Part 1. Saved by the Bell
*
I am here, yet again, tied to this bed. His bed. I lost count of how many times we've done this after the sixth time. The thing is... I'm here because a part of me wants to be. The pain and humiliation unlock a part of myself that I didn't know I had. Kinda like chakras, or something like that.
"Stay still, nigger," he growls, as I wriggle and withe on the bed. It's because the rope tying my wrists to the bed head is so fucking itchy, and I know that the asshole makes it that way on purpose. Even in my discomfort, though, hearing him call me that makes my clit swell so much, it hurts.
"It itches, master," I groan loudly.
He looks down at me, his baby blues seeming to stare into my soul. He grins lazily at me.
"I know," he responds. "It's one of the only ways I know how to torture you." He isn't wrong. I enjoy pain, so he's had to get a little bit creative with my punishments, or when, like now, he just wants to torture me. I hate itchiness. It's something he discovered when he saw me tear the tag off of one of my blouses because it kept annoying me, and since then, he has been using itchy ropes to torture me, or every time he punishes me, or like now, just for fun.
"Phil— Master! I mean master," I correct, when he raises one brow at me, "can you use different ropes? Please?"
"I don't know, can I?" he asks, before chuckling. I want to swear at him, tell him to go fuck himself, but I'm not really in a position to run my mouth at the moment. "Tell you what," he says, looking down at me, "if you're a good nigger, I might consider it. Might."
I groan to myself loudly. That makes him laugh.
"You can always safeword if it gets too much, Camilla," he reminds me.
"Yes, master." He stands up, and rests one of the pillows on my face, so that I can't see. I can hear him, though, walking around the room, picking up his belt. My pussy throbs in excitement, and I hear the whooshing of the belt before it comes down hard on my tummy.
"Fuck!" I cry out. "Thank you, master." We always had a BDSM relationship, but about three months ago, we tried race play for the first time. And both loved it.
"Bend your knees and spread your legs like a good whore," he tells me. I comply almost immediately, both out of horniness, and out of desire for him to change the ropes on my wrists. The belt comes down on my pussy, not too hard, but hard enough to sting a little. I groan a little bit, and when he hits me again, I realise that he's going to make me come.
"Master, you're going to make me come," I tell him, my mouth muffled by the pillow. He hits me again.
"Did I give you permission, nigger?" he asks me."
"No, Master, but—"
