darkened rooms
and hallways, she followed him down three stone steps and into a
colorful casual dining area. There was a small round table with
two chairs, a large brightly covered couch and a chair with a
matching ottoman. The floor was covered in checkerboard tile.
Music softly played from speakers mounted near the ceiling. She
found that the brightness of the room, after the oppressive gloom
of the main house, began to improve her mood.
He settled into the couch, and picked up a newspaper waiting
there. He gestured toward an open door on the opposite wall.
"The kitchen is in there," he said, smiling warmly at her.
"You'll serve dinner here." With that, he turned to the paper.
The kitchen was well appointed, and designed for easy use.
She found that dinner was mostly already prepared, and busied
herself warming serving trays full of vegetables, potatoes and
pieces of beef. She'd noticed the wine already open on the
table, but no glasses or other servings, so she quickly gathered
a service for two. As she hurried to set the table, he paid her
no attention. Back in the kitchen, she served two plates with
generous portions of food. It struck her that she'd had only a
light lunch, and the smell of the food reminded her that she was
quite famished.
Back in the dining room, she set the food on the table, and
poured two glasses of wine. She instictively pulled out his
chair, then looked at him.
"Would you like to eat now, master?" she asked. He looked
at her and smiled again.
"Yes, Annie, that will be fine." He allowed her to hold his
chair for him as he sat at the table.
"Wait," he said sharply, as she pulled her own chair out.
"What's all this?" he asked, gesturing at her place setting.
"It's...I...," she stammered, confused.
"I said you were serving, not eating," he said coldly.
"Now, take those things away, and clean that plate. And when you
come back, bring the rest of the food and a jug of water. I
don't want you scurrying around, distracting me while I eat."
Cheeks burning with embarrassment, she pushed in her chair,
and cleared her place setting. She quickly removed the things to
the kitchen and cleaned her untouched plate of food. When she
returned with the serving tray and water, he had pushed his chair
back and was staring at her.
"Put that down, and bring me that box over there." Sitting
next to one end of the couch was a large wooden box she hadn't
noticed before. She trembled as she hefted its wait and carried
it back to him. Handing the box to him with shaking hands, she
quickly fell to her knees before him. He placed the box on the
floor before her.
"Open it," he ordered. She hesitated for only a moment, the
lifted the lid. Inside was a dark, tangled mass. The familiar
smell of leather instantly assaulted her nose. The knot which
had begun to release her middle returned abruptly.
"Wrists," he said,and she offered her arms to him. She
closed her eyes as the thick cuffs locked snugly to her wrists.
When she opened her eyes, he was gesturing for her to turn
around. She obeyed silently, and the heavy leather was fixed
securely around each ankle.
"Arms up," he said. Arms held straight up, she felt a wide
belt slip beneath her shirt and around her waist. He buckled it
at the front, pulling it tight.
"Suck it in!" he barked in her ear. She sucked her belly in
as far as she could, and the belt was instantly drawn painfully
tight. "Again!" the order came, and she struggled to comply.
The buckle was locked, leaving her with relentless pressure
around her middle. The waist of her tap pants felt suddenly
loose on her hips. The pressure on her bladder made her begin to
feel as if she would need to pee. Breathing was difficult, as
she was required to breath exclusively in her chest, impossible
as it was to expand her belly. A faint rushing sound filled her
head.
From behind, he lifted her chin, then fastened the wide
collar around her neck, clasping it in the front. His hands
slowly caressed up her arms, then abruptly drew her arms down and
behind her back. She felt the clips on her cuffs being attached,
trapping her wrists behind her back. Now, she thought, her fear
swelling in earnest, it begins.
"Turn around, Annie," he said. She resumed her upright
position facing him. He was rooting at the bottom of the box.
He drew up a length of chain, which he clipped to the ring at the
front of her collar. Pressing on her shoulders, he had her sit
back on her heels. He attached the other end of the chain to a
steel ring, which she hadn't noticed before, set in the floor
next to the table. She was chained, prevented from rising, next
to his chair, like a pet of some kind.
Having secured his slave, her master returned to his meal.
She waited patiently, thinking of herself as nothing more than a
trained dog, by his side. As the long minutes slipped by, the
sounds of him eating and the smell of the food became enticing,
and her hunger grew. Finally, she was embarrassed to hear her
stomach growl loudly. He laughed at the sound, and even more
loudly at the bright red color on her cheeks when he turned to
her.
"Are you hungry, little slave?" he laughed, wiping his
mouth. She risked looking up to meet his eyes.
"Oh, yes, master," she whispered. His eyes were again warm
and loving.
"Well, we can't have you starving, now, can we?" She heard
him pick something up. He put his hand in front of her face. In
his fingers, he held a piece of beef, the sauce running down his
fingers.
"Eat," he instructed, and she ate from his hand. The
feeling of taking food from his fingers was indescribably
arousing, and made the morsel seem precious beyond price. As a
sign of her delight and gratitude, she licked the running juices
from his hand. Looking up for his approval, she saw him smile.
Another morsel followed, potato this time. She lapped it
from his hand. There was another bite, then another, and then he
was holding a wine glass above her.
"Drink," he ordered. She tilted her head back, and the rich
liquid coursed over her tongue. She swallowed quickly, and
another mouthful followed. Swallowing again, she licked her
lips, doing her best to prevent any stray drops from wandering
down her chin and onto her shirt.
He paused in feeding her. She saw him shake his head.
"This takes too much of my time," he said, suddenly
returning to his stern mood. She heard him once again moving
items on the table, out of her sight. The pleasure she'd been
feeling was again mixed with apprehension.
"Here you go," he said. Bending down, he placed a plastic
dog bowl on the floor before her. In it, he'd smashed together
small portions of the dinner into a sort of mush. She looked up
at him, eyes pleading for him to hand feed her instead, pleading
to be spared this indignity. He showed no mercy.
"Now, eat, little Annie," he growled. "And see to it that
you clean the bowl completely. I will snap when it's time for
you to drink. Oh, and see to it that you don't make a mess.
Now, get to work."
With that, he returned to his meal. With a sob, she lowered
her head to the bowl. To keep from losing her balance, she was
forced to spread her knees obscenely and thrust her bottom in the
air. Lapping at the food, she was unable to keep from getting
the mush on her nose and chin. Soon her entire lower face was
covered in the slick sauce, mixed with tiny bits of food. She
sobbed a little as the pressure of her face caused the bowl to
slide away on the smooth tile. She managed to bring it back with
her chin.
From above, she heard a snap of fingers. Facing up, she saw
him shake his head disapprovingly. He held the wine bottle up.
She opened her mouth, and he poured the wine, far too much, past
her lips. Choking, tears flowing, she forced the wine down.
Before she could properly catch her breath, he was demanding she
take another mouthful. She abandoned herself, and became a
recepticle for him to fill as and when he pleased.
By the time he'd finished eating, he'd made her drink well
over half the bottle of wine. She was a little dizzy from the
alcohol, accented by the effort she'd been required to make in
order to ingest it. The bowl lay empty on the floor. The food
had covered her face and a little had even gotten into her hair.
Now she understood why he'd wanted her hair in a ponytail. Had
she worn it down, the mess would've been much worse. Her only
consolation was that she'd managed to keep the food and drink,
somehow, off of her beautiful clothes. She shuddered to imagine
how he might have reacted had she stained them.
She felt overwhelmed by what she'd taken in, given the
fierce constiction of her midsection by the belt which cut so
painfully deep. Her body ached from the constant bending and the
belt pressing against her ribcage. Her bladder felt intolerably
full, but she was too afraid to ask him for permission to relieve
herself. She was covered in a fine layer of sweat.
Looking up, she found him studying her. There was no
pleasure in his eyes. His eyes wandered from her soiled face to
the floor. He pushed his chair back from the table.
"You haven't cleaned your bowl, Annie," he said, wiping his
mouth with his napkin. "And we won't even discuss the mess on
the floor. Now, get to work and clean up after youself."
She allowed herself a single, pitiful sob, and bent again in
the humiliating and awkward way required to keep her balance.
Her soft tongue lapped frantically at the bowl, cleaning first
the inside, then working its way around the rim. She'd half
expected him to take mercy on her, but those illusions were
shattered now. There was to be no reprieve for her from now on.
It was as he'd promised weeks ago: Tonight would mark the start
of something altogether new.
Finally, she overcame her last resistance, threw the final
vestige of her pride to the wind, and began lapping at the bits
of food and splashes of sauce which had made it to the floor.
The effort jammed the awful belt deep into her belly, making her
grunt grotesquely, but it no longer mattered. She had been
reduced to his animal, his property, before the first punishment,
the first strike of a whip.
When she was done, she looked up. He was drenching his
napkin in the jug of ice water. She squeezed her eyes shut as
her grabbed her ponytail and twisted her head cruelly up. He was
brutal in his scrubbing of her face, but when it was over, she
felt some relief at being free of the coating of food.
He released her hair and stared at her. She couldn't stop
shaking, or keep the tears from running from her eyes.
"Well, that's done," he muttered. In a louder, mocking
voice, he said, "I hope you enjoyed your dinner, Annie... little
slave."
When she was silent, except for her sobs, he said, "Don't
you have something to say, little one?"
She nodded slowly, looking to him with reddened eyes. "Yes,
master," she sobbed. "Thank you for a lovely meal."
He released the chain from her collar.
"That's better, slave. It wouldn't do for you to forget
your manners." He smiled warmly. "I think it's time for a
little test of your training and obedience." He paused. She
waited for his orders.
"Get up."
End Part One of "She Comes to Submit"
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This story is intended for the amusement of adults. Be warned: It
contains VERY rough sexual behavior, though entirely consensual.
file: SHCOM2-2.txt
She Comes to Submit
by
J.P.
(Part Two)
A Test of Obedience
She rose unsteadily to her feet, fear mixed with raw lust
making her legs ungracefully shaky. She stood as she knew from
experience he would wish: legs straight, feet spread apart, back
slightly arched. Her knees trembled slightly with the
anticipation of what he might be planning and, without the use of
her hands, she feared she might lose her balance.
He was smiling at her, clearly enjoying her fearful
anticipation. She stood only a foot or so from him, and his gaze
wandered slowly up her trembling body. The tight band around her
waist concentrated her breathing in her chest, and her stiffened
nipples thrust in and out under the clinging material of her
shirt. He ran a single finger up the inside of her leg, drawing
light, lazy circles in the fine layer of sweat which had formed
there. At one point, his fingernail scratched a ticklish point,
and she jerked involuntarily against the cuffs which held her
hands trapped behind her back, but she otherwise managed to
remain in the prescribed position. Stealing a glace down at him,
she saw him smile to himself, clearly amused at her
responsiveness.
When the wandering finger teased at the hem of the burgundy
pants, she inhaled sharply and held her breath, waiting for him
to explore her freshly exposed pubis, but he only ran his finger
around the dangling edge of the garment, then cupped her buttocks
for a brief moment before removing his hand altogether. A moment
later she sighed, as the side of his fist lightly brushed the
outsides of her jutting breasts, near where their gentle swelling
met her armpits.
The exploring hand was removed and she stood in silence
while he gazed at her. Finally, he cleared his throat.
"There's some items we'll need on the bookshelf in the other
room," he said, his voice soft and almost tender. "Bring the
blindfold and the strap, I think..." He paused for a long
moment. "...and you'd better bring the crop, too, just in case I
need it."
The urge to speak, to say something, anything, to prevent what
she knew was to come was almost overwhelming, but she knew that
this was the worst thing for her to do. She forced herself to
remain silent by turning quickly on her heels, and rushing to obey
his wishes, despite her faltering steps. The belt around her
waist, the cuffs which held her wrists and the wide collar all
combined to force her to walk stiffly upright, head high, back
arched. Her throbbing nipples thrust forward ahead of the rest of
her body. Although her bowels felt loose with fear, she blushed as
she admitted to herself that she was also frightfully aroused.
Finding the bookshelves, she shuddered as she looked at the
heavy leather blindfold, the broad strap, the vicious crop, already
imagining herself deprived of sight, struggling beneath cruel blows
from the black leather instruments. The three items rested on a
shelf which was only inches below her chin, leaving her with no way
to pick them up from behind. She had no option but to gather them
together by dragging them with her chin, and then clumsily managed
to grip all three ends between her teeth. As she pulled the heavy
leather items from the shelf, the ends of the crop and strap
slapped down between her breasts, and she almost relaxed her grip
as she gasped at the sensation. Insides fluttering, she hurried
back, bringing the instruments of her own torment to her master.
He was standing when she returned. At the gesture of his
finger, she dropped to her knees before him. He abruptly pulled
the leather items from between her teeth.
"Turn around," he said. Awkwardly, she managed to turn on her
knees. Stepping in front of her, he gestured her forward, toward
the ottoman which waited on the other side of the room. She
struggled forward on her knees, barely managing to keep her balance
without the use of her hands. The tile flooring scraped at her
skin. She couldn't avoid noticing that he was tapping the crop
impatiently against his thigh.
"That's far enough," he barked, when she was about two feet
from the ottoman. She stopped, trembling.
He stepped behind her. Her heart pounded.
"Close your eyes," he said, and then slipped the blindfold
over her eyes, cinching it tight. She began to pant. His hand
slid up under her shirt and took a firm grip on the leather belt.
His other hand pushed her between her shoulder blades. She was
thus forced to bend forward at the waist, until her forehead rested
on the cool leather surface of the ottoman.
Having positioned her, he released his grip. She felt the
bottom of the shirt being thrown up to her waist, and the rings in
her cuffs being fixed to the heavier ring in the back of the belt.
"Spread your knees wider," he barked, tapping at her inner
things with the toe of his shoes. She complied breathlessly. The
position he required of her forced her to arch her back toward the
floor, thrusting her buttocks up and back, stretching the material
of the tap pants across her hips. Her face pressed into the
ottoman, supporting the weight of her upper body.
The sound of footsteps told her he had stepped behind her.
She heard a rustling sound, and then felt the leather strap gently
grazing across her hips, down her straining thighs. Involuntarily,
she moaned.
"Shut up!" he shouted. "Keep quiet...little slave."
After a short pause, during which the strap caressed her
buttocks maddeningly, he cleared his throat. "This will be quite
simple to understand, sweet bitch. I'm going to beat you now. You
will remain in position, and will remain silent, except to count
each stroke. I will stop and start your beating as pleases me.
You will keep track of the number of strokes. You will remain in
position until you are instructed to move."
"That's all there is to it...easy, isn't it?" he said,
laughing slightly. "Of course, if you lose count, or move without
permission, or speak without permission, well then, we'll have a
problem. Each time you disobey, in any way, we'll start over from
the beginning. We'll keep doing that until you get it right. And
of course, we'll increase the count each time you disobey."
He paused again, a long silence during which she thought the
pounding of her heart was surely loud enough for him to hear. She
was somewhat embarrassed to admit, even to herself, that she was
incredibly aroused, despite her very real terror. She felt herself
dampening between her legs, becoming so wet that she felt an
irrational fear that her sweet cream might run down from under her
little pants and moisten the strap which still tickled her inner
thighs. Feeling herself blushing, she couldn't help sighing, even
as she shuddered in fearful anticipation of the pain about to come.
"Do you understand your instructions, slave?" he barked.
"Y..Yes, master," she stammered. "I understand."
"Don't you want to know what the count will be?"
She didn't want to know, of course. She knew it would be
high, perhaps too much for her to bear. Nonetheless, she was
expected to answer.
"Yes, master," she whispered, barely avoiding crying out. "If
it pleases you to tell me."
The teasing strap suddenly was gone from between her thighs.
She knew it was about to begin.
"Fifty, I think, will do for a start," he said. "Well laid
on, of course."
There was one final pause. She held her breath.
"We will begin," he said flatly. "Now, count!"
She didn't hear the whistle of the strap descending. She only
barely had the time to bite down on her lower lip before a broad
stripe of fire erupted across her hips. Her buttocks clenched in
response, but she remained in position.
"One!" she cried.
The strap fell again, before she could breathe, this time
biting the lower portion of her bottom-cheeks, making her jerk
forward.
"Two!" she grunted breathlessly. Her imprisoned hands
clenched behind her back. The side of her right buttock exploded.
"Three!" she yelped.
Through five, ten, fifteen strokes, the beating continued.
Each stroke attacked a different place on her bottom and hips than
the previous one had. The strokes were evenly spaced, so regular
they might have been administered by a machine, instead of a man.
After each blow, she gasped, dragged in a quick breath, and cried
out the count. At times she whined the word, at others she grunted
or moaned the word, but she managed to obey her instructions. She
was unable to prevent herself from jerking with each blow, but she
remained in position. Her bound arms stiffened and released
convulsively, and her fingers twisted restlessly, but her head
remained steady on the ottoman, and her knees planted firmly on the
hard tile floor.
By the twentieth stroke, she was sobbing out each count.
There was another blazing blow to both halves of her bottom at
once, and then another, particularly savage this time. After she
moaned "twenty-two", the whipping suddenly stopped. She tried to
hold her breath, but couldn't stop her pitiful sobbing and moaning.
Her tears flowed from beneath the blindfold and dripped down to
pool under her flushed face on the surface of the ottoman.
She gasped as she felt the fabric of his trousers brush the
inside of her leg. His fingers began to explore her, gently,
teasingly, wandering slowly up her calves and up the insides of her
sweaty, quaking thighs. After teasing her by stroking just under
the hem of her pants, his fingertips began drawing lazy circles
over her burning buttocks, slipping smoothly over the thin fabric
covering, which had offered so little protection from the whipping.
As the slow carresses continued, the burning in her
well-whipped bottom intensified. Soon, she surrendered what
control she had left, and cried like a forlorn child. Her hips
jerked when she felt a single finger descend the crack between her
buttocks to press gently at the tender space between her anus and
her sex. As the firm circular stroking continued, his other hand
began to brush at the side of one dangling breast, each slow stroke
ending with a maddening circle around her rock-hard nipple.
Gradually, the steady throbbing in her bottom transformed into
a delicious heat deep within her twitching vagina. She groaned in
pleasure, feeling herself become soaked and ready for penetration.
Her hips pressed back into his probing finger and she arched her
back to press her nipple into his hand. Still holding fast to her
assigned position, her entire body began to pulse rhythmically with
desire. She let out a long-suppressed moan.
The teasing stopped. She found herself alone in the heavy
silence, trembling in both fear and lust.
She groaned in frustration.
The horrible burning stripe slashed across her upper thighs.
She screamed.
"Count, bitch!" he barked, his voice thick with lust and rage.
She couldn't remember. She choked with tears.
"I see you haven't really committed yourself to obedience,
slave," he said, once again under control. "We will begin again,
and perhaps a count of seventy-five will encourage you to greater
self-discipline."
She moaned, and the whipping began again. This time, his
strokes followed no predictable pattern. Several quick strokes,
which barely left her time to choke out the count, would be
followed by a pause, which in turn would be ended with a furious
blow which shook her hips from side to side. Beyond her control,
her hands pulled frantically at the restraints, clenched fingers
spreading wide with each new explosion of pain. Soon, her voice
became hoarse as she attempted to keep up with the count, forcing
the words through a parched throat.
At stroke number fifty-three, she broke. As the strap blazed
up between her legs to cruelly kiss her inner thigh, just below the
hem of her pants, her leg thrust defensively out behind her, and
she nearly collapsed off of the ottoman.
The whipping stopped again. Seized with terror, she struggled
to resume her position, sobbing pitifully. The silence which
greeted her efforts was torture in and of itself.
"When we begin again," he said softly, calmly, "the count will
be one hundred." She whined. "See to it that you do not fail me
again, slave," he said.
The whip did not return, as she expected. Instead, his hand
again stroked her bruised buttocks, which amplified the agony she
was in tenfold. She groaned loudly as his hand softly cupped her
sex through the thin material, and began a slow, light stroking.
At the same time, his other hand returned to her breasts, this time
plucking at each nipple, back and forth. At first, the pinching
was light and fleeting, but steadily intensified to just below her
pain threshold. With each nip to the tender, stiffened buds, her
hips jerked backwards into his waiting hand. As he increased the
pace of the torturous pinches, she began to moan ceaselessly. The
musky juices from her now swollen sex saturated the fabric of her
pants, leaving a dark stain which grew steadily. Soon, her
gyrations were no longer governed by his pinches. She jerked her
hips up and down in short strokes, faster and faster, riding the
teasing finger. Panting, she punctuated each breath with a hoarse
grunt.
As she approached orgasm, her groaning turned to the squealing
he knew so well. Suddenly, she stiffened and held her breath. at
that moment, with timing he had learned through long experience
with her body, he removed his hands from her.
She screamed with frustration.
The strap seared across her lower buttocks.
She screamed and twisted her upper body.
"COUNT, SLAVE!" he shouted, striking her buttocks again.
"One!" she sobbed, all hope gone. The whip fell again.
"Two!" she choked. Another stripe of pain appeared on her
already tortured hips.
This time, there was no reprieve, no interlude of intimate
probing. She choked through fifty, then sixty, then seventy
relentless blows. By the time she had counted to eighty, her words
were reduced to a whispered, parched grunt after each stroke. At
ninety, she could tell herself, through the haze of pain, that it
was almost over, that she had almost made it.
At ninety-five, he stopped.
"Almost there, little bitch," he said with a harsh, cruel
laugh. "You should see yourself...what a mess you've made of
yourself!"
She whined and sobbed.
A single savage stroke bit her right thigh.
"Ninety-one!" she grunted, jerking at her bonds. There was
silence.
Her left thigh burned with a new attack. She merely
shuddered, exhausted.
"Ninety-two!" Behind her back, her fingers spread as if
attempting to plead with him for mercy she knew he would never
grant. The strap crashed down over her upper hips.
"Ninety-three!"
The strap slashed lower than before, across her thighs just
above her knees. He was testing her resolve, she knew. She cried
out in agony.
"Ninety-four!" Again, there was a long, agonizing pause.
Through her pain, she heard his feet shifting position. Her
bruised knees burned, her wrists ached from relentless pulling
against the straps which held them. Her face and hair were soaked
from lying in her own sweat.
"A little something special for the last few, love," he
whispered.
Before she could fully register his words, before she could
tense up in preparation, the strap swung horribly upwards between
her thighs. The heavy leather crashed into her previously
untouched crotch, curling over her tender sex with a loud "thunk".
Of course, there was no hope she would manage to count, none
at all. Her body exploded in agony. Her legs shot out, thrusting
her sweat-soaked frame forward across the ottoman, then reflexively
clamped shut in defense of her most vulnerable spot. In one smooth
motion, she rolled sideways off of the ottoman and fell to the
floor, instantly curling, on her side, into a fetal position. Her
mouth opened to scream, but only a ragged grunt emerged. She
wailed in pain.
There was no sound for a long moment, but for her agonized
sobs.
"It seems you haven't learned, slave," he barked, his voice
coming from close to her ear. She wimpered and shook her head.
"Oh, no," she moaned. "N..No more, please!"
She heard him step back. Suddenly, the strap bit at her
shoulder.
"Shut up, slave!" he shouted. "You know better than that!
Now, get back in position!" His hands gripped her shoulders and
hoisted her wracked frame back into her previous position on the
ottoman. She was beyond resistance, beyond pleading. She waited
only for his disposition of her body.
"We will begin again, slave." She released a single, long
moan. "Not so many strokes this time...thirty will do."
She held her breath, waiting for what she knew was to come.
The stiff, thin line of the crop rubbed across her quaking
bottom and thighs. As the horrible realization of what he intended
to do hit her, she let out a thin whine which terminated in a
gulping sob. At that moment, her bladder, so full from the water
and the wine, so tormented from her contortions and struggles,
finally released. The hot liquid spurted onto her pants, and
splashed down her trembling thighs to pool on the tile floor.
Completely defeated, consumed with shame and humiliation, she made
no effort to stop the flow which now pooled around her knees.
When she was finally empty, she heard him clear his throat and
make a disgusted grunt.
"If I were cruel, I'd make you lick that off of the floor,
slave. You'd certainly deserve it, wouldn't you? Who told you you
could piss like that?"
She couldn't respond, only moan in shame and pain.
"Well," he said, "I won't make you do that, but there must be
some additional punishment for such a disgusting display of poor
self-control. Don't you agree?"
She only sobbed.
"ANSWER ME!" he screamed.
"Oh yes, master," she moaned. "Whatever you want is fair...
whatever you want."
"That's better, little bitch," he said. "Now, first of all,
the count will be forty, instead of thirty...and you'd better not
displease me again, or we'll double the count each time until you
get it right. Second, I think I've been too kind with your
position. Perhaps it encouraged your lax performance."
She grunted as she felt one of his hands grip the back of her
neck, pinning her face to the ottoman. His other hand seized her
waist strap and hoisted her hips upwards. She was forced to
straighten her legs and lock her knees, holding her tortured
buttocks high in the air over her arched body. It took all of the
strength she had left to hold the difficult position. She felt the
lower portion of her shirt, which had been so lovely but was now
stained with urine and sweat, slip up to expose her midriff,
stopping when it caught on the underside of her heaving breasts.
With cruel pokes with the tip of the crop, he forced her to
spread her legs ridiculously wide, until her thighs cramped in
agony. She felt him attaching something to first one ankle strap,
then the other, and realized he'd used a spreader bar to lock her
into position, feet so far apart that she was forced onto her toes.
"Now, count, slave," he said breathlessly, and the crop
slashed down.
He didn't linger with the final whipping. The blows came as
quickly as she could grunt, or moan, or squeal out each number.
Even as she howled in pain, she recognized his restraint: None of
the blows were fierce enough to break the skin, although she knew a
few terrible welts would mark her in the morning. The blows fell
in evenly spaced lines from the tops of her hips to her upper
thighs, and he struck only where she was sufficiently fleshy, to
avoid any lasting or dangerous injury.
Finally, it was over. She was only vaguely aware of the
spreader being removed and her wrists freed. He lay her down on
her side on the cool tile, and removed her blindfold. Through
swollen eyes, she saw his face lower to her. Holding her face in
her hands, he brushed her hair from where it was plastered to her
face, and kissed her gently and tenderly. Despite her suffering,
she met his lips with kisses of her own.
"Well done, little love," he whispered. "You did well... So
beautiful, so lovely! Now you can rest for a few minutes...get
your strength back..."
"...before we go on."
The Platform
After long minutes, her senses began to return. Every muscle
in her body seemed to be cramping and ablaze. The burning in her
buttocks and upper thighs, not to mention in her shaved pubis, was
unspeakable, relentless. She still trembled from pain and
exhaustion. As her eyes focused, she saw that he sat on the couch,
legs crossed, watching her as he sipped his wine. Seeing her look
at him, he smiled thinly.
"Back with me, little slave?" he said. She managed to raise
her head and nod.
"Good," he said, standing up. "Then you'd better get back on
your knees."
She didn't protest, didn't make a sound. She slowly,
painfully pulled herself into the required position. Her arms
screamed in pain as she forced her hands behind her neck, holding
her elbows wide, her back arched forward, her fluttering breasts
jutting out in front. As she had been taught, she stared straight
ahead.
He turned back to the couch and picked up a wad of cloth, then
tossed it to the floor in front of her. It was her skirt, one of
her nicest, one she'd selected to please him.
"Go wipe up the mess you made," he said. With a moan, she
turned and crawled to the ottoman. Using her fine garment, she
carefully wiped off the surface of the ottoman, the soaked up the
urine which still pooled on the floor where she'd knelt. Holding
the soaked, heavy cloth, she returned to kneel before him. He
tossed her a garbage bag, and she deposited her skirt inside.
"Stand up," he ordered. She struggled to her feet, breathing
heavily.
"Get undressed."
With trembling fingers, she undid the four tiny buttons, then
dropped the filmy shirt on the floor beside her. After a moment of
hesitation, she pushed the soaked pants down her legs and stepped
from them. She then straightened up and laced her fingers behind
her neck, thrusting her proud breasts forward toward him. She
spread her legs slightly, as he preferred, calmly displaying her
bare sex to him. She was beyond embarrassment, beyond pride. The
whipping had done its work, reducing her to the status of slave, of
object for his pleasure.
He was smiling, his gaze wandering over her naked breasts and
sex, still flushed and damp with piss and sweat. In his hand, he
held her blouse.
"Wipe yourself off," he instructed her, handing her the
blouse. With a sigh, she accepted the fine silk blouse, used it to
dry her face and hair, then ruined her lovely clothing but wiping
herself free of combined sweat, sexual juice and urine. She whined
in pain as she rubbed the cloth over her seared bottom and across
the bare place, so recently shaved for him. When she was done, the
silk blouse joined her skirt in the garbage bag. She returned her
hands to the back of her neck.
"What are you, little one?"
"Your slave, master."
"What will you do for me, slave?"
"Anything, master...anything you ask."
"What will you suck?"
"Whatever you tell me to suck, master."
"And who will you fuck for me, slave?"
"Anyone you say, master."
"And what do you want me to do to you, slave?"
"Whatever pleases you, master."
"Anything?"
"Yes, master, anything you please...I belong to you."
She meant it. She was his, his to torment, his to command.
"Good," he said. "No more tests for you tonight, little
slave. For the rest of the evening, you will simply receive what I
choose to do to you. No more struggles to obey. One last room to
visit before you go to your cage for the night."
He stepped behind her.
"Walk," he said, and pushed her gently forward. Heart
pounding, she walked.
He led her through the dark house, passing the bathroom where
she had prepared herself for him. As they proceeded, her terror
grew, but there was no thought of resisting him. At the end of a
long hallway, he stopped her and opened the door into a dimly lit
room. At his gesture, she walked inside.
Around the perimeter of the nearly empty room, she saw several
large cabinets. There were no windows, and the walls were covered
in dark panelling, devoid of decoration. She gasped when she
studied the apparatus in the center of the room. There she saw a
waist-high platform, covered in padded leather. The platform was
about the length of a single bed, and slightly narrower. Around
the edge were set a series of heavy steel rings.
He pushed her forward. She let herself be forced to the
platform and, at his prodding, lay on her back on the padded
surface. She clenched her fists as her pulled her down by the hips
until her waist strap was even with the end of the platform. He
quickly fastened the waist strap to the rings at the end of the
platform, leaving her hips and legs dangling in midair.
Stepping to the other end of the platform, he ordered her to
extend her arms. When she obeyed, he seized her wrists and secured
them to rings at the head of the surface, using thick leather
straps which he threaded through the rings on her cuffs. Slowly,
he tightened the tension on the straps until she was stretched to
her limit, immobilized. Her ribcage was thrown into harsh relief
by the extreme stretching, and her full breasts flattened on her
chest. Her protruding nipples sat like deep red thimbles on the
flattened surface. Her breathing was restricted to short, rapid
pants.
As he moved to the foot of the platform, she raised her head
as much as she could to watch, with growing terror, what he would
do next. He knelt next to her hanging legs, and she felt wide
leather straps being fastened securely around each thigh, just
above her knees. Standing, he pulled one ankle up toward her hips,
then pushed her bent knee out to the side. He forced her foot back
to the side of the platform, below the surface on which she lay
offered, and strapped her ankle cuffs to rings there. After he
repeated the operation with her other ankle, he retrieved two long
cords from a cabinet. He ran one cord through the ring in the
strap above each knees, then through rings in the base of the
platform. Pulling mercilessly on the cords, he pulled her doubled
knees down and back, well below the plane of her stretched body.
When she was finally secured, her hips were as frozen in place
as the rest of her frame. Her bare crotch was wildly quartered,
her unprotected vaginal lips pulled apart by the tension, her
exposed ass twitching in midair. With eyes wide and glistening,
she watched him approach her with a leather-covered block about the
size of a two-by-four. She grunted as he slipped a hand under her
and jerked her back off of the surface. He forced the block
between her back and the platform. Releasing her, he studied his
handiwork. Her chest was forced upwards by the block beneath her
back, her nipples shuddering up and down as she panted.
He left her for a moment, then returned holding a thick gag.
She opened her mouth for the heavy pear-shaped plug, which filled
her tiny mouth, stretching her jaws wide. After he had snugged the
gag's strap behind her head, he stepped to the foot of the
platform, between her obscenely straddled thighs. She jerked as
his hands began to massage her inner thighs, slowly working toward
her naked sex. As he began to pluck gingerly at her puffy vaginal
lips, she began to moan softly with arousal. After he had toyed
with her delicate lips until she was soaked with desire and moaning
continuously behind the cruel gag, he carefully worked first one
finger, then two, then three inside her clutching hole. Eyes
squeezed shut, she flung her head from side to side, groaning
loudly.
He reached up with his free hand and began to gently roll her
nipples, one after the other, between thumb and index finger, while
continuing to twist his fingers inside of her. As she neared
climax, she began to softly pound her head into the leather padding
beneath her. Her grunting grew into high-pitched yelps, barely
muffled by the thick plug in her mouth. A deep red flush spread
suddenly across her arched neck and between her breasts. Her
shuddering thighs strained against the straps which held her open.
Just before she came, he removed his hands. She screamed
behind the gag, raising her head to plead with bloodshot eyes. He
left her for a moment, then returned holding a thick black
vibrator. Switching it on, he lowered the whining plastic to her
heaving chest and began drawing broad circles around her breasts.
The humming filled her chest and she moaned again in pleasure and
frustration. Slowly, he tightened the circles until the sweet
torment was grazing the edges of her nipples. She groaned
repeatedly until he abandoned her breasts and slowly moved the
vibrator down her chest and over her heaving belly, heading
steadily toward her waiting sex.
When the intense buzzing encountered her twitching vaginal
lips, she began again to scream in pleasure. He probed her in
short attacks, driving her to wilder displays of passion. When the
tip of the vibrator began to probe her insides, she felt herself
losing grip on reality, but her pleasure was not to last. Before
she could climax, he slipped the now lubricated tip down to assault
her clenched anus. She strained her head up to plead wordlessly as
he slowly, relentlessly pushed the vibrator up her virgin rectum.
Half mad, she still believed he would stop and withdraw the
invading plastic at any moment, but he pressed on, finally
inserting the vibrator all the way to its hilt. Kneeling for a
moment, he used a thin cord to attach the ring set in the end of
the probe to the strap at her waist, thus preventing her from
expelling the huge intruder.
Driven to the edge of her endurance by the painfully thick,
fiercely buzzing presence up her ass, she bleated pitifully as she
saw him approach her, holding a thin switch. She shook her head
frantically, to no avail, as he began to rain down a rapid series
of stinging blows over her belly, her ribs, her thighs. Twisting
her head from side to side, she squeezed her rectum with each blow,
which only added to the torment from the plastic buzzing deep
inside of her.
When he abandoned his attacks on her belly and thighs and
began to flick the switch stingingly across her throbbing nipples,
she howled. Again and again he struck, making her jerk so savagely
in her restraints that her joints threatened to dislocate. She
lost consciousness momentarily when he attacked her helpless vagina
with five, then ten, rapid slices, then howled as he returned to
slash at her breasts.
When it was over, she sagged in her bonds, sobbing. She
thought he would return to carress and pleasure her, but saw that
he had returned to her holding a short whip made up of many thin
leather strands. She moaned in desperation as she saw his hand
raise the whip. Again, he struck across her belly, ribs and
thighs, dozens of times. When he paused, she was heaving,
twisting, soaked again in hot sweat. She turned her head to the
side with a moan as she saw his hand rise again. Her left nipple
exploded in pain, then her right. Back and forth he played the
whip, as she screamed.
After he had tormented and reddened her belly and breasts with
dozens of stinging strokes, he paused to reposition himself between
her thighs. She whined as he prepared to strike, then convulsed in
pain as the whip slashed ten horrible, slowly paced strokes up and
down over her tormented sex. While she was still howling
mindlessly, he threw the whip aside and began to roughly carress
her swollen vaginal lips. At first, she pleaded with her eyes for
him to stop, but as the rubbing went on, the burning between her
legs transformed once again to pleasure. In frustration, she
groaned.
He had one final torment for her. When she was again ready,
so ready, he ceased his carresses. She saw that he held an
ornately decorated box in one hand. Reaching into the box, he
produced a tiny steel clip. She squealled as he lowered the clip
to the side of her breast and clamped it there. Another clamp
appeared, then another. Soon the writhing woman had circles of
tiny steel clamps cruelly pinching her breasts. As he had done so
deliciously with the vibrator, he made the circles ever tighter,
until both breasts were covered in the little clamps, save for her
vulnerable nipples.
Moving to the foot of the platform, he applied lines of clamps
just outside of her vaginal lips, as she whined and yelped. Before
her terrified eyes, he again approached her midsection and held up
two much larger clamps, these with twin rows of tiny teeth.
Ignoring her pitiful bleating, he positioned one clamp over her
left nipple and slowly allowed it to spring closed. She arched her
back as much as possible, screaming behind the gag. Quickly, he
repeated the operation on her right nipple, eliciting more screams.
Once more, her master moved between her thighs. Raising her
head, she saw his hands move to her spread vagina. She felt the
tiny steel teeth close down on her tender, ravaged vaginal lips,
then surrendered herself to mindless howling. Slowly, carefully,
he applied rows of the biting steel to each puffy lip, then stepped
back. She writhed continuously, moaning and twisting her head.
Thin lines of spittle ran from beneath the gag and her eyes rolled
back in her head.
She did not see him as he quickly shed his clothes. She only
became aware of him again when he abruptly shoved a thumb deep
inside her tortured sex, twisting it slowly to and fro. Despite
her indescribable pain, her arousal again leapt forth. He played
her as he might a musical instrument, thrusting his thumb while
flicking at her bloated clitoris with a fingertip. Each convulsion
of pleasure added horribly to her torment, as the twisting of her
body caused the clamps at her nipples to sway from side to side.
Soon, she was approaching climax for the last time. Maddened
himself by his desire for her, he plucked the clamps from between
her legs, while continuing his intimate carress. She screamed as
sensation returned to the tissue which had grown slightly numb.
His erection, as hard as the plastic deep inside her rectum, rubbed
up and down her agonized slit. As he wet himself with her juices,
he reached beneath her and twisted the probe in her ass in short,
savage jerks, making her squeal. Neck doubled to look at him, eyes
bulging, she watched him lodge himself at her opening. Gazing into
her eyes, he thrust forward with a victorious roar.
Her body stiffened, her breathing stopped. As his erection
rammed home, she fell, as if dropping from a cliff, into the most
wrenching orgasm of her life. Wave after wave coursed through her
as he pounded into her, showing no mercy, no thought for her
suffering. When she collapsed in exhaustion, he insured her
continuing motion, by reaching up and flicking his fingers lightly
over the dozens of clamps which still tortured her breasts and
nipples. In response, she squealed and jerked, twisting about in
her straps, her pussy clutching as if in pleasure.
As he suddenly swelled even further within her, he began
pulling the clamps from her breasts, driving her to ever greater
convulsions. To her horror, her own climax beckoned once again,
and, as he began to spurt liquid fire within her and jerked the
final clamps free of her nipples, she too exploded in orgasm,
screaming her passion, gnawing the gag, then lapsed into a faint.
She lay limp as her freed her from the gag, the straps which
held her, and removed the long plug from her ass. He carefully
pulled her into a sitting position, and allowed her to rest against
him as he held her tenderly.
His lips kissed her neck and shoulders. Warm, sweaty hands
slowly rubbed her back. She pressed her lips to his chest.
"Time for you to go to your cage and rest, love," he
whispered. "You have a long day tomorrow."
The End
End Part Two of "She Comes To Submit"
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