The instant he stepped through the door I dropped to my knees, hands clasped behind my back, eyes staring at his gray lowtop Chucks. I was naked except for my collar, and that combined with my position made me feel completely subservient to him. I was desperate to beg him to take me, use my body in whatever way would most please him, but I didn't say a word. He had instructed me beforehand to remain silent unless asked a direct question tonight. I was aching for his touch after six long months without it, but what I wanted from him was of no significance.
He just stood there for a long moment. Wondering what he had in store for me was making me even more desperate, which I knew was precisely why he was doing it. Finally he spoke.
"I'm glad to see you're showing some discipline, slave. This is how I expect you to behave--calmly awaiting my orders. It shows what I want from you is all that matters."
Hearing him tell me I was pleasing him had its usual effect on me--my pussy throbbed and I felt a rush of happiness. I would do
anything
to hear him say that I was pleasing him.
He was silent for a moment, and then suddenly his hands were on my head, shoving me down to his feet. Startled by this, it took me a moment to arrange myself, hands on the floor to either side of his feet now.
"Lick them clean, slave," he said. These particular Chucks had been his usual pair for some time, and they'd accumulated a good amount of dirt by now.
I began to lick, gingerly. I did still want to please him, but they were just so
dirty
, and it made me feel humiliated that he would make me do this.
"Dirty, aren't they?" he asked. "Just like you." And just like that I loved doing this for him--having him tell me how dirty I was
always
got me going. I still felt humiliated, but suddenly I was relishing that humiliation.
"All right, that's enough," he said a few minutes later. "Follow me. Crawl."
He began walking towards the bedroom and I crawled after him. He had never made me crawl before and it made me feel so much more submissive that suddenly I never wanted to walk in his presence again.
We reached the bedroom. "Stand up. Hands behind your back." I did, and I felt the comfortingly familiar snugness of my leather cuffs being fastened around my wrists, followed by the sound of a small padlock snapping shut. When he locked my cuffs, I always tugged against them, loving having proof that I really was bound and at his mercy.
"I got something for you," he said, and I looked at the bed for the first time. On top of the bed there was a large black spreader bar, red-and-black leather cuffs that matched the ones on my wrists affixed to each end.
"Lie down and spread your legs," he said. I did. I knew he expected me to spread them wide enough to reach both ends of the spreader bar, and I was both excited and dismayed to discover that this required opening them as far apart as they could go. I could see that this position would become uncomfortable very quickly.
He fastened my ankles to the cuffs and then stood back. I was beginning to breathe more quickly, getting more desperate to beg him to take me with every passing moment.
I looked up at him. This was the first time tonight that I'd gotten to see his face, and I was hit full-force by exactly how gorgeous he was. His large brown eyes behind his thick black glasses were studying me, and I hoped so much that he liked what he saw.
"This is your proper state, slave," he said. "Bound and helpless for your Master. I could do anything at all to you right now and you wouldn't be able to stop me." I knew he was right, and even though I trusted him, it still made me nervous to be reminded that I was, yes, fully helpless.
I had no idea what he planned to do to me, but I certainly knew what I
wanted
him to do to me--with my pussy so exposed, all I could think about was having him touch me with his long, thin fingers. I didn't have the freedom to masturbate without his explicit permission, so I hadn't gotten any pleasure since the last time I saw him six months ago.
And then suddenly his middle finger was between my legs, giving one quick rub up the length of my slit. But then, just as quickly as his hand had appeared, it was gone. It took all my self-control to not beg him to continue.
"I know what you want without you even telling me," he said. "You want me to finger your soaking-wet pussy some more." He paused to smile at me. "You're in luck, because that's exactly what I'm going to do. But I'm going to make it a little more interesting."
He approached the bedside table and picked something up, then moved over to where I could see him again. I was horrified to see that he was holding a bottle of siracha. He was going to put
hot sauce
on my pussy? Suddenly I wasn't so sure that I wanted him to finger me after all, but what could I do?
He poured a thick coating of the sauce onto his left hand and approached me. "Now. Just remember that you wanted this, slave," he said, and then he began to rub.
The pain was unlike anything I'd ever experienced before. I wanted to scream at him that it was too much, that I couldn't take it, that I needed him to stop. But as unbearable as the pain was, it was still outweighed by my desire to please him. So I remained silent.
But it wasn't just the pain overwhelming the circuitry of my brain. As much as I wanted to cry, it was mixed in with incredibly intense pleasure. The long periods of strictly enforced orgasm denial always had the effect of making me forget exactly what having my pussy touched even felt like, and when I finally got to have pleasure again, I was inevitably astounded by exactly how good it felt. The six months without contact had made being touched even more intense.
After a minute I began to moan. He laughed at me. "Yes, that's my filthy little whore," he said. "So desperate to have your pussy touched that you love it even when it's coming with unbelievable pain."
He was right, of course--I was desperate to have my pussy touched no matter what the price was. But oh god, the pain! I had a reflexive urge to try to close my legs, but the spreader bar prevented that. I was grateful he'd put me in it--I wanted so much to please him, but I still had some instinctual urge to try to protect myself.
"Let the fact that this is causing you pain serve as a reminder that your pleasure is really my pleasure," he said. "The only reason this is pleasurable for you is because your suffering is making me happy." I shuddered. Knowing that I was pleasing him by suffering for him felt incredibly good.
He kept going for a long time. The pain had leveled off now--it was still so overwhelming, but at least it wasn't getting worse. The pleasure, on the other hand, was only getting more intense, and I was beginning to wonder if he was actually going to let me cum. It had been just shy of a year now since my last orgasm, and the idea of having one seemed like some sort of fantastical, unfathomable thing that could only happen in a dream.
But what if he let me?
Just when I was starting to feel close, he stopped.
Goddammit.
I should know better by now than to hope for orgasms, but I always did anyway. Stopping myself from speaking at that moment was harder than it had been all night. I
