The Smut I Used To Write Pt 02

[Fantasising][Masturbation][Degradation][Boundary setting][Bodywriting][Clit torture][Orgasm control]

I slept as though I'd been switched off.

I didn't dream, I was insensible to sound and movement. My exhausted body just wrenched control from my conscious mind and put me down for a solid 8 hours of repair and maintenance.

When I finally booted back up, the room was filled with sunlight and I felt like a million bucks.

It was a public holiday, I could stay in bed as long as I liked, but somehow that was the last thing I wanted to do. I

sprung

out of the bed, felt my breasts swing way too freely, and quickly closed the curtains before the neighbours could get a peek.

I giggled to myself. Had I really been so worn out that I hadn't managed

pyjamas

?

Dave was gone of course. It was a reality of starting a business that he left early and came home late. He had once joked to me that being self-employed meant that he only had to work half days, and he got to choose which 12 hours to work.

I really missed him when he was at work, and I really missed him now; I wasn't even horny, but I would have loved to share my sudden good mood with him.

He'd left something on the bedside table; a plate of food, a tube of cream, and a note. I picked up the bagel from the plate and chewed on it thoughtfully while I read the note.

Dang

but salmon and cream cheese was a great combination.

Hey Lise

, it read,

Sorry we had no time to fool around this morning. I decided it was more important that you rest. I grabbed the cream from the bathroom, I thought it might help your nipples recover and heal up, up to you if you think you need it. I'm really looking forward to tonight, see you then, love you

.

I felt my nipple experimentally. Ouch! Yes, a soothing cream sounded like just the thing.

I was really looking forward to the night too. I spent several pleasurable minutes imagining what he might do to me, while I finished the bagel and started using the cream.

He promised he would hurt and humiliate me. Those were his words, he said

hurt

and

humiliate

, what would he focus on? He had hurt me a lot physically the night before, so maybe he would focus on humiliating and embarrassing me? Break me down with words, use me however he wants, and then build me back up when he was done with me? I took one hand from my nipple and started tracing it up and down my slit. I could really get behind that.

Several minutes passed while I imagined him bullying me, and making me into his slave again. Mmmm maybe a schoolgirl fantasy; a bad boy getting some blackmail material on the principal's daughter, making her pleasure him, and then mocking her about how much she enjoyed it, forcing her to kneel down and beg if she wanted it a second time.

I started pumping my fingers into my cunt, making sure I lightly brushed the clit on every upstroke.

Of course I would be fine with physical pain too. Just maybe not to my nipples again, last night was hot, but a little cream wasn't going to magically fix what he did. Now that I was thinking about it though, all kinds of other ideas were bubbling up. I had once seen a video of a woman being slapped in the face by her partner, and I had gotten so wet watching the way that she kept getting back up and looking at him with those adoring eyes.

And then there was my pussy. I paused and spread my legs as wide as I could so I could get a good look at it.

I had once written a story in which two millionaire heiresses had kept a maid in line by giving her a crotchless uniform and spanking her pussy whenever she dared talk back. Totally unrealistic, but it had fueled extra long showers for me for months afterwards. Would Dave be interested in something like that?

I held my hand up, hesitated for a moment, and brought it down on my clit. More of a pat; I had tried to soften it before impact. I chuckled at my nervousness, then quickly slapped down before I could stop myself.

The stinging pain made me hiss, but after a second the pain faded away and I just felt sexy. I smiled and pressed my fingers into my wet pussy to enjoy the aftermath. I bet it would feel even better if Dave was doing it.

I could almost picture him. Towering over me, naked of course, his muscles and cock proud and visible; two things he could use to control me whenever he wanted. I'd be on my back, legs splayed open; totally vulnerable and unable to even close them because he'd be standing between my legs. He'd kneel down, condescending to approach me on my level.

'You're not worth fucking' he'd tell me, 'You're not even worth hurting, but maybe it might be amusing to watch you hurt yourself. You want to be a good girl and put on a show for me right?'

I'd do it, Master, I'd degrade myself any way you wanted for your amusement. I'd finger myself and lick my fingers clean for you, I'd take humiliating pictures of myself and send them to you whenever you asked, I'd sit under your desk and give you a slow and loving blowjob while you watched porn of better women; hotter women, more worthy of your attention.

I'd swing my hand up and deliver a ringing slap across my clit. Then I'd hiss and scrunch up my face and look at him for approval, but in his face I'd see only disappointment. He'd ask me if that was truly the hardest I could do, and I'd have to admit that it wasn't.

Then he'd take my nipple between thumb and forefinger, and tell me that I just needed some motivation, that I should try again, and that if he was unsatisfied with the effort I was putting in, then he'd start twisting.

I'd try really hard; slapping my clit over and over again as roughly as my body would let me, but I'd know that I was holding something back, some resolve that stops people from harming themselves, and I'd feel that part of me break as he mercilessly turned my nipple beyond the point of torture.

Then I'd truly hold nothing back. There'd be nothing but my screams, and the desperate slapping, and the agony of my nipple and clit, as my master broke me down and turned me into a toy who couldn't tell the difference between his desires and her thoughts. An extension of his will, someone who could never refuse him anything.

I felt my orgasm approaching, but somehow I didn't want it. I wanted to be taken to the edge and left there. I took my clit the way he had taken my nipple last night and I pinched down on it hard.

I gasped and moaned, a guttural sound that I had no control over. My legs spasmed and I was afraid that I had done it wrong; that my orgasm was starting.

But no.

I felt my orgasm retreating. Not far perhaps, but retreating nonetheless. If I started touching myself again I was sure I would cum, but that just didn't feel right.

I lay back on the bed, panting slightly and focusing on the ache between my legs.

God that had been vivid! Surely there must be something wrong with me? Normal women didn't feel like this all the time, surely? I must be the luckiest woman in the world, then to find a partner who wanted to explore it with me. Someone who I felt I could trust to explore it with me.

I rose from the bed and studied myself in the dressing mirror in the corner of the room.

There was a woman in the mirror, and for a moment it was like I didn't recognize her. Most of the time when I looked in a mirror, I was disappointed. Uneven skin, cellulite, a nose that wasn't quite the right shape, there was no limit to the number of things I could pick on if I had enough time to study my reflection. But the figure in the mirror downright glowed.

The light from the sun, still somewhat low in the sky, combined with the sweat of my exertion to light me up like a glamour short. My pussy was swollen and wet, my nipples red and prominent. Most of all though it was the stance. A woman comfortable in her skin; legs apart, hands on hips, a powerful pose. My God! Was this perhaps how Dave saw me?

I took some time and admired myself from different angles. What had got me in such a good mood this morning? Watch out world, here comes Lisa!

I giggled to myself and made a snap decision; no clothes today. Oh sure I'd throw something on before Dave got back. I wasn't quite ready to greet him at the door naked, and anyway, the evening would be cool by the time he got back. But that woman in the mirror was a sexual being and she shouldn't be covered up. If I was going to be a sex slave then I should definitely dress like one.

I moved downstairs into the kitchen, enjoying the thrill of moving around the familiar surroundings in such a naughty way. I caught my reflection again in the polished metal of the fridge. God damn, I was a babe this morning!

Although... I paused and studied my reflection again. I was a sexual being alright, but there was something missing if I was going to be dressed as a sex slave. A collar I supposed, but I didn't have one.

Yet

, I mentally added, as I smiled to myself.

Still there was something I could add here. Some element or dimension that was missing in my appearance? What could I be thinking of? What elements apart from a collar did I associate with sex slaves?

High heels perhaps? I made a face and my reflection made it right back at me. No not high heels; I didn't even like wearing them when other people were around; I certainly wouldn't be wearing them today.

Lingerie? No, that didn't feel right either; I was feeling supremely body-confident today and the last thing I wanted to do was cover a single bit of my skin.

My reflection in the fridge frowned; she looked cute when she did that, I noticed. Perhaps I was being too literal? If being a sex slave was about the attitude, what bit was I missing?

Then I had it, and I felt silly for missing it for so long. I rummaged in the box of pens that floated around for note taking, and I pulled out a sharpie. I took a position in front of the fridge and looked down at my own body.

My pussy had dried out a fair bit since my little adventure in front of the mirror, but it was still red and swollen; a whore's pussy. But of course it was more than that. I uncapped the sharpie and started writing above it in large, unambiguous letters 'Dave's Pussy'

A little tremble went through me when I was done and I longed for something inside my pussy, inside

Dave's

pussy. Because that was it, I had realised, sex slaves are beautiful, confident people, but what they are, above all else, is

owned

, and I stood even taller knowing that fact was displayed to anyone who could see me. Admittedly only if I assumed that they could read words upside down on another person's mons pubis.

This, I decided, would definitely have to be washed off before Dave got home. It was beginning to occur to me that he had said he wanted to explore hurting and humiliating me, but we hadn't talked about anything as extreme as him owning me. Frankly maybe that was even a little too extreme for me; I wasn't sure that that was something I wanted in real life.

Still... as long as I was keeping this a private fantasy... I moved the sharpie to my core and wrote 'Dave's property.'

I shivered again and ran my fingers up my slit a few times. Definitely needed to take this off before Dave could see. Although... if he didn't didn't get scared off by it, what would he call me? What else would I be?

I reached down and wrote 'Sex toy' on one of my thighs, and it was nice but it didn't feel hard enough, so I crossed out the "Sex' and wrote 'Fuck.'

Mmmmm

I thought to myself as I admired my body in the mirrored fridge, hello world, I'm Lisa; Dave's loyal fuck toy.

Then another idea occurred to me and I crossed out the word 'Fuck.' The pen paused for a bit when I placed it on my skin. For a moment I had the curious sensation of there being two Lisa's. One that yearned for degradation, wanted me to be a drooling mess at Dave's feet, and one that felt I was about to cross a line. Which part of me was that?

It took me a couple seconds, but I got there; the part of me that cares about other women and thinks I'm degrading them by doing this. The part that thinks the thing I was planning to write would hew too closely to their real-life experience.

I thought about it. What I wanted to write was wrong, really and objectively fucked up, but on the other hand, just thinking of writing it had me getting wet again. When I thought of all the fucked up things I had written as a teenager in the quest to get off, had that situation been any different?

The important thing, I decided, was that this was only for me. That I had to keep it that way and show nobody else. It wasn't a question of embarrassment, it was a question of ethics.

The pen started moving again. 'Rape"

This time, when the shiver went through me, I could feel my pussy in full flow. I'm your rape toy, Dave. Don't even care about whether I want it, just use me whenever the mood strikes you. My holes are always open. In fact...

I added those words under 'Dave's Property,' 'My holes are always open.' Get those words tattooed onto me, Dave. Never let me forget them. I am three warm holes for you to rape whenever you feel like it. Actually you know what? In for a penny as they say.

I crossed out 'toy' and wrote 'Meat.'

God yes! I'm yours Dave, yours totally! I'm not even a person; I'm just a piece of meat for you to satisfy your urges in. Use me whenever you want and discard me when you're done! Offer me to other people as a favour! You're not part of a couple, you're a single man who owns some prime rape meat! Bring home hotter women and fuck them in your bed! No need to acknowledge the rape meat in the corner; unless of course they want to use it too!

I yanked my hand away from my pussy with a cry. My orgasm was surging up, and for a moment I thought it would go over. It boiled at the edge for a few seconds. But without the stimulation of my fingers there wasn't enough momentum and it started to retreat again; angry and sullen.

I stared at the panting woman in the fridge door. Okay, I could see that I was going to have to put some limits in place. The woman in the fridge would tear her life apart if it meant getting laid; probably my fault since she inherited her imagination from me.

I put the sharpie back and found a normal pen. A bit of scrounging turned up one of those spiral bound notebooks, which I tore a page out of. At the top of this I wrote 'Lisa's limits'

Okay that was a good start, but I supposed this would be a work in progress; there was no way that I could cover all the things that we might do together, and I had total confidence in the ability of Dave to surprise me.

Okay that made an obvious first item. I had fantasised about being a rape toy; not having the ability to say no, but in real life that was really dangerous.

'1.' I wrote, 'I always have the right to say no'

Perhaps a bit silly to write it out specifically, now that I thought about it. There was no way I could imagine Dave breaking that rule, at least real life Dave, not cruel fantasy Dave. Still it wouldn't hurt to have it down.

What else?

That bit of the fantasy about where Dave brought a woman home and fucked her in our bed, what was up with that? I could only guess that it was my masochism acting up. Did I want that?

I thought about that. How did I feel about Dave and another woman? I imagined him going out, meeting some slut, fucking her, and coming back so I could suck the juices off his cock. Damn, that was a hot idea! But it would really hurt as well, maybe too much if we hadn't really talked it through beforehand.

And even if I liked the idea in the abstract, a real woman wouldn't be the anonymous, disposable toy that I was imagining. She would have thoughts and feelings of her own. What if she decided that she liked Dave and wanted to stay around him? What if he decided he liked her? He would have to like her at least a little to sleep with her in the first place.

Even if he liked me more, even if I believed that down at the centre of my being, how would I feel whenever they went out?

No, I decided, no other women. Maybe we could make exceptions to the rule on a case by case basis, like a threesome with a trusted friend, or maybe we could hire a prostitute for a night, but the default would be monogamy. I added '2. I am the only woman in this relationship'

What about the idea that the women he brought home would use me to get off? This was a theme that wasn't new to me; during my teenage years I had written so many lesbian sex scenes into my stories that I had begun to think of myself as bi, at least until I had kissed a friend at a party and felt nothing.

I could clearly remember a story I had written in which a mother and daughter were kidnapped by pirates and the daughter was forced to eat the mother out. I had fingered myself to an earth-shaking orgasm and then been horrified by what I had created. I had deleted the story immediately and then downloaded the kind of program that did the data equivalent of grinding up a body in a woodchipper and spreading the shards on a distant field. I had had to tell my mother that the computer had a virus, and that was why I was reinstalling everything.

I hadn't understood it at the time, but now I could clearly see the linking themes in the stories I had written. A cheerleading squad inviting me to a party but then enslaving me to lick their sweaty cunts after practice. My high school boyfriend setting up a kissing booth, but tying me up and gagging me so that everyone believed him when he said that I wanted their hands all over my body and their lips anywhere but mine.

And another story. So obvious now that I was looking back as an adult. My hand drifted back to my lap as I remembered it.

During my younger days, I once cheated off my sweet, nerdy friend Alice in a test. I never told her, and if I ever had then I'm sure she would have forgiven me, but the guilt ate me up inside. As a form of penance I wrote a story in which I confessed my crime to Alice and she told me to come to her house after school.

In the story Alice stripped me naked and had me lay back on the bed. She took her own pants off and positioned herself over me, letting me think that she was going to make me lick her as my punishment. Unexpectedly though she moved her hips forward when she brought them down and pressed her ass into my mouth, while my nose was deep in her pussy.

I was too young to know what analingus was when I wrote the story; I was just looking for a disgusting, humiliating thing that Alice might make me do to prove that I was truly sorry.

In my story I tried to pull away, but Alice's weight was bearing down on me and I couldn't breath with my mouth and nose covered. Eventually I had to start licking so that Alice would let me have a breath of air, and then I had to keep licking or Alice would cover me up again.

What started as a short piece to deal with my guilt turned into a month-long epic of Alice forcing me to do ever more outlandish things, some recorded on paper, some just in the dirtiest parts of my mind.

It was a month of crazed masturbation that came to an end when I started wondering why the story meant so much to me, drew the wrong conclusion, and impulsively kissed Alice at a party.

The empty feeling in my stomach, and the confused eyes of my innocent friend told me all I needed to know. I felt terrible about this fake Alice I had built up in my head, and the way that she cheapened the real person. I didn't touch myself for 3 weeks, the longest break I had had at that point of my life, it just didn't feel right.

I took my hand away again. Remembering the fantasies I had had about Alice had gotten me hot, but the way that they had ended was a splash of cold water. As a teenager I couldn't work out what was wrong with me, but as an adult it was all quite clear.