Introduction:
Leslie is a single mom in her mid-twenties, with two very young boys. She is also a submissive masochist with a yearning for more experience. She has a potentially permanent Dom with whom she corresponds via cyber and phone. At his request she has agreed to not commit to any Dom(me), including him, for at least 90 days. He encouraged her to use this period to explore and test the field. She found me and we are exploring. I think she is adorable. To help her think through her needs and wants, I asked her to write a sexual fantasy story about herself. I gave her no other structure, just instructions to not force it, to let the story come to her, and write it down without censoring or editing while she wrote. To just let it flow. To let her inner mind speak to her through the story.
It took several days before she could begin and then she wrote it in one sitting. What she sent me was messy, full of typos and errors and crying out for punctuation and paragraph organization. She clearly had done what I asked. In fact, her closing comment told that tale:
Well, here you go. I am not even going to read it over
or I may be tempted to fix it. I hope it is what you
wanted
I have edited her text to make it more readable, with hardly any change to content. This is what she wrote.
************
I am bound, on my knees, my wrists lashed behind me to my ankles, my legs spread, and my tits pushed out by the tightness of the bindings. I want to cover myself in front of these people, to close my legs. But I can't. Would I if I could? I don't think I would.
I kneel in the middle of them, fighting my brain to stay calm, fighting the urge to panic. I look around and see hunger on their faces, I feel like a piece of meat, girl meat, and it feels good.
I know that behind me on the table, Mistress is laying things out, I can hear them being put in place, but I fight the urge to try and look since I can't move anyway. The girls in front of me have sat down now, but the men remain standing. As the girls are also subs who have been through a night at least a little like mine, they know they are in for a long evening and make themselves comfortable.
One of them smiles at me, not a nice smile but still full of understanding and I can finally take a few deep breaths. Sir studies me with a look on his face that I cannot read. I don't think he is overjoyed with this night's events but he agreed without hesitation when I asked him to let me do this. I think he is just glad he can be there, even though he cannot interfere. I focus on him and breathe evenly, like he taught me, and see his smile as a reward. I smile back and then Mistress steps up behind me. "Are you ready for this, princess?"
I answer, "Yes Mistress, I am ready," and though I cannot see her I can tell she is smiling. "You may think so; we will see."
Out of nowhere hot wax splashes onto my right breast and I scream. I cannot really look down, but I can see that it is red and has coated my barbell as it dries. My piercings are only three weeks old and the wax seems to sear my tender wounds.
The pain fades slowly but my nipple itches and burns, and I try to squirm away from my own flesh. I can see the candle this time as it is tipped close over my left breast. I try to stay quiet and internalize the feeling of being sealed in burning wax. As the molten wax hardens and tightens over my nipples it makes me want to scratch it off. I hold myself still through a sheer effort of will and look at Him. He watches me intently as I pant slowly, and I focus on his eyes and relax into the receding pain.
The click of her shoes signals her return to just behind me, and a black riding crop is waved in front of my eyes. My brain wants me to struggle but my body wins out and stays relaxed and ready. I want this.
Mistress walks in front of me and runs the crop over my tits, gently catching the wax at
one point. She leads it down my stomach slowly, and I want to move my body into it but my bindings won't let me. As it trails down over the inside of my thigh, my eyes close and I can feel my pussy respond, opening and wetting itself. Up and down my thighs she moves the crop and I am moaning a little under my breath. She softly glides it up into my crotch, rubbing it between my lips lightly and then a little harder. I am so wet now and trying to force myself onto the crop, trying to let it push against me harder when it is pulled away.
Smack! My eyes fly open in shock and pain in time to see it coming at my other cheek. I can feel the marks left on my face and the coolness of my pussy juices as they dry there against the heat from the blows. I am so embarrassed all of a sudden to have my own pussy juice smeared on my face by a crop that I had just been humping.
She knows too. "How does it feel little princess? Little whore?"
