I knew I shouldn't have been doing it. I knew it was wrong, but I just couldn't help myself. When I woke he was gone and the red, silk sheets felt so nice, so smooth all over my skin. I started running my hands over my breasts, just like you did last night, teasing and tugging at my nipples, pinching them a little now and again. My other hand started on my stomach and ever so slowly made its way down, first along my hips, then inside my thigh and finally to my lips, tracing the finger lazily up and down, brushing the clit, sending tiny little shivers up and down my spine.
Eyes closed. Back arched. Fingers slipping inside, slowly at first, then faster. Just one. Then two. Faster and faster. Squirming and moaning. Touching. Breathing harder and harder, fingers moving faster now. So close, just a little more. . . .
"WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING??"
His voice was both shocked and angry and I blushed deeply as he tore the sheets away, leaving me naked and squirming on the bed, legs splayed wide, fingers still inside me. Caught and exposed.
"What did I tell you about that?" he asked, calmer now, but in a firm tone.
"I'm not supposed to," I said, closing my knees and covering myself with my hands.
"Un Uh," he said, hands reaching down parting my knees. "You are going to be nice and expose for this you filthy little cunt."
I blushed more, wanting to close my legs more than anything at that moment.
He continued, "No, you aren't *allowed* to, there is a big difference. And why not?"
I closed my eyes and spoke softly, "Because it isn't my cunt anymore, it's yours and because I need you to help me with," I froze up, so ashamed, unable to say it.
He brushed my hair back and whispered, "It's OK. But you need to say it."
I squeezed my eyes tight and turned my head, heart racing. "I need you to help me with my masturbation problem."
When I opened my eyes, he was staring down at me, looking stern. I knew the look and it scared me.
"I've tried to be nice about this, but nothing has worked so far. I leave for 15 minutes and when I get back, you have your fingers stuck in that wet, little, stinky cunt. Each word seemed to sting.
He leaned down between my legs and inhaled, laughing. "Oh and you are really a stinky little girl today." He reached down and his thick fingers circled my wrist, forcing my hand to my face, my fingers under my nose. "See," he said, still laughing a little. "Now tell me, cunt, what are you?"
I started to squirm, legs trying to get traction in the silk sheets, but found myself just slipping around. I sobbed softly answering him, "Stinky," was all I could say. I couldn't help but inhale my own musky scent.
"Who is my stinky little masturbator?" he whispered in my ear.
"Keiko," I said.
"Keiko's what?" he whispered again.
"Keiko's your stinky little masturbator," I whispered, cheeks on fire.
His hand cupped my sex and he found it wetter than before. Hand after hand smeared my own wetness on my face, cheeks, forehead, nose, lips, until my face was coated in my own juices.
In one swift motion, he flipped my over and roughly drew my arms behind my back. The familiar sensation of rope circling my wrists was followed by another set of ropes, this time around my elbows, pinning them together.
My ankles and calves drawn to my thighs and bound with rough, thick hemp rope, forcing my knees open wide. Then the sensation I was fearing. Rope looped between my wrists and ankles, slowly pulling tighter, forcing them together. Shoulders straining, thighs wide, the tension getting more and more intense. I arch my back, giving the rope some slack which he quickly takes up, forcing me into that position. Bent and rocking on my stomach, he flips me over, all my weight resting on my back, trapping my arms under me, barely able to squirm now.
My knees pulled apart wide, stomach extended and my hips raised, my sex sticking up in the air, exposed, lips slightly spread.
God, why am I still so wet? Why can't make these feelings stop. I can't raise my head enough to see how I look but I can feel it and I can smell myself. Oh God, is it running down my thighs or is it my imagination? What am I smelling? Me or what he has wiped on my face. My head spins and my heart races.
I feel myself slipping away.
SLAP!
It takes a moment to register, the sound with the sensation. Suddenly, there is a warm burning. A stinging between my legs, then another and another. Harder and harder. He's not saying a word. I try to squirm and close my legs, but I can't. Each slap finding its aching, pink target. It hurts so much, but feels so good.
He's silent, slapping between my legs over and over again. It is hot, stinging, and throbbing now, aching with pain and need.
"No more," I plead, "I'll be good, I swear."
