(All characters in this story are eighteen years of age, or older)
Chapter 13
Pain
What had you been thinking when you asked Mr. Peterson to break you with pain? Did you think it would be like what came before? The sting of the switch, the impact of the crop, the burning blows of the paddle. The sweet, electric feeling of the whip striking your breasts. Learning about how much you enjoyed those sensations had gone to your head. You had been eager to explore this newly discovered part of yourself. Looking up into Mr. Peterson's dark eyes, body still trembling from the orgasm he allowed you to have, you had felt nothing but trust and excitement. You were in a brave new world, and you could do anything Mr. Peterson asked you.
At least, that was the idea.
"
HNNng...
Mr. P-Peterson... it hurts so bad... p-please..."
"Come now, Miss Murray. Pain is exactly what you asked for, is it not? Resume the position."
You try to take a deep breath, but the best you can manage is a small gulp of air before a burst of sobs rocks through you. All that's left on your body now are the white stockings, and a sheen of sweat, and the marks he's given you. Mr. Peterson had stripped down to his dark grey slacks, his black chest hair beading with sweat of his own. He's standing over you as you crouch and take the position. Your hands are clasped behind your head, pushing your chest out. Your knees are spread wide, exposing your dripping pussy. The hardest part is being up on the balls of your feet. Your leg muscles burn and your whole body shakes as you struggle to hold the position. How can holding still be this hard?
You have to endure, though. It's not the punishment you're afraid of, it's failure itself. You had long since banished the safe word from your mind, refusing to even consider giving up. The idea of falling short now, after everything you've been through, fills you with dread.
I have to show Mr. Peterson I can do this. I have what it takes. I've learned my lesson.
I'm worthy of being broken.
This was your third position since choosing the path of pain. In the first, Mr. Peterson had you remove your shirt and bra, and lean over with your hands against the wall. He had then used a short leather flail to flog your back. He had taken his time, varying his rhythm and intensity, making sure to mark every inch of skin from your shoulders to the top of your skirt. When he first started, it almost seemed like a letdown after the intensity of having your breasts whipped. By the time he was finished, the stream of tears on your cheeks was matched by the pussy juice flowing down your thighs, and your throat was hoarse from screaming.
In the second position, Mr. Peterson made you remove your skirt and prostrate yourself on the floor, arms flat out in front of you and your ass raised high. In that position he had tortured your legs and ass with clothespins. He must have used dozens on you. All up and down your stocking-covered legs. On your sensitive feet. On the juicy flesh of your rear. He had even attached a few to your pussy lips. Each individual pinch was nothing compared to what you'd already been through, but together they were a symphony of pain that had you begging for relief. He had allowed the overwhelming sensation to sink in for what seemed an eternity before removing the painful implements. Of course, he hadn't simply taken them off. He had used a short whip to knock them off, one by one, making you thank him each and every time. You almost came when he whipped the ones off your pussy.
The memory of all that pain makes your clit buzz. In spite of how excruciating it had been, you now long for his touch again. You wish Mr. Peterson would do something, anything. So far in this position all he's done is stand over you. No whips, no paddles, no clamps or clothespins. Not even any words, except for admonishing you when you fail to hold the position for even an instant. You wish he would hit you. You wish he would speak to you with his stern voice, teach you something about yourself, or even just comment on your performance. At this point a history lecture would be better than being stuck with your own thoughts.
Trying to distract yourself, you look up at Mr. Peterson. His dark eyes bore into you, judging you, and you can't bear to hold his gaze. Your eyes flick down, following his chest hair as it tapers into a trail down his toned stomach and starts to widen before disappearing behind the waist of his pants. You stare at his crotch directly in front of your face. Your shaky breaths become heavy as you imagine Mr. Peterson taking out his hard cock and presenting it to you. Would you kiss it? Suck it? Beg him to fuck you with it?
You squeeze your eyes shut and try to focus.
What is the
matter
with you, RC?
This submissive posture keeps pushing your mind to thoughts of... serving him. When you recoil in confusion from those thoughts, you're caught in the sensations he's caused in your body. Your breasts still tingle where he had whipped them. Your back throbs from the brutal flogging. The skin of your legs, your ass, your pussy lips, all sing with the memory of the clothespins, how they stung when they were whipped off you. Every muscle in your body burns as you struggle to hold your position. The fire started as a dull ache, but now threatens to consume you, coursing through your limbs and making your pussy throb.
Why is this so much harder to take? What is it about this pain that's so much worse than what Mr. Peterson has already done to you? Before yesterday, you had never even imagined having such things done to your body. You're completely covered in welts, marks, bruises, all telling the story of how your history teacher had shown you what pain and punishment truly meant. But all you had to do then was take what he gave you. Allow him to inflict his lessons on your studious flesh. This pain, however...
This pain you were giving to yourself.
You feel your legs start to tremble again. The burning is too much. A strained whine escapes your throat.
I can't. I can't do it, Mr. Peterson. I'm sorry.
With one last gasp of despair, your body gives out, and you collapse backwards. The feeling of your bruised back hitting the floor makes you writhe with pain. You sob, completely disgusted at yourself for failing after coming so far.
You're pathetic, RC
.
"Look at me, Miss Murray."
You prop yourself up on your elbows and lift your shoulders off the floor so you can look at Mr. Peterson standing over you. Tears fall down your cheeks. You want to look away in shame, curl up into a ball and weep, but you can't disobey your teacher. Your body won't let you.
"What happened, Miss Murray?"
What happened? I... I failed.
"I...
hic
... I couldn't do it, Mr. Peterson. I c-couldn't hold the position."
"Why is that, Miss Murray? You were able to take much more before this."
And I
can
take more... I just... I need...
"You were doing it to me before, Mr. Peterson."
"And you couldn't do it to yourself?"
Your breaths get heavy. "N-no, Mr. Peterson. I couldn't."
"So what is it that you need, Miss Murray? What do you need to pass this test?"
Without thinking, your legs spread. "I n-need you, Mr. Peterson."
"What precisely do you need me to do, Miss Murray?"
Your heart pounds in your chest.
