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Late
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Late Late. That’s the one word that keeps running through your head. With work running late, and traffic being worse than normal because of that wreck, you’re not going to be able to be there when I walk in the door with my whiskey. You won’t greet me naked and on your knees, and you know that means punishment. As you drive around 495, your mind starts to race thinking about what the punishment will be. Chemical play? Corporal punishment? Being placed in the cage? It’s been a while since you needed to be punished, and the fond memories of the cane still make you smile when you think back on it. As you drive, with these thoughts running through your head, you can’t help but smile as you feel your panties getting wet. After all, you do enjoy the punishment, don’t you? You park in front of the house, and with your heart in your throat, you walk to the front door expecting the worst. Opening the door, the dogs greet you, and all is calm. Walking into the living room, you see me with a glass of Jamesons on the couch watching TV. “Downstairs. Kneel by the cross. I’ll be down shortly.” The only words that come from my mouth, my head never moving. You walk downstairs to the St. Andrew’s Cross, kneeling at the base of it, wondering what is to come. Ten minutes pass, then twenty, the cold tile hurting your knees, the thoughts in your head keeping your cunt warm and wet. You hear my footsteps upstairs, walking towards the stairs. In a heartbeat, I’m in the other room, walking into the room with the Cross. “Face the Cross, on your knees.” The words make the room come alive after being left alone with your thoughts for so long. You turn to face the cross, still on your knees, head bowed. You hear me walk up behind you, and then the hood goes on. Not the sensory deprivation hood, the hood with the mouth cut out. Hearing is muffled, you can’t see anything. My hand is on the top of your head, grabbing your hair, lifting you to your feet. “Why are your clothes still on? Are you just doing whatever you want to do now? Being late tonight, kneeling at my Cross with clothes on? You’ve earned this tonight.” You hear the knife open in my hand. Shirt and bra, cut off. The cold steel against your skin makes you shiver, but you don’t dare jump. The sharp pain of my hand on your right tit is startling. The entire flat of my hand, right above your nipple. You can feel the skin raising in a welt, the shape of my hand. Without thought, your hands are in front of your body, instinctively trying to protect yourself. “Behind your back, left hand inside of your right hand.” Holding your breath, you do as you are told, standing at a modified position of Parade Rest. The pants are unbuttoned. Slowly pulled off your hips and down your legs. “Left foot, step out. Right foot, step out.” Standing in front of me, only in your panties, you can smell yourself. Your juicy, wet pussy has been simmering in your pants for the last hour. Grabbing the crotch of your panties to rip them off, your juices drip onto my fingers. “Dripping in your own juices? Why are you so wet Dirty Girl? Did you disobey my rules on purpose? Did you want to get punished tonight? Trying to top me from the bottom? We will make you rethink that.” With your back to the cross, your left hand goes above your head, secured in place by the leather shackle. Then, your right hand follows. With the hood on, you don’t see me walk over to the wall to choose my implement of rehabilitation. What is in my hand? With your cunt and tits fully exposed, your mind starts racing. Heart speeding up, cunt still dripping down your thighs, the flush setting in on your cheeks and your tits. What can it be? You know it’s coming, you just don’t know what. “How many minutes were you late by?” I ask calmly. My fingers on your nipples, my breath on your lips. “I don’t know.” Is your reply. “Guess Dirty Girl, this is very important.” Fingers pulling on your right nipple now, my tongue on your lips, but not between them. “Twenty five minutes?” is your whimper, more a question than an answer. “Thirty three minutes!” And my hand is around your throat, thumb and forefinger on your carotid artery, cutting off the blood flow to your brain, making everything swim. “Thirty three minutes I was alone, having to get my own drinks, without my cock in your mouth. What is thirty three minus twenty five?” You try to speak, you really do, but no words come out. Consciousness is starting to fade, and the world is slipping away. “The correct answer is eight. What is thirty three plus eight?” Again, no words. Your brain is not working. Only the hand around your throat matters. You start to panic, wondering if you are going to go to sleep. “Forty one. That’s how many you will take on your cunt and tits.” The hand is off of your throat. The blood rushes back to your brain. Gasping, the fear starts to set in. Why did you do this? Why did you disobey the rules? Why were you late? Do you really enjoy this? Do you really need this in your life? What type of person does that make you? Why are you not complete without the punishment? The first whip strike hits your left tit, above the nipple, breaking the sound barrier. You feel the snap and the burn. Without thinking, the words escape your lips. “One, Sir.” The next is a dead shot above your cunt, centimeters above your clit. “Two, Sir” They continue to fall, on your tits, on your cunt. The lips, stinging. Your clit on fire. Nipples aching with the whip strokes. You feel them slice you, you feel the warmth of the strikes after they are long gone. You also feel your juices running down your thighs, your heartbeat in your cunt. “Forty one, Sir.” You don’t even realize the words come out of your mouth, or that you had kept counting. The silence is deafening, no more whip cracks, no more counting, just your blood pounding in your ears and my footsteps across the floor. Soon, they are returning, and you are placed on your knees with your hands cuffed behind your back. “Open.” The only word that comes from me, and like a good cocksucker, your lips part. My soft cock feels gentle on your tongue, warm and almost sponge like. With my hand on the back of your head, wrapped in your hair, my balls touch your lips. “Stick your tongue out. Lick my balls while my cock is in your throat.” You feel it start to grow. Starting as a mouthful, slowly the head starts to grow on the back of your tongue. The blood flowing into my cock, until I start to pump it in and out of your lips. Soon, it’s rock hard, pounding the back of your throat. You gag, but I don’t stop. “You better not puke on me. We’re not in the shower.” Still pumping in and out of your throat, I bury my cock in your throat. “Swallow. I want to feel your muscles squeeze me.” You do as you’re told, and it makes you gag. You spit my cock out and take a deep breath. “You don’t want me in your throat? Your choice, but you don’t get lube.” You’re turned around forcefully, thrown against the cross. Hands are still behind your back, and you feel the rope around your neck. You know I’m tying it to the middle of the cross, making you present your ass out. “Don’t jump, I’d hate for you to hit your head.” I say with more than a bit of sarcasm in my voice. The head is at your asshole, pushing slowly. You think about taking a step forward to escape the growing pressure from my unlubed cock head trying to enter your ass, but you think twice about it. Pushing into your ass, very slowly, fractions of an inch at a time, the pain grows immensely. “Push back slut. You know you want this in your ass as much as I want to be in there. Fuck me, I’m tired of doing the work.” Your hips start to rotate, slowly trying to help my cockhead break into you. As soon as the head is in, everything else will go smoothly. That’s what you keep telling yourself, it’s your mantra. Feeling fuller, you wonder how much more there can possibly be. It feels like you are being split open. No lube, no butt plug warm up, my cock forcing its way into you. Then, my hands are on your hips, grabbing you. “Take a deep breath, this is going to hurt.” Without giving you the time to comply with my instructions, I bury myself balls deep inside of you, completely filling you up. Fucking you with more ferocity than I was fucking your throat, I take your ass without mercy. Soon, your mind is blank. Nothing exists except for my cock brutally fucking you and the cold wood of the cross against your tits. No more worries about if you’re<b> bleeding. </font></b>No more wonders about why you enjoy these things, just bliss. Happy, content fulfilment of being used. The pain making your clit throb more and more, dripping down your thighs so much you wonder if you’re leaving a puddle at your feet. “I’m going to cum in your ass tonight. When I get done, you’re going to clean off the cross, then get me my drink. No panties, and I don’t want to see a single drop of my cum dripping from your ass. You’d better not spill a single drop. Show me that you want to be my Good Girl again. Show me that you’re sorry for making me punish you and that you’ve learned your lesson.” Then you feel it. My cock getting harder. You know I’m about to cum. “Please fill my ass with your cum, Sir.” The words were supposed to come out as a statement, but they come out as a plead. You want my cum, it’s the only thought on your mind. Making me happy, milking my cock dry, emptying my balls, earning your reward. With a grunt, you feel the first wave of my cum inside of you. Hot against the walls of your ass, the only lubrication you’ve gotten this entire time. Spurt after spurt emptied deep inside of your ass, until finally, I quit thrusting. Leaving my cock in your ass, you feel it shrink, until finally, it is no longer inside of you. Remembering my words, you clench your ass shut, not spilling a drop and trying to ignore the soreness. “I’m expecting my drink in my hand in less than 90 seconds. I’ll be on the couch. Don’t forget to clean the cross.” Your head swimming, your tits and cunt aching from the whip, and your ass throbbing from being used and abused, you walk towards the cleaning wipes. You can’t help but smile, wondering when you are going to disobey me again. The wetness on your thighs snaps you back into the present, and you quickly make your way upstairs. “You have 45 seconds to get whiskey in my hand. If you want to cum in the next 24 hours, don’t push me.” With downcast eyes, you place the glass in my hand with seconds to spare. Your hair falling in front of your face as you kneel at my feet, I can’t help but wonder: “Is that a smile?” |
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