The Root of All Evil

(Author's note: This piece was set as a task, and was to be exactly 877 words which I hope explains both the sparseness of description and the lack of length.)

I stand in the kitchen, staring at the alien-like mass of root ginger before me, waiting for the next text instruction.

I had already experienced root ginger vaginally; and had loved the sensation of warmth against my clit and the insides of my cunt, especially as I had been instructed to walk around the village wearing a dress and no underwear whilst the ginger root made me wet with arousal and my head swim deliciously as I walked past passers by. This, however, is going to be rather different.

I know how his mind works.

A text message directs me to a website, detailing the best way to peel and carve this particular piece of ginger. Slightly curved, around four inches long, with a retaining base – almost like a handle – at the end.

Job done, and shaking fingers miraculously still intact, I message back with a photo of my artistry; and receive a message back instantly.

'Good girl. You please me. Wrap it in cling-film. Take it to your room and await further instruction.'

I do as I am told. I hold this piece of cling-film wrapped ginger as though it is a holy relic, with the utmost care, as I make my way upstairs.

I wait.

True to form, he is making me suffer. The smell of ginger on my fingers is reminding me of my stroll around the village. I remember the heat of the ginger against my clit and against the walls of my cunt; and I sense the first little pulsations inside as my muscles start to gently contract with excitement. I know my underwear is damp already, it started whilst I was shaping the ginger, but now...now I just want to touch myself, just rub my gingery fingertips against my clit. That's all it would take, just now. Just that little bit of heat, some gentle strokes...that would be enough.

He reads my mind. Again.

'You had better not be touching yourself, girl.'

I groan with frustration, lay down on the bed, on my back, and put my hands behind my head – they need to be as far away from my cunt as possible, or I just know that I will fail my task. I can still smell that damned ginger, I cross my legs tightly – that feels rather nice and doesn't count as touching, but God, how long will he make me wait here with my thoughts racing and my cunt dripping? Evil, evil bastard.

An hour. A fucking hour staring at the ginger, then staring at the phone, willing a message to come through as my thoughts edge me ever closer to failure.

At last. A message.

'Strip.Now.'

I stand and strip, and though alone I feel vulnerable. For the first time I notice a chill in the air. My heart beats a little faster as I text back 'Done'.

'Unwrap the ginger. All fours, arse in the air. Now'

I throw myself to the floor with relief and assume 'the position'.

'Done'.

Five minutes pass. Bastard.

'You may use your cunt juices ONLY to provide lubrication to your arse. You may NOT rub your clit. When ready, insert the ginger into your arse. Put your hands on the floor in front of you and do not move an inch except to read my texts. Await further instruction.'

I begin to prepare myself, both massively aroused and absolutely terrified. I have heard how painful it is, remember how the ginger stung last week, at first. I have heard this is worse, much worse, and I am not very good with pain. He knows that, of course.

I'm not afraid of the pain. It's the thought of disappointing him, of failing my task. Of not being his good girl. The thought of hours of waiting for a text, my lonely punishment.

I am soaking . I am careful to avoid brushing my fingers against my clit - that would mean a fail. My heart pounds as I start to insert the ginger, it slides in easily...this is oka........

.....Holy hell. I can't breathe. This isn't warmth, this is fucking burning, stinging, like acid. In there. I gasp for air, my blood pounding in my head.

It'll pass in a minute.

It'll pass in a minute.

It's not passing. It's getting worse.

My hands are in position. I want to scream and writhe. I bite my left index finger to stop myself, willing myself to mentally glue my hands to the floor rather than do what instinct is screaming at me to do. Hot tears pour down my cheeks, blurring my view of my phone which is just within reach awaiting His text. Text me you bastard, text me...don't make me do this anymore, this isn't funny. I hate you. I hate you......Jesus fucking Christ, what have you done to me?

Suddenly, a kind of peace.

My head spins, and I am weightless, floating from the floor. I feel the pain still, but it is different. It fills me completely. Agony, and heat, and my heart still thumping and the tears still pouring, but I need it. This is what I needed.

My God. This.

I hear the text message, but hours seem to pass before I read it.

'You may orgasm'.