I pressed my face into the bed to keep from crying out as the leather strands licked across my left hip. It was only a little harder than he'd whipped me before, but something was different. My leg felt hyper-sensitive, and every lash felt amplified. It felt like fire, and not in a good way. Suddenly he stopped, the handcuffs clicked as the key turned, and my hands were free. I was struggling early, already deep inside my head, and arguing with myself against the pain. He said, "Turn over!" I tried to comply, but the rope binding me to the headboard pulled me up short.
I was dead, damn stuck.
My free hand pulled at the rope, triggering him to growl, "Did I say you could touch the rope? I said turn over!" I mumbled into the gag, "I can't," and fell still. He would stop if he realized my leg was in too much pain. I didn't want him to stop. We'd barely begun. He spoke more gently this time. "Turn over if you can." He had realized I was having trouble. My lower leg, the only part I could control, was tied To the rail at the knee, and I simply couldn't move. He gently placed his hand under my left hip to help me turn, but my head was still pulled against the rope looping through my collar. So I just lay a little breathless on my back from the effort to turn. I wasn't ashamed, just disappointed. The responsible thing to do was to let him know I needed to stop, but my brain was already down the rabbit hole.
Oh, I knew I could get his attention, that if he knew it was really hurting me, he would want to stop. But that took my subby little thoughts to the end of us. "sorry, it's not going to work, I can't take this, you need this, and our parting is inevitable. Delayed perhaps, but still unavoidable." I wished for the hundredth time I could cry from such things. I wished my tears could testify for me. Tears are hard to label as lies, and I rarely felt believed. Not by anyone. This is some Shakespearean-level fucked-up shit playing out here. You've waited for him your whole life, wasting time with lesser men. Yea, I didn't even know you were waiting! Now here we are - You know what he needs, what you both need, but you just can't do it. Not to be overly dramatic, but this is tragically ironic. I wish I'd met him when I was younger.
My inner pain-slut rallied. I grasped for traction against the bed. I remembered what he'd told me he would do to me, his voice hoarse as he got closer to cumming - how beautiful I looked on my knees, hips spread, knees wide, long hair tumbling down my back - all what I naturally do and he naturally likes. I could almost feel my lips and tongue milking his balls with my mouth, his hand pumping that coke-can of a cock, pulling me up by my hair so I could take him in my mouth right before comes like a river down my throat, menace edging his voice: "You'll be tied up, bound and gagged. You'll be mortified ... and there'll be nothing you can do about it. "The "I-told-you-so" voice in my head chided, "Well, there is certainly nothing I can do about it, is there? How do ya like me now?"
