All She Wants

I let my fingers glide over the ice, feeling the depth of its chill. I press myself close in behind her, breathe hard into her ear to distract her, and press my freezing hand to her hot, red ass.

She squirms in her chains as I slip my fingers between her buttocks and run them down and around to her front, just brushing her clitoris. She’s panting hard into the gag. Her eyes are open, but staring vacantly, exhaustedly, at the smooth black leather of the bench she’s cuffed to.

The cuffs are no-nonsense leather. Made ‘em myself...when she twists and struggles the leather creaks. I always remember that sound afterward.

Her nipples are cuffed tonight, not clamped. I peer at the timer set up on the black-painted workbench a couple of feet away. It’s been ten minutes, so I reach around and remove them with the cold hand, which is slowly warming up. She’s at that delicious tension point — she’s been teetering along the edge of a nice big orgasm for a few minutes now, and I know that if I don’t let her come soon she is going to slip away under my hand. I lean down, my fingers pressing against her toes – they are still pink and warm.

Her beauty, naked and helpless, awes me. My hand rubs my cock through my jeans a minute. I want to be rock hard when I slide it in. I wonder for a moment if I should use her ass. But I’ve got a very fat butt-plug in there — biggest I’ve ever used on her, so I spread her legs as far out as I can and just keep thinking of her cunt.

As soon as I tilt the table, she knows what’s coming...or thinks she does. She actually arches her back — I thought I had her tied tightly enough to prevent that — and she offers her pussy. I smack her ass firmly.

“Not yet, pet,” I whisper in her ear.

She softly whimpers through the gag. One of her nipples goes a bit slack in my hand, which is by now quite warm. I pinch the offending nipple firmly until it hardens back up. I toy with her clit and pussy using a rubber glove on my other hand onto which I have stuck pointy drops of silicone sealant — they give a very interesting texture, sort of a soft vampire glove; meanwhile I withdraw my other hand and reach for the riding crop. I give her two fast ones across her ass, then a third. Her breath is fast and shallow as I stop and blindfold her I put the crop down . . . now that she’s expecting it. I reach for the soft cat-o-nine tails. I made this just for her, too.

Before I draw the tails back to redden her ass even further I survey her. I admire her bruised arms where I wrestled her to the floor; the marks on her knees and thighs from when she was ordered to suck me and chose to disobey — she spent half-an-hour kneeling in the punishment corner with a litre of saline solution in her ass for that. There is a mark on one of her shoulder blades from where she twisted to avoid her spanking and I pushed her firmly onto the bench to chain her down. Heavy rope burns on her arms and legs, and whip marks everywhere, including a beauty that snakes up her left leg and disappears under the heavy leather of the thigh cuff, only to reappear and curl across her ass. That will be there a while.

“Are you listening to me, slave?” I ask her.

She bobs her head with two slow, deliberate nods. It’s our code for checking safety without breaking scene discipline. If anything felt wrong to her, she would have given a deliberate side-to-side headshake, I would untie her, and we would talk it through. However, I hate doing that, after all she enjoys this so much — the helplessness, the heat of her whipped ass and tits, the sore throb in her stretched thighs and the wetness of her pussy. I thrust my second finger, still in the special glove, partway into her.

“You may come after five strokes,” I tell her firmly — she is starting to make that keening noise past the gag that tells me she is trying to hold it in. I decide in a flash to do this with my finger, save my cock for later.

The cat comes down for the first stroke, and she moans and bites the gag savagely, I stroke and finger her wet slit, and at the fourth stroke, she starts to cry incoherently into the gag. I can make out a muffled "No... No…No…No” and a few obscenities. She bucks her hips and leather squeals against metal as she comes.

For a while afterwards, I let her lie in her own sweat, still bound. Her shoulders heave as she catches her breath. After I have counted ten breaths, I take the gag off her. She has drooled all over the table. I release her ankles first, then her wrists. She slides carefully off the table, with me watching carefully to make sure she doesn’t slip, — she looks a bit giddy.

She folds to the floor like a Japanese fan, carefully, gracefully into her “stay” position: Knees drawn to her breasts, arms clasped at the elbow behind her, lips almost, but not quite to the linoleum. As I turn off the timer on the bench, I catch a glimpse of the thick plug in her asshole, and her swollen and reddened pussy lips. She is wondering if I will lock her shut tonight. Let her wonder, for now.

I swipe my face with a wet cloth, squeezing drops from it as she crouches there below. My cock is stiff, and the way her ass moves when the cold drops hit her heated skin is driving me wild. Just a few minutes longer, and I will have her.

Going to one knee behind her, I slowly start to rock the butt plug in her ass.

“Should I take this out, darling? What do you think?”

Again, this is scene code for us. When I ask what she thinks it means she can safely tell me no if she is tired, emotionally overwrought, or if I have pushed her to what she thinks is her limit. Her silent nod indicates everything’s fine. I slowly pull the plug out. Her face goes wooden as she concentrates on relaxing her ass to let it out. A tiny gasp escapes her lips. It makes me wild to see her suffer like this. I couldn’t do it to anyone else. The plug emerges slowly, with a sucking sound. Drops of lubricant roll from her anus down between her ass cheeks and around the curve to her thighs. She relaxes a bit.

Now it’s my turn. I take a four-foot chain, run it through the rings of her thigh cuffs, up behind her neck, and clip each end to a wrist cuff on each side.

“You can struggle all you like now, slave,” I whisper, leaning close to her ear. “It won’t stop me from fucking your slutty ass.” Her eyes are bright under half-closed lids. She does like being talked down to.

I release the head of my cock from my underwear and spread a thick coating of lubricant on it before I begin sliding it into her. At first, she breathes rapidly and deeply, and then she moans hoarsely as the head pops in and my shaft glides into her. I rest my balls against her ass, letting her get used to the sensation. Slowly, I start moving in and out. It’s painfully slow. I am sure she would use the same words.

She gives a surprisingly deep grunt as I pick up momentum. My cock feels like it’s in a delicious velvet fist. I begin smacking her ass with my hand, feeling that delicious twitch in my balls that tells me I can’t hold out much longer. My prick spasms as I drive my cum into her ass.

After a minute, I inspect her ass for damage as I withdraw. I have seen threads of blood before, though not in quantity. I’ve noticed she’s much more relaxed when I fuck her ass lately. I wash my cock and balls at the sink in the tiny bathroom in the corner. I gasp at the coldness of a handful of lubricant as I work it into my genitals. I leave my fly open, my underwear down. When I come back she’s calm, her colour has returned to normal, and she is deeply relaxed. I release her from the chain and push her onto all fours, then order her to lick my cock and balls. They’re already clean, but she never knows that. She’s very turned on by being ordered to perform what she thinks is a dirty and demeaning job, but I wouldn’t risk her health or safety like that. So under cover of washing my hands, I smear enough lube on my cock to give it some taste, so she gets to feel like a proper little slave girl.

I think she’s surprised when I don’t announce “The scene is over” after she licks my cock and balls clean. Instead, I motion her into her cage. It’s not quite big enough for her to sit or lie down flat. As usual, she pauses, her ass sticking out, before entering to let me put the padlock through her pussy lips and lock her to her lead. It reaches just far enough that she can go to the toilet, when she’s allowed out. However tonight once she’s in, I lock the door. There is a scrap of blanket on the floor in the cage, and wired to the mesh is a water bottle with one of those supply tips you get at pet stores. To drink, she has to lower her head almost to the floor, while her welted ass thrusts obscenely upward. This she does as I wipe down some of the equipment. She watches me carefully, wondering what is coming next.

I leave her, holding myself in check to keep from looking — she does very convincing puppy-dog eyes, so I have to be strong. On the stairs I turn up the thermostat and turn the lights off in the Room (it always gets the capital letter). She’ll be fine until I have my break.

In the kitchen, I pour myself a glass of water — I am sweaty and exhausted. I wipe my face on the dishtowel and light a cigarette (smoking is on my list of vices to quit — it’s about number 7, right after masturbation).

The funny thing about this evening, and all the other evenings like it, is that this still doesn’t thrill me as it should. All the whips, chains, her absolute obedience and challenges, it’s all a bit much for an ordinary Joe. Deep inside, some shred of me is asking,

How can you do this to her?

But my heart answers,

How can I not?

I drag on the cigarette, gathering myself for the next phase of the night. Smoke curls from my nostrils and rises unhurriedly to the ceiling. My mind roams freely.

We’d been going out a week when we slept together for the first time. I’d made some silly remark when we met about how she ought to be spanked, and it never occurred to me that her subsequent interest in me was due to that comment.

So the first time I got to share her bed I was gentle, tender...all the things a man is told to be, is supposed to be. It was okay...but there was a “cold pancakes, no syrup” feeling to it. I just knew I was not doing it for her. Oh, she applauded my efforts, made noise, moved around. But when she pushed it, when she got playfully violent, I would always back off. I didn’t want to accidentally injure her. In addition, when she began to moan, “No, no, no” I’d always stop, convinced that I would hurt her. Nevertheless, I loved her, and I always believed that somehow, she would love me back, and then she would be able to relax, to enjoy sex, to share herself with me. We went on that way for three months. Finally, she came home after Christmas and didn’t bother to call.

I had known the relationship was going down the drain, but now I knew it was over. We had the usual “it’s not you” conversation (the one that only serves as notice that it

is

you). I

begged

her to tell me what was missing, to

communicate

, for the love of Pete! We made the usual promises about staying friends, and she never called me again. Later, I found out she was seeing a co-worker of mine I knew she had the hots for.

I had trouble believing it. I thought she had more self-respect. The man was nine kinds of dick. He was known for telling women: “If I take you home you’re mine ‘till I’m done with you." I just thought it was his looks I couldn’t compete with. He shaved his head, rode a Harley, and had shockingly blue eyes. I just couldn’t understand why she’d go for him — a confirmed bastard — when she had me waiting to give her everything she wanted.

Everything.

I want you to remember that.

He and I were good friends, strange though it seems, and one drunken night I asked him if he’d been fucking her while she and I were dating. He said no. I was drunk and belligerent, and didn’t believe him. We had a fight, which each of us thought he’d won, and I staggered home.

When he got home he drunkenly told her what I’d asked him, and she wrote me an offended letter addressing my concerns. Her contempt! I could have bottled it. She called me stupid, and that was the kindest word in the letter. That night I went back to the bar to drown my sorrows.

I found him at the bar again. He was trying to pick up a foxy blonde —usual behaviour— if he picked her up he’d take her home and screw her in his own bed whether his girlfriend—my ex—was there or not. I once saw him bring a statuesque black girl home to the trailer he lived in. In his living room, in front of several workmates, he had ordered his girlfriend of the time to go down on the black girl because he’d been promised a fuck if she did.

Sitting down at the bar beside him, I had a couple of beers; and at some point, I asked how she was. He shrugged.

“Dunno,” he said, “kinda sore, I guess,” His lips curled into a snarling grin.

I asked what he meant, and he explained that he’d come home the previous evening kind of inebriated, pulled off her panties, bent her into a doggie position, and missed her pussy.

I was appalled, and said something to that effect.

“Nah,” he replied, grinning, a “fuck-you” look in his eyes, “she fuckin’

loved

it!”

I got very drunk that night in order to keep from thinking of her bent over the arm of a sofa while he fucked her ass. In all the time we’d been out together, I’d never made a move on her bottom, even when I wanted to, because every time I tried to touch her asshole, she’d wriggle away and say: “Don’t, it tickles".

From time to time as the weeks went by, I would hear about it: He had made her pick up a ferocious and well-known dyke from the local bar. He had offered to rent her out to two of the guys from work, and one had accepted. Finally, I heard that they had broken up.

I thought very hard about things. Did I want her? Did I love her? What kind of effort was it going to take me to win her back?

Please understand — I was desperate. I loved her with all my heart. I would have walked barefoot on the coals of hell itself to get her back. But I had to do something much, much harder for me. I had to hurt her. I had to put the white knight crap away, let the beast out of its cage, and let it roam. Then — I would have to get it back into the cage. That would have to wait until later, though. If I loved her, this was what I had to do.

I went up to her apartment around 8 P.M. She had a female friend over. Something must have shown in my face, because she kind of recoiled when she answered the door. I was in black jeans, boots, white shirt and black leather vest, and wearing black leather gloves, which I removed as I brushed past her and stepped into the front hall, I looked at her friend and asked politely, “Would you excuse us please?”

I think the friend was outraged, but she glanced at my ex and saw no support, only bemusement. She got out, favouring me with a deep glare. I prayed this was going to work ‘because if I blew it her friend would sic a hit man on me, I was certain.

Therefore, we were alone. She went and stood in the kitchen by the fridge, her face bunched up, her body trembling. I crossed awkwardly to where she was standing. She shrank back and I followed until I had her pinned in the corner, our bodies separated by only inches. I didn’t touch her. I took a deep breath and looked into her eyes.

“I love you,” I said, “and I think this shit has gone on long enough.” I paused, my heart hammering at my ribs, making me gasp.

“If you start getting scared,” I instructed her “you will say ‘Mercy’. Do you understand?”

She opened her mouth to say something. I grabbed her wrists and pinned them behind her. I kissed her long, hard, and deep. At first, she struggled, then I felt her open her mouth, our tongues touched, and I knew that I had it right. Asking would have done me no good. I had to

command.

I pulled her into the living room, kissed her again, and ordered her:

“Strip”

Her mouth came open again. I pinched one of her nipples and held a finger gently against her lips. Something flickered in her eyes, and I became aware of a musky scent in the room. Something in her was struggling to make the choice, and now it was all hers to make. This was where she was going to tell me no, let me make my apologies and leave; or choose to submit.

I waited, sweating and trembling, for ten agonizing seconds, counting in my head to allow her every chance to escape her future, and all the time not daring to let the slightest tremor show. After ten seconds, I counted another ten to make sure no objection was coming.

She had hesitated long enough, I decided, it was time to force the issue. I held her wrists behind her again and pulled down the track pants she was wearing. Underneath she was wearing a white silky-looking thong with a sort of ruff around the waist. I seized it and pulled it firmly up between her ass cheeks, and then I sat, pushing her to her knees by the couch. I yanked off her t-shirt in one fluid motion and pulled her across my lap, running my hand between her thighs. She grunted a bit as I pulled her across my knees, but stayed quiet and obedient. Inside, I exulted. I had finally figured it out—and I could rely on myself to give her what she wanted. I took her hands behind her back and held them there.

“In future” I explained, “you’ll wear this sort of underwear unless I order you to wear something else. You will greet me on your knees when I arrive, and there had better be a cup of that fantastic coffee of yours waiting for me. If you understand, just nod. Until I tell you you’ve earned the privilege you will say only ‘Yes, Master’ or ‘Your pleasure, Master’ because you don’t say ‘no’ to me.”

I saw the internal struggle, emotion flickered on her face for a few seconds and then falteringly, but clearly, she said:

“Ye-Yes, Master.”

My heart leapt, and I felt dizzy. I have heard of sub-space, but perhaps this exultant feeling was Dom-space. If so, then I wanted more of it.

“Now,” I said, “I’m going to punish you. You’ve been a real bitch lately and I think you’re overdue for a spanking.” Suddenly, I realized she was aroused. I could feel it. I rubbed her panties deep into her sweet-smelling, wet sex.

“So you’ll be punished. In addition, every day you will present me a list of things you do that are against the rules we will set out for you. Then you will present yourself to be spanked. And if you ever get so perfect that you don’t need punishing, I may just do it anyway for my own entertainment.”

I drew back my hand, and for the first time committed a violent act on her body.

From then on, I enslaved her. I tied her up, whipped her, “raped’ her mouth, ass, and pussy—all. I bound her hair, gagged her, tortured her with wax and ice, nipple clamps, and other toys. For two weeks I made her wear a butt plug to work and spanked her twenty times for every time she removed it for any reason, which she had to report to me at the end of the day, on her knees with her ass in the air.

It didn’t come naturally. I had to read everything I could get my hands on to keep pushing her, expanding the limits of what we could do. I had just bought a small house, and it took all my ingenuity and skill to build and furnish the basement play Room, with its racks of cuffs, clamps, and implements of punishment.

One day I led her in a collar and cuffs, on a chain to a tattoo parlour nearby. Under her coat, she was naked. I had made her shave herself, and then inspected her. At the door of the tattoo parlour, I paused and addressed her.

“There is no turning back, do you understand? Whatever we do here tonight means more than anything we have done before. You may speak.”

After a long, long pause she whispered “Yes, Master.”