by Sasha Bond
Our lips parted with a wet, smacking sound, and she lay down next to me and propped her head on her hand with her elbow on the bed. "Do you know what I'd like to do?" she asked, her voice soft and loving, while her fingernails trailed in small circles over my stomach.
My heart started to beat faster when I answered, "No, Mistress Summers. What would you like to do?"
Her fingers were getting dangerously close to my sex, and I could hear a slight tremor in my own voice.
"I'd like to make you cry. You look so beautiful, so relaxed and contented right now with that sleepy expression in your eyes. But you're just as beautiful when your lips start to tremble, and the tears start to fill your eyes. I'd like to see you turn from one to the other. I want to play with your pussy clamps for a minute before I take them off. But only if you let me. Will you let me?"
Before I could even start to answer, she kissed me once more. Long, sensuous, melting me with her lips and tongue, and a voice in the back of my mind pointed out how insignificant a minute of pain was compared making Rachel happy. And something else stirred inside me, a small part of me yearning for the pain.
When the kiss ended, I didn't hesitate a second. "Yes Ma'am, please do it!"
"Beg me," she whispered and let her tongue paint a wet trail from that sensitive spot right below my neck up to my chin.
"Please Mistress Summers," I whimpered. "Please play with my pussy clips, make them hurt, please make me cry!"
It was all the invitation she needed. Before I was able to take a breath, her hand had already found the implements of torture and was slowly stirring them. It hurt a lot, but now, with my arousal on such a level, I found that it was almost bearable. Until she started to pull. Not hard, but rhythmically, and enough to send stabs of pain through my labia. Her eyes, only a palm's width from my face, drank in every twitch and ripple, every gasp for breath. She was watching me with rapt fascination, the most beautiful expression I had ever seen on her face.
Then she started to twist the clamps, and all I could see were blurry outlines. First my lips, then my whole chin, started to tremble. My tears started to flow in earnest when she mixed both movement, pulling and twisting with considerable force. It felt like my pussy lips where mashed, almost torn off, and for a moment I considered begging her to stop, but then she started to whisper to me, telling me how beautiful I looked like this, how brave I was, how happy I made her.
And I cried and endured, for her.
It felt like ages of torment, but finally she stopped. The pain between my legs was bubbling like a pot of molten lava, yet for the last part of the torment, something new had mixed with the pain - a raw, throbbing feeling that came in waves and was, as incredible as it appeared to be, pleasurable.
Slowly, both feelings receded a bit, and my tears ebbed. I must have looked a mess, with all the tears and probably snot on my face, but Rachel kissed me again. What shall I say - it didn't make it all good again, but I instantly felt loads better, like getting new batteries. And then I pictured myself bent over the chair, and Rachel shoving a huge battery, that kind with the copper-coloured cap, up my bum before declaring me 'All done, ready to go again,' and I giggled into her mouth.
I guess I was a bit out of it at that moment.
She broke the kiss and shook her head in disbelief, before cupping my cheeks and declaring me a miracle.
"And you're an enigma."
We stared at each other, almost a minute, and then I saw the corner of her mouth twitch upwards, once, twice, and I couldn't help myself. I started to laugh, and she flopped down on me and joined me with little delay. For a short time, we were back to the two carefree best friends who had fun and found opportunities galore to laugh our asses off for no apparent reason. We were both shaking, and every time we calmed and looked at each other, one of us would start fresh bursts of laughter which were only interspersed with my small cries of pain when a particularly loud chuckle disturbed the clamps on my pussy.
At one point, I simply couldn't take it anymore. "Please, the clamps," I begged between bursts of laughter, "please, take them off Ma'am. Please."
She even looked a bit sheepish, but she stopped laughing, and that in turn enabled me to get myself under control as well.
"This is going to hurt like hell. Whatever you do, keep your feet and hands on the bed." Her voice was instantly back to the stern, commanding tone of my Mistress.
"Yes, Ma'am." I braced myself for the pain, but it was a lot worse than I had expected.
As if a hot knife was suddenly plunged into my pussy, all I could do was wail and arch my body. Fresh sweat broke out all across my skin, and it took ages until I was able to relax again. When I had gained back enough self-control to settle my whole body back to the bed, I prayed that I'd never have to endure that pain again. Then Rachel declared that I had only one more to go, and I almost balked, but I knew that the clamp had to come off, one way or another, and waiting would probably only result in more pain.
So I endured the same pain again, and it was just as bad.
But after a few minutes, everything had calmed down to a dull, throbbing ache, and after a quick look I found to my surprise that my fingernails, which I had buried in my palms, hadn't even drawn blood. A glance at my pussy lips showed me that they, despite being quite swollen and adorned with a small welt, seemed to have survived the ordeal without major injuries as well.
"Stay here," Rachel ordered, but truth to be told, I couldn't have moved if had wanted to. I felt like an old towel, wet, wrung out, and slapped against a pillar a few times for good measure. When she came back, she had a bottle of some kind of medical lotion with her, which she spread thickly all over my tortured pussy. Her touch stung at first, but soon the lotion started to cool and numb my swollen flesh, and I sighed in appreciation.
All too soon, Rachel was finished vetting me, and after capping the bottle, she looked deep into my eyes and handed me a shiny black book and a pen. Which had me wondering at first, but then I turned it and looked at the spine.
It read "Brittany's Punishment Book" embossed in fancy, golden letters. This was nice, it felt special to me - call me crazy, but that's what I felt, she had that book done specially for me, and she could just as well have made do with a simple checkered pad. So I opened it almost reverently and found that she had even added an inscription on the first page.
-
For my best friend and submissive, my Beth!
While I am writing this, I am wondering if the moment to give this book to you will ever come to pass. I have been dreaming of you almost since we moved in together, and the fire you have ignited in me is slowly eating away on me. You're so pretty and look so innocent that I have to fight myself each day not to touch you. I love the stubborn determination with which you do the things you have set your mind to. And I love the best friend that is always there for me, no matter what I do, and never judges me.
And yet, to truly love you, I need to hurt you. It's the way I am, and I have found I can deny that side of me no more than I could stop breathing. I want to make love to you, and I want to hurt you. Pinch you, bite you, even whip you. I want to impress my marks of ownership on your body, and kiss them all better afterwards. I want to cherish you and protect you. I want to control you. I want to own you.
If you are reading this by accident, you'll probably already be already running away as fast as you can, and perhaps you are right. If I have given this book to you, then this is probably the last chance to stop and go back to how things used to be - even if I have to endure those knives stabbing through my heart each time I see you for the rest of my life.
I don't want you to have illusions, so I'll tell you right up what to expect. I am cruel. My arousal thrives on tears as much as on tenderness. I have years of self-restraint to make up for, so you will be punished for a long time just for ignoring me, both with pain and shame. I am promiscuous, I'll have other lovers beside you, and even lend you out to others, but I promise I will only ever love
you. Last, I am a control freak, I want to influence every free moment of your day, so that your thoughts always revolve around me.
Never forget I love you, and will try my best to give you pleasure and ecstasy in equal amounts to the pain. I never want to see you ill or permanently damaged, and I swear to uphold and defend those limits.
If you turn the page and write down your first rule infraction, it will mean that you are mine. But if you close the book now and hand it back to me, we will act as if nothing out of the ordinary ever happened. No matter how you decide, I will always love you and be your best friend.
Your loving Mistress
Rachel
Saturday, 14th of July 2012
-
Oh my god, I thought. It was so sweet, she had written this almost a year ago, been in love with me for all this time without letting on - my heart did tiny jumps, and I couldn't stop the tears from rolling down my cheeks. Sure, it was also meant to scare me, to make sure that I knew what I was getting into, but it didn't reveal a side of Rachel that I hadn't already seen at least to some extent. I took my time, though. I went through everything that had happened since last evening in my mind, the pain and the pleasure, and took a close look at my feelings. While there were moments that were almost too intense, too painful, even almost too pleasurable, I felt that a deep-seated need inside me had been awakened which I would never again be able to bury.
I rubbed my eyes dry and chanced a quick glance at Rachel. She was taut like a bowstring, biting her lower lip and nestling with her fingers. Perhaps I should let her simmer some more, I thought, but that would be her game, not mine. And so I flipped over the page and set the pen to the virgin paper, trying to write as neat as possible, and added the date at the upper right corner. Then I listed my infractions.
1. Addressing my Mistress too personally.
2. Touching my pussy without my Mistress' permission.
And, thinking over events after Rachel had woken me up, I added:
3. Talking to my Mistress without the proper form of address.
Rachel was watching my every move, and when I added the third offence, her eyebrow went up, and she studied me. Gone was her nervousness and tension, replaced once more by a look of calculating self-assuredness. I handed her the open book, on the palm of my trembling hand, my eyes looking downwards as a demure gesture. The moment had symbolism, filling the air like fog on a Canadian November morning. I tried to find something to say, something deep, but the words left me, and I simply whispered, "Yours, my Mistress."
She smiled, then snapped the book shut and placed it in our bookshelf - the one right next to the entrance - at eye level. I swallowed hard.
"Let's have something to eat. I brought scampi salad and white bread."
My stomach growled in answer, and we both had to giggle.
A while later, I found myself kneeling in front of her chair and wondering if anything Rachel did wasn't planned three steps ahead. After she had eaten her fill, she had turned the chair towards me and put the plate on her lap. From there, she fed me with her fingers. Scampi, pieces of vegetables, lettuce leaves, everything had to be sucked and tongued from between her teasing fingers. After a few minutes I was a mess. My breasts were blotched with oil and vinegar and adorned with small pieces of onion, lettuce and what I guessed was either tomato or red peppers. A few crumbs of bread were also caught in the mess.
"Is this making you hot?" she wanted to know, and after some embarrassed introspection and discreet rubbing of my thighs against each other, I could only confirm it, feeling my cheeks blush.
All good things have to come to an end, and a little later I was doing the dishes - my breasts still carrying the signs of my meal. Rachel had pointed out that I'd have to shower after cleaning anyway, so why waste the water? I was allowed to stand, and I relished those minutes where I was able to shake out my legs and straighten my back. After that, I cleaned first the bathroom, then our main room, dusting, wiping the shelves and finally sweeping the floor. It took quite some time, as I had to crawl from station to station, and the sweeping had to be done with the hand brush.
The time was made both easier and agonizing by Rachel, because every half hour or so she ordered me to her and had me stand up, legs spread and fingers linked behind my head, to 'inspect my pussy'. Which was, of course, just another term for fondling me until I was almost coming. It took hardly a minute to get me there with my hyper-sensitive pussy lips, and as time went on, my arousal seemed to get stuck higher and higher, so it took only a few touches of her fingers to have me meowing and humping her hand like a cat in heat.
Cleaning gets tedious after a while by itself. Cleaning in an absolutely horny state is pure torture. I think there are more than a handful of spots that got cleaned at least twice because I couldn't for the life of me remember if I had already done them or not. I got distracted a lot by accidentally rubbing my crotch against furniture, by simply rubbing my thighs against each other when I was crawling around, and even by seeing phallic shaped household items - I wouldn't have guessed how many of them there are.
When I crawled to my spot next to Rachel, who was lounging on the couch and doing whatever with her fingers on her internet tablet, I felt proud to have managed all my chores in time. It was still before six in the evening, enough time to get ready to go out. "All done, Mistress Summers!" I announced.
She looked up from the tablet and smiled. "Well done. I'll believe you today, but be aware that I'll do inspections from time to time, to keeping you from slacking off."
That dampened my pride a bit. But then, it was part of the game, to keep me humble. I could complain that I had been keeping everything tidy for almost four years, but that would earn me nothing. Well, a punishment perhaps. The small, warm tingle in the depth of my stomach at that thought was still a bit disconcerting.
We both drank a coke, and then Rachel had a shower while I tidied up the couch, put away the magazines she had been perusing, washed our glasses and made her bed, still ruffled from earlier.
She didn't take long, and when she came back into the living room, again wrapped in towels and looking good enough to eat, she told me that it was my turn in the shower, but to leave the curtain open. When I crawled into the bathroom and climbed into the stall, she followed me and leaned against the wall with a big smile on her lips. I had to be careful not to spray her once I had the water flowing, and her watching eyes made me feel twice as naked and even more clumsy.
Soaping myself up in front of her watchful eyes was a delicious erotic torture. She insisted I spend a lot of time with my hands massaging the soap into my breasts, into the crack of my ass and between my legs - on the latter, I had to spend an inordinate amount of time, and she was adamant that one finger was not enough to spread the soap in my love channel.
Rinsing myself wasn't any easier. To make sure to wash off every last soap bubble, I had to keep the shower head set to massage mode and make sure not to leave out a single square inch of skin. I think I spent more than a half hour in the shower, and when I finally climbed out, I was once more almost quivering with need.
Again she toweled me dry, and I used every opportunity to press my sensitive parts against her towel-covered hands. Having my hair blow-dried while sitting still on the closed toilet was hard, and when she filed my nails - both fingers and toes - and painted them cherry red, not fidgeting became an almost impossible task. She even applied the matching lipstick and did my eyes with mascara, eyeliner and a dark red eye-shadow. Before I was allowed to look into to the mirror, she braided a small lock of hair on each side of my face and pinned the braids to the side of my head with equally cherry-red clips.
The girl looking back at me from the mirror was completely different from the plain old me I was used to.
I'm a practical girl, my makeup used to consist of transparent lip-gloss, mascara and perhaps a bit of rouge. The last time my fingernails had seen anything besides transparent nail hardener had been a few years ago at a cost
ume party. The small braids added some elegance to my plain but practical hairstyle, and the eye-shadow - even if it was a bit much- gave some depth to my oval face.
Giddy from discovering that I didn't need to look like boring old me, I couldn't resist and twirled in front of the mirror, then puckered my lips Marilyn-style and blow a kiss at my reflection. We both giggled.
Rachel wrapped her arm around me from behind, and I snuggled back against her. "You're so pretty, my Beth."
Her breath tickled my earlobe, and I whispered a heartfelt, "Thank you, Mistress."
"Wait a bit with thanking me. I've got some clothes for you, to make you even more pretty."
She went back into the living room, and I almost forgot to get down onto my hands and knees. A square black box, almost three feet in each direction, was already waiting for me on the coffee table. A nod allowed me to lift the lid, and when I did so, I gasped.
At the top was a pair of high-heels, the same red as my nails and lipstick, together with a huge assortment of shiny thin straps in the same color. I instantly recognized them as the shoes she had designed for her fashion class. I had never seen the finished product, but enough partial drawings of straps and heels to recognize them.
