Hard Rain

by Melissa Vayle

  ‘You dirty, little tart! Just look at you! You filthy whore!’ and like a demon possessed, he lurched forward and smacked her backside, thighs and bare legs, jolting her and making her struggle desperately to avoid the sharp stings that rained down on her. He yanked her forward onto her front and smacked her again. The noise of the slap, sexual invective and stifled cries in her head battered her senses as she struggled wildly on the soft bed. The tight vinyl squeezed her thighs together and her belly and crotch pushed down hard, into the mattress and she pressed her face into the soft bedding, stifling off her desperate groans completely. The slaps ceased, he stopped his assault and she was suddenly aware of her own frantic jerking, face down on the bed. Almost there! She was almost there and a wave of intense frustration swept through her with a surge of heat and she felt wretched and very dirty. God! She was desperate to come.

  He roughly pushed her back on her side and, almost casually, slapped her exposed breasts. She winced, struggling helplessly, and was horrified for him to see her nipples begin to stiffen up in response to this treatment. Oh, God! She was suddenly desperate. Oh! Fuck me! Please! Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me!

  ‘Look at your tits! You filthy whore!’ and with that, in her own state of desperate craving, she watched him pull his underpants down and, for a moment, did not comprehend the sight that seized her gaze. There, rooted solid in a bush of dark pubic hair, standing up stiff over large, full balls, was a very thick imperious cock, topped by a splendid, magisterial head. It was handsome, like its master, and she groaned in ecstasy, trying to pull her knees further apart. He lurched forward, she never taking her eyes off the spectacle as it flopped hard against his belly.

  She rolled over towards him as the bed dipped under his weight and at once found her face in his crotch. Quick as a flash, he pulled out the sopping-wet knickers from her mouth - ‘Such a pretty mouth!’ - and dropped them on the floor. She could feel the heat from him, and taste a warm, masculine odour on her breath. She blinked, taken aback, as, without any preamble, his hard cock was thrust into her mouth. She gagged on it - Oh my God! - and spluttered a contorted sound as she struggled to accommodate its hefty bulk and weight.

  ‘Yummy! Yummy! I think is what you are trying to say!’ and he began to pile-drive it back and forth, ramming her face in and out of his crotch. She stiffened up in her bonds and found herself forced to make animal-like grunts in rhythm.

  ‘Ugh! Ugh! Ugh!’ She had never had it like this before. Men had always said she was very kissable, but this! The insistent truncheon was bludgeoning her into submission and she felt a new kind of thrill go through her. She groaned. She struggled, rolling back and forth against him. She was loving it as her wet inner thighs now made their presence felt. She sucked hard, pulling the cock in to the filthiest part of her mind and tried desperately to fondle her tight-wrapped rump as she rocked and rocked.

  He was groaning too and his strokes grew deeper and harder. She tried to press her tongue up against the shaft to feel it better but the size and weight of the weapon only kept it firmly in place. Like its master, it dominated all in its way. Faster he thrust and she was mesmerized by the rhythmic glimpses of his large, full balls. A man with his pants down looks exactly what he is: an animal. Her eyes came back in focus on what was being rammed into her face as he clearly was close to climax. She tried to gulp but couldn't.

  ‘Ugh! Ugh!’ His moaning intensified and she instinctively sucked hard, for all she was worth. Umph! Umph! She was rammed harder and wanted to cry out Please! But then, with no warning, the cock jerked violently upwards as it leapt out of her mouth and spunk was everywhere. More violent jerks, more splashing and somewhere in the distance, a man cried out in agony or was it ecstasy? She desperately wanted to grab him, hold his cock steady as it thrashed around but could do nothing but take it now in the face. She heaved in desperation, wanted her arse smacked, anything to make her come. He was still thrashing about in the throes of climax but the ejaculation was ceasing. Never had she seen such a violent orgasm in a man as now. Not even Paul, for all his passion, freaked out like this and gave such a splashing. The moaning had stopped. Neither moved. He was coming to.

  He stood up on the carpet to the side of the bed and looked down at her, eyes slightly glazed. He untied her wrists, letting her legs down. She looked away, deeply subdued and shaken. Then she felt him bend down over to her. His face was close to hers. She turned her head. She wanted to be kissed, kissed long and passionately, and inwardly sighed. His mouth almost touched hers. She felt his breath.

  ‘I decide how you will dress. Not you. Is that clear?’

  She was stunned.

  ‘Is that clear?’ His voice, menacing. He grabbed her chin and forced her to look him in the eye.

  She murmured a ‘Yes’, almost a whisper.

  ‘Yes, what?’ came the insistent voice.

  Silence. ‘Yes, sir,’ hesitantly.

  ‘Yes, Master,’ he intoned, with emphasis.

  ‘Yes, Master,’ she replied meekly.

  ‘Again!’ he snapped.

  ‘Yes, Master’. As the words came from her, she could not suppress a shiver of pleasure. Then, unexpectedly, he kissed her, and tenderly, with a lingering caress of her lips, and was suddenly gone, leaving the room.

  Catherine lay there, her ankles still bound, humiliated, dishevelled and shaken, her blouse ripped, her stockings laddered. Her sopping-wet knickers stared back at her from the carpet and she suddenly saw the glistening streaks of semen on her breasts. It was on her face and her hair and she felt ashamed at what she had done. Only the skirt remained intact and it seemed now to mock her. She touched her tight-garbed, glossy thighs and surveyed her sorry, but strangely sexy state. At the apex of her legs, tension was still there and she instinctively tugged at her bound ankles.

  She lay back on the luxurious bed, head sinking into the expansive pillows and, raising her hips, partially unzipped the skirt and pulled it up. She closed her eyes and her hand glided straight to the spot. She was wet-through, her inner thighs slippery and hot and as she worked herself to a peak, a hundred images and desperate cravings kaleidoscoped through her frantic mind, till at last the unbearable surge shot up through her and her rigid body was bound tight in the straps of darkest pleasure. Again and again, the waves beat over her till she became aware of her gasps and the noise of her vinyl skirt slithering against the bedspread. Relief, pure and deep, came with a sudden tiredness.

  She opened her eyes. There, almost like a silhouette for a moment, steadily framed in the doorway and looking straight at her, was Michael, immaculately dressed. She was stunned to the core. He turned away, a hint of a smile on his face, and was gone. She lay there, rigid and mortified. Her eyes gazed upon her pulled-up skirt and then her bound ankles. She could have cried.

  Chapter 15. Tour de force

  The next few days were a void. Michael was not around and Anne was distant. Catherine was gradually calming down yet could not shake off an underlying tension. Thoughts and feelings clung to her endlessly and meaningful work was out of the question. She could not forget the way she had been horribly aroused by him and wanted more, much more, and yet...his Jekyll and Hyde character, his unpredictability. Deep down she was afraid of him, of what he might do if really provoked. Yet she was sure he had a genuine tender, more loving side. She likened him to his dungeon: darkness punctuated here and there with shafts of brilliant light. But then she blamed herself again and again that it was her fault. That bloody skirt! Why did I have to be so stupid! And yet... She touched her bottom. He knew how to smack a woman that wanted it and she did not care how unfeminist this was. In fact, she did not give a damn. She had the right to say No! and she had the right to say Yes! Give me a bloody good spanking, mister, hmm...that is, if it is all right with you. Oh! And while you're at it, do you mind throwing in a spot of bondage? And - sorry to bother you - could we have some willy-works too? Thanks awfully. Hmm, when you're ready... But there was no giggle this time. This was no joke
. Oh! Why did he kiss me like that? She was so sure he had a caring side, so sure that he bore her actual affection.

  Silly cow! She turned away from the voice within and immediately was thinking of Anne, and of how Michael stood towards her. She nipped the thought in the bud yet at once saw how her jealousy of Anne triggered the chain of events which now she was enmeshed in. What would Val say? She could do with her friend's sensible head to see the way through this but … As for the future, all was blank and edged with the unknown, and with a sense of unease, she had to admit it. She was not in control of anything, anymore.

  She came back from lunch feeling no lighter from a walk in the sun round the nearby park and, at first, did not see the small envelope left on her keyboard. There was nothing on it but she knew at once it was from him. Her heart missed a beat, then raced as she opened it. It was a small white card and on it, written in turquoise ink in his clear, strong hand, were the words: ‘Red high heels tomorrow!’ Tomorrow was Anne's day off. Once in a fortnight she got herself poodled up at Selena's Salon. The following day she would reappear manicured, all coiffured, legs waxed, and God knows what…

  Catherine arrived early to work. She had been incapable of any real sleep and was worried that she did not look her best. She wore her figure-hugging red dress and red high heels and was already in an animated state. She was expecting to be summoned at any moment but as the minutes turned to hours, her excitement took on a new edge and her nerves began to get the better of her. She had heard no sound around the house but that made by herself. Lunchtime came and went. She had no appetite. Half of her wanted to run away, the tension was unbearable. If he cared about her, he would not put her through this! The other half kept her rooted to the spot, held there by invisible chains of a different appetite. She resented his smug certainty about the power he had over her, and rattled the chains in rebellion, but the more she fought it, the more complete the thrill of her predicament and she knew, as the tension mounted, she loved being under his control.

  Two o'clock. She watched the seconds hand meet the minute hand on the twelve. Three o'clock. The red shoes mocked her. Four o'clock. She felt sick in the pit of her stomach. He was toying with her and she knew it was not going to happen now. The bastard!

  ‘Catherine.’

  The familiar voice turned her abruptly from her intense thoughts. There, squarely set in the doorway, stood Michael. God! It was Catherine's lucky day. He was wearing black leather jeans, black tee shirt and black leather boots. In his hand, was dangling a whip.

  ‘Catherine. Are you all right?’

  ‘Why, yes,’ she replied, quickly pulling herself together. She was spellbound in her chair. She braced herself.

  ‘I think it is time your earlier curiosity was satisfied. Fancy a walk?’

  She hesitated under his gaze, then, with a sliver of a thrill, she simply said ‘Yes... Master.’

  He smiled, then raised his arm and held out the whip. Now she recognized not a whip but a collar and lead, and something strong and powerful shot through her from her crotch outwards.

  ‘Take your dress off.’

  Without a word, she stood up and complied, stepping out of it on the floor.

  ‘Now your bra.’

  She unhooked her bra

  ‘Get your knickers off.’

  She instinctively kicked off her shoes.

  ‘I didn't tell you to take your shoes off! Get them back on!’ he snapped.

  She immediately slipped them back on.

  ‘Your knickers!’ he repeated, and she pulled them down and tossed them on the floor. She was beginning to like it all strict and looked at him, expectantly.

  ‘Eyes down!’ he ordered. ‘Come here!’

  Which she dutifully did and then, silently, allowed him to put her in the collar and buckle it up. It felt secure yet comfortable and, standing there naked except for her red high heel shoes, she suddenly felt dressed for the part.

  ‘Now. Get down on your hands and knees.’

  Taken aback, something then switched her onto automatic. She went down smoothly on all fours.

  ‘Just about your level, I think!’ he remarked, matter-of-factly, whereupon, without saying another word, he prompted her movement forward by a tug on the lead.

  And so began Catherine's procession down the corridor towards the locked room.

  With each shuffle forward, a delicious thrill of subjugation mounted in her. She moved like some kind of graceful animal, her breasts hanging freely in the warm air like the sexual appendages she suddenly felt them to be. And her bare bottom and private parts, most unladylike, wobbling in stately fashion. Arse and tits on parade, came the thought. She could not suppress a smile to herself and had to admire his style. She felt quite sexual like this, sexual and dirty, and very base instincts were already welling up inside her. How fitting this is! She moved sluggishly, obliging him to keep the lead taut and intermittently tug on it with such words as ‘Come on! Get a move on!’ This was more like it. She loved him. And beyond the door, which beckoned ever closer, she was going to prove it.

  The room was just as she remembered it, eerily lit in the criss-cross of spotlights, though seeming much bigger when viewed from the floor.

  ‘Get up!’

  Her knees were beginning to hurt a bit and she was pleased to obey. He tugged the neck lead forcing her to scramble quickly to her feet. His eyes were richly dark and, in the play of light and shade, he looked dramatically handsome and dangerous. She could sense the slightest creak of leather that wrapped his cock and thighs and could not take her mind off his leather boots. He eyed her for a moment with something of relish in his face and she suddenly felt she was in the presence of the consummate Master.

  ‘You've already seen the props but not yet had the benefit of a dress rehearsal. So, Catherine, let me give you a quick tour of the set. But first, you'll need the appropriate script. In your case ... there is none’.

  And at that, like a magician, he suddenly produced from his pocket a bright red object with straps attached to it. At once, he thrust the rubber ball into her mouth, making her emit a stifled cry of shock and impulsively reach up to her mouth. Too late. He was already buckling the device tight round the back of her head. Horror-stricken, she clutched at the ball and tried to wrench it out of her mouth but her frantic struggles were in vain and her desperate pleas rendered mute and hopeless as she realized she was effectively silenced. She knew too, that her stupefied look now only served all the more to amuse him. He smiled, approvingly. A thrill went through her.

  ‘Formalities out of the way, let's not stand on ceremony. On your knees!’

  She went down, this time reluctantly as her knees had been recovering nicely. He jerked the lead, forcing her forward on all fours.

  ‘Much better!’ as if congratulating himself. ‘A picture of feminine charm, if ever there was one. We shall have to add you to our collection of priceless portraits which I am sure you have already studied,’ and he gave a flourish towards several of the posters on the wall. Catherine could not see as he kept the leash taut forcing her head up and her face kept fixed on him. She moaned in despair as the reality of her subjugation sank in. He jerked on the lead and led her over to the glass-fronted cabinet.

  ‘This is the private box. Excellent view of the performance and interesting. Especially if you're claustrophobic.’

  Catherine moaned as alarm seized her.

  ‘Hmm ... I take it from that, that you're not,’ and with that he tugged once more on the lead. ‘And this, my dear...’ indicating the rings on the wall, ‘is some place for the hangers-on. Every performer attracts them, don't you find?’ Her eyes widened at the thought and she could see he was revelling in it. He pointed to the hooks on the overhead beam.

  ‘Guaranteed to sweep a girl off her feet!’

  She desperately tried to shake her head but all that happened was a sustained, stifled moan in her head.

  ‘Hmm... I hope you've got no hang-ups,’ and he mock-clea
red his throat in his cuffed hand. He tugged further and brought her to the bed. He patted it and smiled.

  ‘Comfortable. Very. You see, I'm just a romantic at heart.’

  More moans as his sadistic self-entertainment mocked the other side of her feelings making her more wretched.

  ‘And...’ pointing across to the shower, ‘En suite, too. Can't be bad. Just the job for dirty sluts.’ He led her over to the wall of implements.

  ‘Ahem’, he cleared his throat. ‘Did I say romantic? Well, here's the proof. Beats giving a girl flowers any day,’ and with that, he took down a springy cane from the rack and swished it in front of her so that she felt the waft of air. She recoiled in terror and let out a desperate groan for mercy. He tugged her forward on the leash.

  ‘These are my toys,’ he said with a smile, then, smile vanishing, stared hard at her. ‘So are you,’ whereupon he pressed the end of the cane against her face forcing her to turn away. ‘Next time it will be a different cheek.’ He put the cane back and selected a dressage crop.