5 min read

photo: The Life Erotic

You brought me here, and robbed me of all that I possessed. My very being is now gone from me, replaced by that which you chose for me to be.

How could this be so?

This creature that you own was once so strong, wanting of nothing from outside herself, yet now I am here under your command, quivering in anticipation of the next wave of tormented pleasure that will wash over me from the touch of your hand, your whispered words, the heat of your body close to mine as you discover my flooding desire for your hard exploration of my inner self.

You keep me imprisoned as your slave, yet it is a bondage I surrender to with willing desire. To feel your cords tighten on my outraged body, stretching me wide for your every excess.

Yet now it is I who drives you on; my want feeds on the power you have given me. My suffering grows within me, the torture consumes my mind so that now I think of little else but what you do to me.

You have taught me much about myself, and how my desires might be inflamed by tight restraint, of torture that is inflicted at your whim to make me want more of what you are.

Or the sound of air cut by your whip as it marks my flesh yet again, before those made yesterday have had time to fade.

As the searing pain from leather on skin explodes in my brain, I know I am betrayed by the flood of need that flows from me, increasing with every stroke that is measured with your tenderness of giving in response to my desire for you.

The whip has become the instrument of tender love since I was introduced to its subtle pleasures.

Mistress is lounging back in an armchair, looking at me. A glass of wine is in her left hand, a riding crop dangles from the fingers of her right.

We do not exchange words.

She just looks at me.

Seeing what I am, the slut she has made me.

I am bound and helpless, and may not speak unless spoken to. In any event words are largely superfluous.

When Mistress ties me this way, I know I am to be flogged. My wrists are bound apart to two rings in the ceiling, my legs stretched wide so that my ankles can be bound to two rings in the floor. My skin is drum tight and glistening. If Mistress is feeling generous my toes touch the floor; if not, they don’t.

Right now, my toes just touch the floor; but I sense it is to be a long cruel day, with me open and vulnerable to her every sadistic intent. If she intended this to be a short session, my toes would not touch the floor.

Her cruel days have become my special days. I want them to meld one into the next, to drain Mistress into me through the channel of her tender sadism.

Mistress rises lazily to her feet, walks over to where I hang, moves around me slowly, trailing her whip, lightly touching me with it, seeing my body tense with anticipation at every brushing contact it makes.

I am aware of suffering to come, and she makes me wait for it. She traces a line across my skin with it, know how badly I need it to hurt me.

‘You will count,’ she says. And I know I must count my own punishment in advance, to invite it upon myself. It is a counting into my own oblivion.

One,’ I say.

I wait for the sound of the riding crop parting the air before I hear the crack of it on my skin, just before I feel the explosion in my brain. My outraged body convulses against the ropes that hold me. Mistress’s floggings are not play, they are real.

She has driven me to need her reality.

‘Thank you, Ma’am.’

I thank her for the pain she inflicts because that is part of what we have together. It is her gift to me. We both know it, and we both know this would stop on the instant if I used the word.

But I never have, nor have I needed to, or wanted to. Mistress knows me too well, takes me to where I want to go. Then just a little further.

Two,’ I say.

It is my ultimate submission to self, as again the pleated leather explodes across exposed flesh, leaving a freshly spaced mark that I will wear proudly for days.

‘Thank you, Ma’am.’

Though my thanks are more of a whimper, because I know there’s more to come.


My head throws back as my body bucks against the ropes that hold me tight. My squirming twists make them even tighter. My toes lift clear of the floor, oblivious to the constriction around my wrists and ankles. I want to feel that tightness. They are an extension of Her. They bite deeply and add another hurt to each searing whip stroke.

The necessary words are forced between clenched teeth: ‘Thank you, Ma’am.’

My bonds support me now. I hang, thankful that they keep me in place for Mistress. She has bound me, I must stay here until she decides that I may be released.

My counting works its way through four, five and six, and Mistress lays each stroke on hard; still I cannot get enough.

My flesh is on fire, yet I crave more from her. I cannot live without such suffering. I pause to catch my breath, and feel the leather tip of the crop slide between my legs. I feel myself shamelessly lubricate the leather, it is slippery and wet as it finds the flowing excitement I do not want to disguise.

It is slipped in with excruciating slowness, tensioning upwards as I try to find some slackness in my bonds so I may go down on it.

Now inflicted agony is mixed with equally unendurable pleasure. I want to close my legs tightly on the whip and squirm, but tied this way I can’t.

My suffering made worse because I know I may not cum until I am granted permission. That might be hours away yet. Mistress does not allow me to know of that.

I writhe on the whip, yet hold back. Mistress feels my writhing and indulges me for a moment. I dare not cum, though I could explode in an instant, tied like this, with six burning fires across my backside.

Mistress draws the whip from me, and I stifle a sob. She walks round my outstretched form to face me. I hold her eyes with mine, boldly challenging her.

Mistress does not want meek docility.

She draws the tip of the crop across my lips, and I taste my own juices.

Open,’ she says.

I do not respond. My lips stay firmly closed.

Open,’ she says more sternly.

Again I defy her. Defiance guarantees hurt, and hurt from Mistress is as a loving embrace. She removes the whip from my lips, moves back a pace and with an unbroken flowing movement brings it up with full force to my open cunt.

I cannot withhold the scream. My pain enters another dimension. It is a stroke that will not count in my counting, and it lends more impetus to my pendulum that swings between pain and pleasure.

Open,’ she orders yet again.

Still my lips clamp silently together. I know what’s coming, my eyes hold hers as the whip swings upwards again. I watch it move until it disappears below my line of vision, then I hear the harsh crack of it exploding against me again. I scream louder. Yet as I do so I cannot hide my increasing excitement.

Mistress is reinforcing the fact that I am the ultimate masochist.

She trails the tip of the whip up my body, between my naked breasts. That vicious tip touches first my left nipple, then my right.

Her lifted eyebrow poses a question.

No words; none are needed.

Her aim is precise, the nipple of my left breast takes the full force of the crop.
Its mark will be there for days.

Mistress lifts my breast and puts it to her mouth, soothing the pain with the tenderest of kisses. Pain or pleasure, I never know which will come next. My inflamed nipple is rolled between her tongue and teeth, saying that she might hurt me or pleasure me.

I force myself forward into her mouth. Her teeth deliver the expected flash of searing pain that I crave.

She draws back and lifts the gag to my mouth again. I open my mouth in surrender to it. She shoves it in deep, and I hear the rattle of the buckle as she jerks the strap tight to the last hole.

She puts a finger under my chin, and lifts my head to allow our eyes to meet. There comes a cruel smile of awareness, that Mistress knows what I am, and that I belong to her. Her fingers move down my outraged body, teasing my arousal to bring a whimper from behind my gag.

The same fingers trace around my distended lips and she caresses them with her tongue, tasting me before turning and leaving me there, bound, gagged and vulnerable.

And aching for her.

The weals on my backside are burning her message of control into my brain. I sag down, supported only by the ropes that hold me.

She does with me as she pleases because to her I am an object to be used at will, or left until the inclination arises in her again.

My mind and body are no longer my own.

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