"There," Master says. I tug experimentally on the cuff she has just locked around my ankle, and that feeling of helplessness and trust washes over me like a warm, gentle wave. She looks at me appraisingly. "You know what happens next, slut."
I nod, not speaking. She has taken my words for this scene. I am not allowed words, only grunts, moans and whimpers - and of course, screams - to show her what I am feeling and what her touch is doing to me. This is up to me to remember - she is not going to grace me with a gag. If I fail, I know I will regret it.
I am on my belly, spread-eagled across her bed, legs and arms bound down tightly so that I am unable to draw them together. If I try, I could turn my knees inward, but she's taking care of that as she binds the spreader bar cuffs around my splayed thighs, ensuring that I'll never be able to close my legs - or my knees. A firm pillow under my upper chest and neck keeps my head up from the bed so that I can breathe. Another one under my hips lifts my ass in the air and forces my cock and balls to hang in the air, not touching anything at all.
She has tied me tightly today. There is no give in the bonds - I am truly helpless. Oh, I can squirm, but my hands and feet will not be moving away from their assigned points on the bed. I can buck - and I know I will, especially if she orders me to do so, she has me trained to that word - and I can thrash, but my movement is limited.
"What happens next" is a blindfold. She slips it over my head, making sure that the padded leather ovals cover my eyes completely and taking my sight away. Sometimes she likes to see my eyes open and staring; other times she loves to blind me, making me turn my head this way and that trying to figure out where she is and what she plans to do to me. I rarely predict it correctly, which delights her to no end as I cry out or gasp in surprise at whatever it is she actually does to me.
Her hand caresses my exposed balls, and I moan with my lips pressed tightly shut. She chuckles in approval, and suddenly her hand closes on my balls with fingernails digging in. I yelp, going rigid under her hands, and grit my teeth together, breathing hard as she pulls, and pulls, and pulls until I think surely she must rip them off. But that's not her intent, I realize, as the pressure eases and I feel her beginning to add clamps - just basic clothespins - all over my sack. I keep count as best I can, because she sometimes asks me how many she's put on me, and what happens next would depend on whether I get the answer right or not.
Seven... eight... I think she's put on a total of twelve, but it might be thirteen. I wince, as the pressure from the clothespins starts a throbbing in my balls that both hurts and feels good. She chuckles deep in her throat and then without warning, her hand cracks against my ass, and I jump.
Her hand falls hard, again. Then, again. Quickly enough I realize that I'm being spanked for her pleasure, because she finds it amusing to see me jump and writhe, and then conscious thought drifts away as the spanking intensifies from moderate to a level that will leave welts when she's through. I find myself whimpering and writhing despite my resolve to keep from moving and from vocalizing if at all possible, and realize she's already broken my will, not six minutes into the scene.
I am sobbing hoarsely by the time her hand retreats, having left me reddened from the tops of my buttocks down to the bottoms of my thighs, except where the spreader cuffs are covering my legs, and the blindfold is soaked with my tears. I almost miss her next question. "How many clips, slut?"
I turn my head, questioning with my eyebrows. How does she expect me to answer a question that requires words, when I am not allowed to speak?
"I suppose I'll have to give you a way to answer, slut." Her tone is thoughtful. "I know!" she says gleefully. "I'll hit you with my crop. When I've hit you enough times to answer the question, you will scream. Until then, you will remain completely silent. If you make a noise, at all, I will take that as your indication that we've reached the correct number. And, of course, if you are wrong - I'll just have to punish you for not paying attention well enough."
I'm already trying to quiet my still-sobbing voice as she finishes speaking. When Master says "completely silent," she means it. Not a gasp, not a word, not a cry, not even so much as a sniffle. And god, I hate the crop! But it is her wish and her will, and that's what I submit to every time I lie down and spread-eagle myself for her.
"Do you understand, slut? Nod once for yes, shake your head twice for no."
I nod, one quick jerk of my head up and down. Before I even finish moving, the crop has already cracked across my ass as Master intones "One." I bite back a cry with effort, counting, hoping that she's only put twelve clips on me because the pain of the crop is almost unbearable. Two - three - oh god, four - five! Six...
I am biting my tongue nearly hard enough to draw blood when I realize that we've reached stroke eleven, and on the next stroke, as she says flatly, "Twelve," I scream, loudly, trying so hard to expel all the pain of the past fifteen minutes into that one cry that I begin coughing at the end of it. The strokes pause.
"What a shame. You must have counted wrong, slut," Master tells me, moving the crop to my balls and tapping the tip of it against one of the clips. "Of course, you don't get to know how far off you were. I'll be back with your punishment for getting it wrong shortly."
She leaves the room. I hang outstretched in the bonds, and find myself weeping. The fire in my ass is so painful that I cannot think straight. My cock, traitor that it is, is so hard that its tip is brushing the sheet below me. My balls are throbbing and I can feel all the places on my body that she could torture if she took a mind to do so. I struggle to get myself back under control even as my heart races faster from the images my tortured mind conjures up, and the door opens again.
"What should I do with a slave who can't seem to count a simple number?" she muses as she circles the bed. "I suppose I shall have to train him better, to learn how to count better. But how ever shall I do this in a way that will be effective?"
Even knowing why she does this, I am caught up in dread, my heart thumping in my ears. I can think of far too many ways that she could enforce her requirement to count correctly.
"I suppose, since it was about the number of clamps and you couldn't keep track of them, I'll have to reapply them until you are quite able to count them. As many times as it takes. Oh, and just to keep it fun, I'll give you one other way to figure it out, if you can." As she speaks, she is quickly, but not gently, removing the clamps from my balls, which throb even worse with returning circulation.
"Here's the other way to figure it out, slut." The crop swats rapidly against my swollen, fiery ass six times. "The number of clamps you had on you was a multiple of one factor of that number, plus four. You have twenty seconds starting now to figure it out before we try my way of teaching you. Hoot once when you think you have the answer."
And she begins to count.
A multiple of six? No, a multiple of one factor of six. How am I supposed to do math in my head in this state? I think of the factors of six - two times three and one times six, so any of them could be it. I cross my fingers. Six times itself is way more than I had on me, and two times itself isn't enough. Three times itself is nine, plus four is thirteen.
So it must have been thirteen. Who knew I'd need basic math in order to survive a scene with Master?
Ironically, I hoot as she reaches "Six," and she sounds almost disappointed as she stops and says "Well, slut? How far off were you from the actual number?"
I realize that I can hold up one finger. I hope I was one off. It was thirteen, not twelve. I hope.
