"Do you like to hit girls?"
"Not usually, but it is fun to slap one around when you know she's just going to beg for more, slide to her knees with a stinging cheek and deep-throat me."
It was this response that had sent Rose fleeing from the computer, hot and flushed, and into a cold shower. She only went to the BDSM chat rooms to flirt a little, to remember what it was like to be treated like an object, to tease with that line that she had drawn when she left the lifestyle to pursue her career. She had even deleted all her accounts, stories and images that reminded her of her salacious cravings when she had finally consented to move in with Peter, her long time boyfriend.
But, on the lonely weekends when he was away with work, and the big house felt so empty and cold, she would sometimes sit naked at the PC, with a glass of wine, and return to the sites she had hoped to leave behind. She never did anything more than chat, flirt a little on occasion, but mostly she would discuss various aspects of bondage, or offer a kind word of advice to younger subs. Anything more than that would be cheating, she felt. Lately, however, she had been e-mailing a guy she had met, at first it was just the usual vapid stuff, swapping links, stories of escapades, it had gotten somewhat competitive, each trying to out do the other with tales of sordid hook ups, depraved fantasies, and risqué affairs.
The cold water helped her calm down. It wasn't unfaithful to be turned on, right? She stood under the icy water, feeling it cool her flushing skin, until eventually she stepped out, wrapping a white towel across her toned, shivering body. Rose was 31, but could still, with the right clothes, pass for 21. She kept in shape, loved her gentle curves, and more importantly loved how Peter enjoyed them. His eyes would take her whole body in when he would arrive home, scanning from her rich, chocolate hair, past her plump, still firm breasts, along her firm stomach, gently sculpted legs, all the way down to her perfect feet, usually encased in sky-scrapping heels to compensate for her lacking height. Peter knew nothing of her dark dreams, her desires to be used, abused and, essentially, treated like shit. He adored her. The sex was good, not great, but he was always came, she came about half the time, faking the rest. And it hadn't fizzled even when they entered their first, then second, and then third year of a relationship.
Peter knew she faked her orgasms some of the time. It drove him insane. He wanted to make her happy, as happy as she made him. He had thought it was just a biological thing, as a guy he wanted sex more often, all his married friends complained that their wives were never interested in sex. Rose never said no, she even initiated sex a couple of times a week. Maybe she was just doing it to make him happy? Was she not as interested in sex as she seemed? But no, she wasn't a normal woman. A few months ago Peter had discovered her secret collection of pornograpghic images on their shared computer; pictures of women bound in robes or leather, or covered in scars from being beaten, cut or burnt. In all these pictures their eyes would connect with the camera, a pleading look, begging the photographer, or the viewer, for something. But what? 'Normal' people, Peter guessed, would think they were pleading for mercy, for release, for help. But no, to him, they were imploring him to continue the treatment, to step it up a notch. They were begging for more.
Along with the pictures, he had found links to some chat-rooms, with the same screen name used in all of them. And so began his plan. When he would be away for work, put up in some swanky hotel in some far off city, when all the rooms began to look the same, he would log into these rooms. After about a month he found her, in a room devoted to discussions of flogging. He engaged her in conversation, only to be quickly blown off. This made him laugh, so he left her alone for the night. But he didn't give up. Eventually she succumbed to conversation, then to e-mails. Tonight she had asked him if he liked to hit girls. After his response, she had logged off. He knew it was time to move on to the next stage in his plan to eradicate Rose's fake orgasms once and for all.
The next weekend he told Rose he had to go out of town again.
"Again? But you just got back? For how long this time?"
"Not too long, sweets. Three days tops. Then, hopefully, I won't have to be away much more for a while."
"That's good I suppose. We'll just have to make tonight last me," Rose winked and stood from the dining table, walked towards the bedroom, unbuttoning her blouse as she went, and turned to see him following her, lust in her eyes, just as she expected. That night he drove her to orgasm, twice. Afterwards, while she slept, he sent her an e-mail, it was filthy. He described in lewd detail every forbidden act he would force her to perform if he got his hands on her, outlined the various ways he would use her body, reduce her to an object for his pleasure, even driving the humanity out of her, if it pleased him. He clicked send and returned to bed, falling asleep with her curled up to him.
When Rose was sure Peter was definitely gone, she settled at the computer, fully clothed and without wine this time, to see if he had mailed her. Was he angry at her for leaving so abruptly? Would he be offended? It seemed not. Rose found herself opening the top button of her shirt as she read the e-mail, the flush rising up her neck, her body tensing, and against her every wish, her cunt growing wet with each line. As she reached the bit about dehumanising her she pushed back from the computer, gasping for breath. She closed her eyes, white light blurring her vision as thoughts of whips and chains poured through her mind. Then suddenly and arm was wrapped around her, a breath on her neck, and a husky whisper,
"Naughty little whore, aren't you Rose?"
Shock coursed through her body, he knew! He knew! Oh god, how did he know? Before she could speak, before she could even think, Rose fainted. When she woke, moments later, she was standing, hands held above her head, by rope, tied somehow to the light fixture. She tugged at it a little, and suddenly felt a sharp tap on her ass,
"Eh, don't pull on that, pet. Not sure how strong it his. No matter, you won't struggle, will you whore?"
She stopped her tugging and turned, gasping when she saw him, her Peter, her love, her rock, standing behind her with a wicked grin on his face and a riding crop in his hand. He swung again, harder this time, thwacking her ass through the cotton skirt.
"Answer me, slut."
Thinking she was dreaming, or hallucinating, or something, Rose mumbled her answer,
