Charlottes Catharsis

Charlotte arrived at the house, stressed and distracted. Clothed as she knew was expected of her, but not in and of the moment as she normally was. A disagreement at home, difficult children, a late night. She drew breath and rang the bell, walked immediately in as per her prior instructions.

A note pinned to the board on her left; she smiled at this familiar routine, read the note carefully, yet didn't feel the instant arousal, tingling and anticipation that usually accompanied this ritual.

Still she followed the instructions, stripped, kneeled, arms atop her head, eyes lowered. Facing into the house, the front door behind her. And she waited. Aware of the clock ticking, of the cars outside, the vague hum and tick of the boiler. She closed her eyes, opened her eyes, felt herself growing wet, her nipples hardening. Not knowing how long she'd be kept waiting, not minding, and somewhat surprised that the world outside the door had dissolved in the space of a few moments.

She began to count in her head, fiddled her fingers, felt the cool air soaking the heat from her body, shivered. No sound yet. By now she'd normally pinpointed where in the house he was, upstairs, or down, in the room to her left, or straight ahead of her. No clues today. She drew a very long slow deep breath, exhaled. Waited. Shivered.

And then she heard him. Slow deliberate movement directly in front of her. She kept her eyes lowered, but could see him approaching. His hand on her head and hands, around her neck. "Put your hands behind your back," quietly and firmly. She obeyed, feeling her chest thrusting forward as she did so. He toyed with her already erect nipples briefly. The sharp sensation as he pinched made her whimper and lean towards him. She felt him slip the collar around her neck, fasten it. Breathed a sigh of relief and pleasure. His, again.

"Come here," he says, smiling down at her, lifting her chin so she can look up at him, and guiding her to her feet. She smiles and instantly hugs and kisses him, feels his clothed body the length of her, feels safe and loved, yet aroused and needy too. "I think we shall go and just lie down and cuddle for a while, my slut". She's half disappointed, half grateful.

He holds her, gently, strokes her back as she leans into him. She finds herself arching at his touch, wanting more. He knows very well that she cannot help but respond to him. A slow chuckle, and the touching becomes more intimate; he scratches her back, insinuates his hand between her thighs, urging her to open to him, allow him the access she must. She is wet, and almost embarrassed, knowing he will discover that in a second or two.

His fingers tickle her labia, probe gently. He laughs quietly in her ear as she feels herself blushing. "Mmmmm, a wet little slut for me this morning are we?" he asks. His fingers slide slowly in and around her cunt, teasing her, making her moan and try to pull his fingers deep inside her.

He bids her close her eyes, keep still. She does so, hears him strip and feels his weight back on the bed. He rolls her from her side to on her back, lies atop her. All slow and gentle, no force. Enters her body, almost languidly, no rush, no urgency. No pain. She is not sure how she feels about no pain. She needs pain at some level, but she needs this too.

How wonderful he feels inside she thinks to herself, how full of him I am, how much his cock taking my cunt is his possession of me, pure and simple. She becomes increasingly aroused, her legs wrapping round him to pull him deeper. She cannot get enough, cannot feel him deeply enough. Her need to have him drive into her, possess her, her cunt, her body, her mind.

He has insisted her eyes remain open, and he stares at her throughout his claiming. Her world has shrunk to his cock inside her, his eyes boring into her soul. She moans incoherently, no longer caring how wanton and needy and slutty she must appear.

And slowly, the urgency of his claiming increases. He pulls her hair, tilting her head viciously back, bites her neck and breasts. Pins her arms above her head. He moves up her body, fucks her mouth, not gently, firmly, forcefully even, makes her gag and retch and fight for breath. All the while she is straining against his arms, needing to feel his weight upon her body, his fingers digging into her flesh. Strength and power and physical manifestation of his power and control over her body.

Saliva coats his cock and her face, sliding down her neck. Tears in her eyes from the force of his assault. And suddenly his cock is gone from her mouth and throat, and she cries out and tries to move her body to reach him again. He laughs at her.

"My my, we are needy today, aren't we, slut? Can't get enough of my cock?"

"No, Sir. Please?" she manages. Not caring at the humiliation of crying out for him, of needing him so much. Of him toying with her. Cat and mouse.

"Please what, pet?" He moves his body over her, his cock gently striking her cheeks and then her lips, pulling away from her as she tries to take him in her mouth. She whimpers again in frustration.

"Please, Sir, I want you inside me, in my mouth?"

"I think you'd do anything I said right now, my little slut. How about I fuck your cunt, then your arse, and THEN your mouth, hmm?" Charlotte freezes.

"Oh yes, I know you don't want to. I know the idea repulses you." He lowers his cock to her lips, allows her to take him in her mouth again. She tongues and sucks him greedily. "But I need you to know, " he thrusts deep inside her mouth, hitting her throat. She gags at the prolonged pressure. "that I would do that, and I need you to know.." He pushes even further into her throat; her gagging increases and her body writhes beneath him as she attempts to draw breath and pull away, "I need YOU to know, my little whore, that you, " he pulls away and yet sinks again deep within her mouth, "you, would let me".

She moans and whimpers. So gone that she's thinking inside her head "Oh my god, would i? would i? No..he'd never, he'd never...he wouldn't...oh god, I don't care....." Her headspace so his now that the rational part is shutting down. She's actually considering if she would....knowing in a sense it doesn't matter. The mind fuck and hard limits and so on. Just him speaking to her like that is so very arousing. Blatant demonstration of his hold over her. Pushing her buttons, stretching her, drawing her out. It's like a horse being put through its paces she thinks sometimes. He works her.

She likes being pushed like that, all the talk of the humiliating things he might do to her. Pissing on her, ass to mouth, whoring her out in clubs. Displaying her naked for all to see. Toying with her and allowing others to witness her subservience to him. It's more than the physical arousal to her too, it's deeper than that, something linked to her desire to be subsumed within his power and will and desires. To matter only in that she matters to him, her obedience, her compliance, her acceptance.

He releases her arms, pulls away from her. They lie side by side for a short while, calming, and he strokes her hair, guides her atop him.

She loves this. Loves that though she is atop him, she has no power, no control, cannot do anything he does not wish her to do. He allows her to fuck him sometimes, to kiss him, lick his nipples. And then he will tell her to stop, to lock her arms behind her back. And he holds her hips firmly, fucks at his pace, pinches and twists her breasts, making her cry out. She loves that she cannot keep up with his pace, cannot fuck him back in that position.

He does this now, allows her to fuck him as she wishes, for a time. Then reaches for her breasts, applies pressure in increments, watching her squirm and writhe, listening to her moan, then whimper, then cry out, then look at him questioningly. She is sweating, The pain from his hands acute, acute but aching. Her cunt is sopping wet. She can hear the squelching as he fucks in and out of her so deliberately, so deeply.

"You have a choice now, my horny little slut. I am going to cane you. But you may choose. Nice slow warm up, " His cock drives in and out of her, determined and deep, but slow paced, his hands on her chest stroking and tweaking her nipples.

"Or, straight in, no warm up. " His cock pumps in and out of her more rapidly. His fingers squeeze nastily on her nipples, twisting. She cries out and knows her need is for the more visceral.

"No warm up, Sir. Please" He chuckles again, pulls out of her, sends her to the toilet. Then tells her to get back on the bed, on all fours. She hears him sorting through the canes, feels one stroking her arse and thighs. And then surprisingly feels his cock enter her again. She fucks back, primal and needy. Just as she is settling into a rhythm, he pulls suddenly from her, moves away from her. She takes a deep breath....

He strikes her. Very very hard. Harder than he has ever struck her before. She gasps and is shocked, bewildered, frightened. He strikes her again. She feels tears well in her eyes, slide down her cheek, drip from her nose onto the bed, stained with mascara.

He's never hit her like this before. She's never been hit like this before in her life. She is shocked, taken aback, disbelieving. The severity, the fact he's never gone as hard as that, never wanted to? Never attempted it? But she lets him. She cries, taking each blow deeper and deeper inside her head. Tears flowing. Nowhere near safewording though. The thought doesn't occur to her. She's just breathing and sobbing her way through it. She feels utterly submissive to this man, owned. A feeling of acceptance that he has every right to do this to her.

She is aware that in one sense she doesn't like it. The pain is beyond arousing. Beyond the pale. She is aware that he canes then fucks her, canes then fucks her, canes then fucks her. She is aware she gets wetter and wetter, and is bemused, because it HURTS. Pure pain.

But she knows her mind is not saying stop. He tells her afterwards that her body was not saying stop. She believes him. Though she does not understand how her mind or her body can have overridden her...common sense? Her self protection?

She is aware that she is rising to some sort of challenge. That her body and her mind want to be pushed like this. A test of sorts. Hard to assimilate, hard to describe to herself afterwards when she mused upon it. A desire for dissolution. A desire to let go and abandon herself. She knows that the tears are from the pain, but also they come from a deeper place. Like a tap being turned on, slowly at first, then allowed to flow fully and freely. Emotion ebbing from her. A wound bleeding, staunching itself when enough pain has flowed.

Afterwards, she would feel gratitude that he didn't stop. That the tears did not frighten or inhibit him. The trust she held in him so well founded. Knowing his strength, his toys, her body so well that the effect is measured and controlled always.

She has no idea how many time he strikes her. She is told to count out the final six strokes. She sobs her way through them, counting and thanking him for each. He remains calm and in control throughout, largely silent. When she collapses to the bed after some of the blows, he patiently tells her to get back on all fours, before delivering yet another blow.

Afterwards, she would reflect on his behaviour. His calmness, how determined he was, his almost cruelty, the pure sadism of it, his clear arousal. She would think how the bending of her will to his makes her feel so nurtured and safe. How the powerless feelings in her head are enabled. Even though in the cold light of day she could stop all or any of this with a single word. She never wants to stop it, stop him. She loves that for those windows with him, they are not equal. The dynamic is such that she dissolves into her...lesser status. She is subject to his whims and pleasures. And she revels in it.

After counting the final six blows, she collapses on the bed, sobbing. He moves to lie beside her, scoops her drenched body in his arms, holds her, strokes her hair. Is simply there. He says nothing. Does not try to calm or soothe her or shush her with words. She pulls herself together briefly, determined to still herself and stop sobbing.

He tells her simply, "It's okay, I'm here. Let it go. I've got you." And the words rip through her like a knife; she feels this terrible keening begin inside her, which emerges in a howling sob of pain and anguish. And she sobs afresh, body wrenching, tears and snot seeping from her, clinging to him, feeling his arms encircle her. Pure catharsis. As if all the little niggles of the moment, all the disgruntlement with life right then, all the hassle, all the stress, all the angst, just flow out of her. All at once. Gone. Cleansed.

Permission to let it go, to share it. Being held and just being allowed. Permitted to show someone the real nitty gritty shitty bits. And loved, through the whole thing. Loved and held. He wasn't frightened by her, or threatened, or scared, or bewildered. Just took it all in, took it all on. And waited till it stopped.

And gradually, Charlotte calms. She asks quietly for some tissues. He gets her some tissues and a drink. She wipes her face, has a drink, looks at him. And says simply, "Thank you, Sir."

And he smiles at her, takes her in his arms, and, with her wrapped inside him, they sleep.