I don’t always get what I ask for, but I make sure I ask anyway.
You see, it is very hard to suppress a desire, when I want something it is all I can think about.
Like yesterday, all I could think of all day was being tied spreadeagled to the bed and having my cunt tortured for hours on end.
(Side Note: It is funny how words work though, I never refer to my vagina as “cunt” unless I am asking for it to be severely tortured. The term is not derogatory to me, really, but in this situation it still feels more appropriate than any of its counterparts.)
So, when he came over last night, it wasn’t long before the words, “please, please torture my cunt,” literally spilled out of my mouth. It wasn’t until I had said it out loud that i realized just how badly I had been wanting it.
We were having coffee when I said it, and (I believe) I observed the tiniest pause as he put the cup to his lips. I was in a bit of a daze, considering only if I was going to get what I asked for.
I may have been moaning as I made sandwiches for dinner.
When I came back from the kitchen though, I saw the unfriendly, brown hairbrush on the bed.
He wasn’t going to spank me, that much I knew.
As the desire to have my cunt tortured grew stronger, my tongue became looser and looser.
Having shame is overrated.
I asked him, as he ate, if he was going to give me what I asked for. I waited for a response. I asked again.
He asked for salad.
I asked if I should take my clothes off.
He took a bite of his sandwich, I took my clothes off anyway.
He didn’t protest so I asked if I should bring out the rope.
He asked for water.
I would not be deterred, I brought the rope out too.
He seemed amused.
I was too far gone to care. I spread myself on the bed and put the rope next to me.
If he wanted it, he’d take it, I figured.
I saw him putting the plates away. I was starting to get agitated. He stood next me.
All my restraint and any lady-like shame I may have ever possessed stood abandoned, so I talked.
“Please torture my cunt,” I said, “please, make it hurt like you never have. Make me cry, make me beg you to stop, make me scream, please master, I beg you”
He leaned over me and kissed my cheek, and then almost instantly, slapped me really hard.
You know what that slap means? It means shut up.
Soon enough, though, I was tied with my arms above my head and my legs spread far and wide, he sat right between them. I may have been trembling with excitement. I could feel his gaze on my cunt. He caressed it and teased me as I whimpered and felt it swell.
My clitoris stood fully exposed and throbbing with pleasure.
Oh, how I moaned when he finally started to beat it. For a while, I wasn’t even there, I was soaring. Thanking him, hysterically, for hurting me so sweetly.
I started to come around when I felt his foot in there, somehow he was..kicking my cunt. Standing over me and just kicking like he would a football. That was the first scream I remember letting out.
Then there was his knee. *Gasp*
Then his fingers, squeezing and pinching and pulling my clitoris. Soon enough, my clitoris was getting all his attention. He stopped talking, even looking over at me, he was engrossed, I could tell as he slapped and slapped.
He brought out the hairbrush and just went to town on my cunt.
Gosh, it feels good even to write that, he smacked my c-u-n-t as hard as he would have my bottom.
The terrible (and really wonderful) thing about being tied up is that even though your brain makes your body attempt to close your legs to fend off the assault, you cant really do it. There’s no way to run.
I was starting to feel a crippling ache in my clitoris but that is where the hairbrush was intent on falling and he showed no sign of letting up. My moans had turned into soft screams.
And then, there he was.
His breath on my neck, his fingers clawing the insides of my mouth and his cock buried deep inside me.
His pelvis thrusting against my sore, sore skin.
I was close to tears when he came. He lay on top of me for a while, filling me up, his teeth still dug into my nipple.
I closed my eyes, relaxing, waiting for him to untie me.
But it would seem, I hadn’t seen the last of the hairbrush.
I was sticky, wet and chafed. That make it hurt more, somehow.
I was also finally crying as he brought his belt out. My desire had completely spiraled out of my control.
How could he still be beating me, I wondered? While silently wishing he would never stop.
He only used one end of the belt to smack me. Sometimes he used the pin in the buckle to poke at me (ha, word play).
“Don’t stop crying sweety,” he said ever so kindly as he brought the belt down over and over.
I suspected I was numbing to the pain, until he dug his teeth right around my clitoris and refused to let go.
If the lady on the first floor (I live on the third) didn’t hear that scream, she’d have to be deaf. I almost pity my neighbor.
“Please, please let go, please, I beg you to stop…” is what I said, I may have whispered it. He did stop though. It is amazing how much energy being beaten can take out of you.
I believe I was asleep, still in tears, before he untied me.
As I said, I don’t always get what I want, but I ask for it.
Sometimes, you get exactly what you want, and it is glorious.
(**My goodness! Look at me smut-writing)