“Put it on.”
A flash of black flying through the air, and then, there in my hands, a blind fold. Play time. Mmmm yes, I so love play time.
Lickety split, I covered my eyes, making sure I couldn’t peek, turning my head, this way and that, trying to peer beneath the fold of fabric and failing. I wouldn’t want to be caught cheating.
“Kneel.”
I carefully kneel, my knees pressed painfully into the hardwood, my ankles crossing behind me in an attempt to take the pressure off them. I hate kneeling on the hardwood floor. I growl a little, daring to snarl. He laughs at that and I almost flinch to hear it.
“Put your forehead on the floor.”
I gasp and lean forward from the hips, placing my forehead on the floor as ordered.
“Get your ass up.”
A moan escapes my lips as my ass rises. I feel my labia open and the air is a cool caress on my hot, wet cunt. I hate this. I want this.
I hear the crop whistling through the air for a moment. This is for my benefit, a signal, so that even while I am blind, I can know what is coming and make ready to take it or stop the game. I’m ready. I hate this. I need this. I bite back the word yes, since I have not been asked to speak.
Silence, and then a rustling. I hear the rough drag of rope as it is pulled from it’s coil and straightened. My hair is suddenly in his hands, my head pulled bow tight back. Rope loops around my neck and is then crossed between my breasts, around my waist, a length on either side looped around my wrists, and then around my ankles.
Play time. A very dangerous game. I hate this. I need it. I brace my body and wait.
He stands behind me, ankles touching my ankles, pressing in with them just enough so that I have a sense of being held in position. He blows, hard, so that I feel his warm breath on my pussy and ass.
“Are you wet, pet?”
Of course I’m wet. He can see that. He can surely smell the musk of me, standing as he is, right in front of my spread cunt in all it’s glory. I hate this game.
“Yes.”
He bends and runs two fingers from my clit up, plunging his fingers in roughly before confirming.
“Yes, you are. How many would you like, pet?”
He means strokes. He means how many times do I want him to bring the crop down on my bare ass and pussy. He means for me to decide my own price
I whimper. I want to know what I’m buying. Sometimes strokes earn me special treats. Sometimes strokes are measures of time. I’m almost afraid to ask, but if I don’t, I will name what I am willing to pay without knowing what I’m paying for.
“What will each stroke earn me, and to what end.” I risk the question.
“A half second, pet. Each stroke will earn you a half second.”
Still no answer as to what end. I wonder how much these questions are costing me, since nothing comes for free in this game.
“To what end?”
He chuckles, low in his throat.
“Before I answer that I think you should know that the answer will cost you five strokes. If you name your strokes without knowing to what end, it will cost you nothing. Do you want an answer?”
Yes, my mind screams, but my mouth answers no.
“10, please. I want 10.”
I know that he will give me ten of the hardest strokes he can. This game doesn’t include the soft rise in intensity from tickle to exquisite pain that I love so much. This begins with strokes that come down fast and hard, and with inexorable moments between strokes so I can fully experience the price I’m paying for whatever it is I’ll earn.
“Count them down, pet,” I grit my teeth. I hate this game. I love this game. “thank me for each stroke, and ask me for the next.”
“Yes.” I tense my whole body, and force myself to say, in a clear, steady voice…
“Please may I have the first?”
As soon as the word is out of my mouth, the crop comes down, hard and fast, hitting me squarely on my left ass cheek. I don’t move. I take a deep, ragged breath. I prepare for the next.
“Thank you. Please may I have the second?”
The crop whistles through the air, catching the back of my right thigh. Tears come, and I bite them back. I hate this game.
“Thank you. Please, may I have the third?”
Again, it whistles through the air, landing on my swollen labia. I almost squeal in pain but squeeze my eyes shut and bite my lip to stop the sound. I feel my body jerk, and then resistance around my throat as the rope tightens. Such a dangerous game. I really hate this game.
“Thank you. Please may I have…”
I drop down deep into a world of heat and endorphine glow. By the tenth I am weeping softly, a broken thing, barely able to keep her position. He drops to his knees, one leg on either side of my body and begins to rub every place he’s hurt, gently with his hands. He caresses me so softly that I barely feel his touch. One hand reaches between my legs and rests just as softly over my pussy.
“Now, pet. How many strokes did you take?”
I am still crying, but manage to tell him.
“Ten.”
“And how many seconds did you earn?”
“Five.” I’m afraid. What did I earn? Will it bring relief or pain?
“Five. Five seconds, pet, of your own fingers on your clit. If you can’t cum in five seconds, we have to begin again. Do you think you can cum in five seconds?”
Oh god. No. I know I can’t. I am a shattered thing and though the pain is ebbing now, I still feel the sting. There is no spreading, lustful heat left. I am wrecked. Broken.
“No.”
“No?” He feigns surprise. “Whatever shall we do?”
I am thinking…nothing. Untie me. I don’t want to cum, not at this price. I don’t want this anymore. But there is an immense sense of shame in these thoughts, that I would give up so easily. I say nothing, knowing he will tell me all I need to know.
“Tell you what.” he begins. “You tell me how much time you think you need to make yourself cum, and I will give you that number of strokes.” He moves away now, and I hear rustling in his ever present bag of tricks. I hear a soft buzzing sound and then feel it as a pleasure egg is pushed gently into my pussy. He turns up the speed, and I feel desire spreading, mingling with the heat of pain. Did I say I hate this game? Did I ever think that for a second? God, I love this game. He turns the speed up a little more.
“Thirty” I tell him. “I’ll pay thirty.”
“That’s only fifteen seconds, pet. Are you sure you can do it in fifteen seconds?” I feel the egg pressing against my sweet spot.
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“If you don’t, you know we have to start over.”
My hips are bucking slightly in time with my own internal beat as the tiny spark of heat begins to spread ever wider.
“I understand. Please. May I have the first.”
And the first comes down, that heat running like crimson paint into the deeper red spreading through my belly. “God, yes. Please. May I have the second…”
And it comes, and the colors dance together, swirling over my body, into my body.
“Please, may I have the third”
…and on it goes until I can barely speak, until I am no longer even in my body, but flying on a carpet of color. I cum, quietly, with only slight jerks of my body as evidence, afraid he will notice and stop the game.
“I saw that” he says. “What do you say?”
“Thank you. Please, may I have the twenty-fifth?”
And I cum again, this time with freedom of movement, tears coming hot, mouth open wide, whimpering, gasping for breath. The orgasm lasts right through the next two strokes.
“Thank you. Please, may I have the twenty-eighth?”
I don’t want it to end. The egg, placed perfectly with me is magic, transforming pain into exquisite pleasure. I want more. I could take so much more. I could take it forever. I cum again, hips bucking wildly now, pressure on my throat from the rope the only thing to keep me from collapsing and writhing on the floor. God, I love this game.
“Thank you. Please may I have the last?”
I don’t want it to be over, but I know that while my mind has risen above the pain, my body will feel it all tomorrow. I accept my limitations and do not beg for more. The last stroke comes and he orders me to be still as he unloops the rope from around my ankles, hands, waist, breasts, throat, completely freeing me.
“On your back.” he commands and I wince, knowing that the hot flesh of my thighs and ass will scream at the first touch of the cool floor beneath it, but I do as I am told and cup my drenched cunt in my hand, waiting until he begins to count me down.
“Fifteen” he intones.
I am ready to come at “ten”. “Please?” I whimper. “No. Wait for the magic number.”
He purposefully slows the countdown, laughing a little to watch me squirm, so close, damn him. so close…and then…
“One.”
God, I love this game.