Not a Love Story

This is not a love story.

The bathroom floor is white ceramic tile. For anyone who's ever knelt, as I'm kneeling now, on tiles like these, you know how cold and hard they are on naked knees. The anticipation of what's coming, what I'm in the bathroom for, kneeling in enslaved submission, makes me tremble with the knowledge that I am truly my Master's limitless slave.

I crawled in here only a few minutes ago, naked at Master's command. Just waiting here, shivering, the feeling of being owned is amplified, a tiny act among many to show my devotion and submission to my Master.

For those who like physical descriptions, I have long dark brown hair, brown eyes that sometimes look greenish, big breasts and a big butt. My hair covers my back, but doesn't give much warmth as I kneel on that cold floor. Although I'm average height, kneeling naked while waiting for my Master always makes me feel very small.

How did I come to be here, waiting for a prior limit to be crossed? The short version is that I'm owned, a limitless slave slut for my Master and owner. The longer version is that it began when I browsed a certain website.

I've always had a vivid imagination, and fantasized about receiving erotic and disciplinary spankings for years. I read every book of spanking erotica I could find, wishing for that perfect blend of pleasure and pain received by the heroine in each story, imagining it was me feeling the heat build with each punishing strike on my butt, wetness oozing from between my legs as I squirmed over a knee, or a bed, or a couch. I'd imagine a boyfriend catching me breaking a rule he'd given, then bending me over his knee to spank me soundly no matter how I struggled to get away. My butt would be burning, bright red, and I'd be drenched, so when the spanking inevitably led to sex and he'd push me onto the bed to take me from behind, he slid in easily. My fantasy spanking life was rich, but it was only fantasy and I wanted more.

During the pandemic, I discovered a kink site, then flirted and chatted with men about getting spanked. That site helped me discover that while I loved reading and chatting about spankings, I became extremely aroused by being dominated. It also taught me that some men who call themselves dominants are very easily led, deferring to me rather than leading, even wanting me to dominate them.

My quest for a truly Dominant partner began, and I explored other sites. It was through one of those other sites that Master contacted me.

At first chat, I knew this wasn't a man I could lead. Instant arousal-I went from damp to wet to gushing and less than an hour into our first conversation, I knew I was his, even if he didn't. He was intense, and commanding, and I was desperate to continue our conversation. Limits I wouldn't cross with any other man became meaningless as I begged Sir, as I called him then, to use me however he wished. Sir told me that he'd push my limits, that he'd address any concerns I had but that he would have the final say, that he'd give me rules and discipline me if I broke them. I wanted everything he could give, his control, his domination, his ownership, his attention. Sir was everything I wanted in a Dominant: local, firm, commanding. I begged him to collar me that first night, begged him to make me his good girl, his sub, his slut, and I wanted more.

Sir made me tell him my naughtiest fantasies, and introduced me to some I'd never thought of. He commanded me to show him my toys, every vibrator, every dildo. He told me that if he collared me, there was no going back. He ordered me to use the toys to bring myself close to orgasm and to show him proof with pictures. He set rules for me, like no orgasms without his permission, and to be naked when we were together. He sent me X rated videos to watch, and checked to make sure I'd obeyed. I was no longer allowed to wear panties, even to work, or sleep in any kind of clothing. I was constantly wet, reeking of my sex juices wherever I went, leaving wet spots wherever I sat. I begged him to collar me, own me, use me.

By the time he did collar me several weeks later, Master had been making me edge myself on command multiple times each week, and I was never allowed to orgasm. I'd sit in my desk chair at home, vibrator pulsing inside me as Master commanded me to fuck his cunt. When I got close to cumming, I'd beg Master to let me stop rather than break a rule, then obey his order to take the toys out and lick them clean as the pain from the interrupted orgasm raged through me. If I stopped without permission, Master made me spank his cunt and put clothespins on it and his nipples. If I disobeyed in any way, Master made me put clothespins on his nipples and his clit. Master commanded me to order butt plugs, nipple clamps, a rattan cane, a leather paddle, and other toys of discipline and tortured pleasure and I eagerly complied with every order. My slavery began with spicy chat and progressed to clothes pinned nipples and clit, a large butt plug spreading me open and Master commanding me to edge myself until he gave permission to stop, and I wanted more.

As the weeks went on, my submission to Master deepened. Master directed me to bring a toy to work, and if questioned, ordered me to say that my master commanded me to bring it with me every day. Master made me go into the bathroom at work and fuck his cunt, edging myself until I was about to cum, then stop, clean the toy with my mouth, and return to my desk with his cunt aching for release that he never granted. He often sent me videos to watch, videos where a woman was taken, bound and enslaved by a man who would keep her and own her, using her body as he wished, or was used by others, and I was dripping, my juices running down, watching each one.

No matter how much control Master exerted over me, I wanted more. More edging. More discipline. More videos. More commands. More attention. More, more, more. I craved his discipline, his cock, his cum. I became his cum dump, his slave slut, his property, his anything he wants to call me. I, who was repulsed by the thought of swallowing a man's cum, begged to have his cock in my mouth, to drink his cum, to have his hands in my hair directing my head where he wanted it. Begged to be on his leash, to kiss his feet, to be allowed to lick and suck his balls, to wear his marks. Begged for his cock to use every hole, every part of this body that he owns. Begged on my knees to serve Master, to please him, and with every bit of service he allowed, I wanted more.

I tried to be a perfect slave for Master, but seldom succeeded as my mouth frequently got me in trouble. Discipline, Master's way to handle any behavioral issues, was a regular occurrence, despite him giving me plenty of warnings to stop doing whatever I was doing. I discovered that I'm a masochist for my Master, which perfectly complemented Master's sadism, and the thought of receiving his discipline became appealing rather than the deterrent Master intended it to be. I earned my first discipline session with snarky comments and the failure to respond immediately when Master texted me, and he pronounced my sentence of 250 strokes by his hand, his belt, and his crop.

Master commanded me to meet him for that first session in the woods on a warm fall day wearing a skirt and blouse without any panties or bra, and I obeyed. The leaves crackled under our feet as Master led me by a leash attached to my collar to the place he decided my discipline should occur. He ordered me to bend over with my hands on a bench and began spanking me.

Master is very strong and he spanks very hard. He ordered me to count each spank, and I tried but quickly lost count. The intensity surprised me, and before long, I was whimpering in pain with each stroke, trying to move away from his reach, but when Master asked if I was okay, I begged for more. He used his hand, then his crop, then his belt on my ass, repeating the strokes until all I could feel was burning. I lost count over and over, and Master had to restart at one several times. He ordered me to kneel, and cropped my breasts, leaving lines of fire behind but allowed me to stop counting, as I wasn't able to keep up. He cropped my nipples, making me hold in my shrieks of pain, and I could see his eyes light up in enjoyment of my agony. He commanded me to lie down on my back on the bench and soundly spanked my pussy, telling me how wet it was, what a slut I was, how much I needed his discipline. By the time it was over, I knew beyond any doubt that I was owned, that I would obey every order, would beg to serve Master in any and every way.

At home, I gleefully explored every mark, every bruise. I hated when they faded, and begged for new marks. I began purposely seeking discipline with snark and brattiness, begging Master to control me again. With every discipline session, I cherished the marks Master left, elated at the proof of his ownership, then saddened as they disappeared. In one session Master bound me in wrist and ankle cuffs, then chained each wrist to an ankle, leaving me lying on the floor helplessly spread open for his use. Master used the cane and crop on his tits and cunt, leaving welts, then laid down on top of me so that his cock slid into the mouth and throat he owns. He came far too quickly, as I adored serving Master that way, loved the feeling of his owning me, using me, controlling me for his pleasure, and I wanted more.

One day Master sent me a story to read that spoke of darker desires. The story featured things I'd never considered to be arousing, yet as I read at his command, I found that his cunt began to drip, then gush. The story touched on every taboo I'd ever heard of, but fascinated me at the same time because My Master, who I was obsessed with serving, had directed me to read it, then read it again.

Master used ideas in that story and created a mantra for me to record and listen to, then expanded it and ordered me to record and listen to that version on repeat. He sent me articles to read about how a proper slave behaves for her Master. Reading and listening, the cunt he owns wet and gushing for him, the nipples he owns straining for his touch, the mouth he owns salivating at the thought of his cock using it, I wanted more.

When Master added in my mantra that I was going to beg to be his piss mop, I didn't argue, didn't even consider refusal, though I'd never been interested in any sex play that included bathroom activities. Wanting, needing, to please and serve him, driven to ensure that I do everything possible for his pleasure, despite my inexperience with that, there wasn't any question of my obedience if and when Master decided that we would engage in that kind of play. It was a possibility and nothing more, certainly not anything I expected to happen immediately, and I put it out of my mind.

Until I disobeyed the not yet given rule of falling asleep without permission, then disregarded Master's order to pin his clit with a clothespin. I begged Master to discipline me for my behavior, and he graciously consented to do so, allowing me to earn his forgiveness with clothespins and caning and making it clear that he expected me to beg for him to use me exactly as he required, to beg to drink his cum, then beg to be his piss mop, to feel him piss all over me as I knelt in the shower and fucked his cunt and his ass as he commanded.

So here I kneel, on a cold tile bathroom floor, marked, a slave with welts and bruises on the tits and ass Master owns from his cane, crop and paddle, listening for his footsteps and preparing to beg my Master to cover me with his piss. I have the large glass dildo and smaller vibrator with me, waiting for Master to order me to crawl into the shower, waiting for him to grab my hair and position me as he wishes. I will beg for his cum, for his piss, like the slave slut I am, Master's limitless trained slave, his fuck toy, his absolute owned property, waiting to see if after being covered in that part of my Master, I want more.