by Aya DeAniege
Chapter Thirteen
Mr. Wrightworth pulled me into the playroom by my hair and threw me into the middle of the floor. I stumbled, hit the floor and peered up at him, fury rolling through me. He closed the door and locked the bolt, then turned and glowered at me.
There’s nothing quite like doing something wrong to give him a reason to beat you because you know he needs it.
I wasn’t completely stupid. I knew that Mr. Wrightworth had spent the week with Nathaniel’s father. I also knew what Albert like to do with those he ‘entertained.’
Mr. Wrightworth had gone looking for a reason to discipline me. He had already been through the controllers and Nicole, all of which he had almost complete control over. They could probably weather the storm a little better than I could.
He had gone down the list, rather than simply call me and demand I explain myself.
I weighed my options. I could cringe and cry and beg forgiveness. I could submit and allow him to do what he wanted—and hope it worked. Or I could take his advice and hold onto the anger.
Trust Master.
I lunged for Mr. Wrightworth. He was startled by my attack, giving me the time to smash him into the door. We grappled. I ended up on the floor, writhing under him.
Totally just because I was trying to get away, I swear. It had nothing to do with the heat flowing off the man’s body or the fact that for the briefest moment, I fantasized about him having his way with me.
He dragged me to my feet, and I tried to get away. I only put in enough effort to give the effect of struggling, choosing to conserve energy for the beating I knew I was earning myself.
When he seemed to pull me too quickly, I pegged him between the legs with my knee. He went down, and I moved towards the door, hopping up and down to try to reach the bolt.
Again, not stupid.
I could have dragged over the stool by the door to reach the bolt. There was plenty of time for me to escape, had I been actually afraid.
From behind me, I heard a growl. I bolted from the door moments before Mr. Wrightworth slammed into it full force. He was off the door in an instant. Another growl escaped through his clenched teeth as he reached for me. I stumbled backward, over the caddy he kept by the door for used toys.
That was stupid.
That wasn’t planned. It was an honest mistake. I hit the floor, and Mr. Wrightworth was on me in a moment. He grabbed a fist full of hair and dragged me back to my feet.
A squeak stumbled out of my mouth as I was yanked to the side and into the middle of the room. Mr. Wrightworth held me by the hair as he reached for the manacles. The problem with being such a small woman was that my wrists were tiny as could be. He held both my wrists as he brought the manacles down.
Using those manacles, Mr. Wrightworth bound me by my wrists. First one, then the other. I tugged ineffectually at the manacles, aware that they were tighter than they had been any other time we had played.
“I’m going to hurt you now,” Mr. Wrightworth said, walking to the wall with the items hanging on it. His hands flowed over the toys as he turned and watched me. Without looking, his hand settled on the whip. “I think I’ll stick to the whip. Ten lashes should do it.”
He pulled the whip off the wall and flicked it, cracking the air with the tip.
I flinched at the sound.
Mr. Wrightworth approached me, moving the whip back and forth.
“Ten lashes,” he said, stopping in front of me. “You will count each, and thank me for them.”
When I didn’t respond, Mr. Wrightworth used the whip’s handle to lift my chin. “Yes, Master.”
“I will try not to break the skin,” Mr. Wrightworth said. “If your skin does break—as it is such soft, delicate skin—I will not stop. Understand?”
“Yes, Master,” I said, unable to keep the tremble from my voice.
Mr. Wrightworth walked around me. I heard the whistle of the whip and flinched at the crack, but it hadn’t struck me. The whip had snapped over my shoulder. I could feel the rush of air against my flesh as it drew away as suddenly as it had appeared.
My heart thrummed in my chest, which heaved as I tried to get air into my lungs. In those moments as I struggled with my breathing, the whip fell once more. This time, its aim was true.
The first strike hurt so good. And then the pain bloomed, and I cried out through gritted teeth.
My very breath had an edge of sound to it. It took several breaths before I managed to get control of my body again. I was hanging by my wrists, knees dangling above the floor as I swayed slightly to and fro. Fighting against the sudden weakness that seemed to come over my body, I stood, pulling myself up by the chain that I was bound to.
“One, thank you, Master,” I said.
The second strike followed immediately after. Every bit of me trembled, my legs went out from under me again. All my weight was placed on my wrists, but only for a moment. Some part of me dragged myself back to my feet as my hands reached for the chain to hold on to for support.
That time I spread my feet, setting my weight against another strike. I couldn’t keep going down with each lash of the whip, or I’d do serious damage to my wrists.
My world narrowed to the room. Everything else seemed to disappear. All that existed was:
“Two, thank you, Master.”
My only existence was to count out the blows and accept them gratefully. I knew my role, but I wasn’t certain my body would make it through.
The third strike made the cry sound more like a moan.
“Three, thank you, Master.”
“That sounds like want, Darling. Are you enjoying this?”
“No, Master.”
What is wrong with me?
I wanted him to hit me again. It was like he was stripping away everything I had done wrong, washing me clean with the pain. Reading that contract? No longer weighed on my conscience because he had taken it from me and I had given it up gratefully.
And so I thanked him for each strike.
“Four, thank you, Master.”
I didn’t think I’d make it. My body would betray me when I needed it to carry me through. The pain was that of a thousand hot needles under my skin. Separating from the pain seemed simple, though it only came in momentary flashes.
I felt the pain only so long as I didn’t shift my entire and absolute focus away from it.
Whenever I achieved that place, the next strike would fall.
“Five, thank you, Master.”
Five was the balancing point. After that, it was all downhill, surely. The middle of ten. I could make it. Anyone could make it through ten lashes.
“Six, thank you, Master.”
He was going to make me stand through all ten lashes, I realized as the pain of the sixth bloomed, and I gritted my teeth. The sound that made it through my teeth was almost a high pitched squeal. Suddenly the pain was too much again. It began to fade as the world seemed to become foggy and distant.
“You are not permitted to scream,” Mr. Wrightworth barked out.
His words were quickly followed by the crack of the whip over my head. Surely if the neighbours could hear my sounds of distress, they would have heard the crack of the whip. The lash fell again, but I kept from making a vocal sound so much as a gasp outward.
“Seven, thank you, Master.”
Once more I was certain I’d make it through. There were only a few strikes left, I was almost to the end. My whole back was afire. There didn’t seem to be a place that the whip had not already struck.
My hands, still wrapped around the chain, trembled. My grip was slipping, my legs shook in their attempt to keep me upright and keep my weight off of my wrists.
“Eight! Thank you, Master.”
I almost yelped at the strike, but instead all but shouted the count. With gritted teeth, I hissed out a pained sound. I didn’t want the last two strikes. I wanted to say no, to withdraw consent. It wasn’t what he needed, though.
He needed
this. That was what I told myself then.
That was true, in a way. But looking back, even knowing all I do about the community now, it seems crazy that I would just keep going when my limits were being pushed.
“Nine,” I cried out, my head falling forward. Tears were flowing freely. They made my voice sound thick as I said, “Thank you, Master.”
My body would betray me, I was certain of it. Every fibre of my being trembled with the effort to stay upright.
I should have told him to stop.
Mr. Wrightworth would drop a scene the second he heard the safe word. Whether in discipline—as I would find in later years—or play. So long as he actually heard the entire word. I could have ended it whenever I wanted to, whenever the pain became too much, but I so wanted to please him.
It’s a very, very dangerous mindset, one that abusers take advantage of to get their way. Our urge to please drives most of our interactions in daily life and for a sub, the urge is turned into a need. I needed to please him like I needed to breathe, at least that’s the way I felt in those final moments.
“Ten, thank you, Master.”
Relief swept through me. Somehow I had made it through. The tears flowed freely as Mr. Wrightworth walked around me. He used the handle of the whip to raise my head, so that I looked at him.
Meeting those hazel eyes, I saw the mixture of amusement and pride as he studied me.
“That’s so very good,” Mr. Wrightworth hesitated, a small smile dancing on his lips as I struggled to recall what ‘good’ meant in a play session, “of you, to take your beating like that.”
As he spoke, he moved over closer, the whip’s handle pressed firmly under my chin. At the end of his sentence, we were a mere inch from one another. His face seemed to swim in front of mine. I couldn’t get my eyes to focus on something quite that close to me.
Mr. Wrightworth kissed me then.
It was a possessive, hard thing that stripped away the rest of my resolve as his tongue thrust into my mouth. His free hand wrapped around the back of my neck, holding me steady as the kiss deepened. Mr. Wrightworth’s body was always a force to be reckoned with. His tongue was no exception.
Wonder if I can talk him into using that thing in other places.
When he pulled away, I whimpered and tried to follow him. The man chuckled dryly as he returned to the wall and hung the whip back up where it belonged.
“No blood, either. Your skin isn’t as delicate as I thought. But you still have to kneel and beg my forgiveness.”
He returned to me, a hand sliding over my shoulder and up my neck, tangling in my hair. My head was pulled back, almost yanked, as those hazel eyes narrowed ever so slightly.
“Where is your anger now?” he asked.
“Gone, Master,” I responded, my voice weak and shaky.
“Good, I don’t want to have to chase you. Don’t run.”
“No, Master,” I said. Then, when it occurred to me how that sounded, I added, “I won’t run, Master.”
“Good girl,” Mr. Wrightworth grimaced and looked away. As I watched, it seemed a hundred things went through his mind. Whatever it was, he muttered under his breath, “That’ll have to do for now.”
He released my manacles, and I dropped to the floor like a rock. My legs hadn’t been hurt at all, but they just didn’t seem to want to work. There was a roiling in the pit of my stomach. My body was revolting against the pain I had endured, yet the pain seemed distant. The whole world appeared to be in a pleasant sort of cloud.
Nothing existed except him and me, in that room.
“Now beg my forgiveness.”
I shifted to my knees. Uncertain if I was supposed to look down or up, I peered up at Mr. Wrightworth. One of his eyebrows quirked up, as if questioning whether I’d actually be able to go through with it.
“Please forgive my rudeness, Master,” I said, our eyes locked.
A flush of red came over Mr. Wrightworth’s face.
I should know better than to kneel in front of a man and meet his eyes!
“I might...” he said, reaching for his pants.
He looked rumpled, but just a little bit. Mr. Wrightworth hadn’t even bothered stripping off his suit jacket to whip me. His pants opened and out sprung his eager manhood.
Oh, sweet Mother Mary and Joseph. No wonder Nathaniel thinks he’s small.
I gaped at it. I couldn’t help it. Mr. Wrightworth wasn’t just larger than average. He was a creature of myth. I also didn’t understand where he wanted that thing to go, because I wasn’t wearing a plug—and the plugs I had worn were nowhere near large enough to prepare me for that—and I couldn’t just unhinge my jaw like a snake, damn it.
It wasn’t just long either, oh no. It was the type of penis that one simply cannot put words to when they first see it. The magnificent silken heat was mere inches from my face. I was tempted, so very tempted, to reach out and touch it. A man like that didn’t have to try to find sexual partners, they simply volunteered themselves and prayed they survived the ordeal.
“Open your mouth,” Mr. Wrightworth said.
One of his hands slid down his front, wrapping around his aching member. I opened my mouth, I suppose I must have looked like a blowup doll, or at the very least slack-jawed. Mr. Wrightworth’s other hand moved behind my head, drawing me forward. He held me just away from the tip. I saw it twitch and was almost smacked in the nose with it.
Yes, I do believe it was of a size to consider being struck in the nose as ‘smacked,’ that thing had no small force behind its strikes.
I dared to venture out my tongue, sliding it over the velveteen skin. As my tongue returned to my mouth, Mr. Wrightworth drew me closer. The head, and then several inches slid into my mouth. I made a strangled sound as he brought me ever closer. The startling feeling of something hitting the back of my throat was unpleasant, to say the least.
Oh, I wanted it. There was no doubt about that. Nathaniel might have only just begun his training, but the result had almost been the same. I was wet at the idea, until that moment I hadn’t realized just how much I had wanted a cock in my mouth.
I tried my best to impress Mr. Wrightworth. He watched me as he attempted to edge me ever forward. Suddenly he withdrew. I raised up, almost following him as he pulled away. Mr. Wrightworth grabbed a fistful of hair and pulled my head back.
“I only pause to remind you to breathe,” he said. Mr. Wrightworth seemed to hesitate, and then he made a mildly annoyed face. “When I pull out, breathe. Don’t do it when I’m in deep. Otherwise you’ll choke and gag. It’ll be a mess and a savage way for this to go. Understand?”
“Yes, Master,” I said, leaning forward ever so slightly.
I wanted it.
Blame Nathaniel, blame months of no true sex, blame nymphomania or whatever else you’d like to. You might even say that I wanted to please my Master. But I wanted him to shut up and let his most intimate part slide into my mouth. It should take a considerable amount of trust for a man to put such a part of himself inside of a woman’s mouth. Do you know how easy it would be to bite him? Maybe even bite it off? It’s the most sensitive part of him.
“So eager? Why...” Mr. Wrightworth trailed off, his lips curling upward. “Oh, he is a smart man. Come, Darling, please your Master.”
He thrust into my eager mouth. I reached for the hardened piece of velveteen flesh. With my hand wrapped around him, Mr. Wrightworth continued to thrust. His hand, still tangled in my hair, held my head still. I couldn’t back away. I did my best to breath out as he withdrew. It wasn’t a great breath, but the next thrust allowed a little more of an intake of breath.
It was rough and fast. It was definitely a fucking, but I wanted it so much. It had been months since my last consensual sex act, and this was the closest I had come.
The wet heat I felt, the shuddering tremble that went down my back and then up again, the ache that started between my legs, all were signs of how much I wanted this.
I used my hand,
moving it faster than he thrust.
In the middle of it, for some fucking reason, I stopped, as if the act of what we were doing was completely normal and boring. I considered what was going on, and I wondered if men liked having their balls touched. I reached out as I thought that and slid my hand into Mr. Wrightworth’s pants.
The man gasped as I found my goal.
I had no clue what to do with them. I just stumbled through a grip and grope. After figuring out their position and size, I had the brilliant idea of treating them the way I liked my breasts to be handled.
Mr. Wrightworth moaned. His bottom lip trembled, I knew this because I peered up at him as his eyes slid closed. He continued, just a little faster.
Just a little deeper.
“I’m...” Mr. Wrightworth gasped. “I’m going to...”
Suddenly he withdrew. I leaned ever forward, eager to take him into my mouth.
As I did so, there was a spritz of something on my face.
Mr. Wrightworth swore.
And then I realized what had hit my face. My eyes had closed as I had been hit in my face. I tried very hard not to cringe at the feeling of something wet on my face.
He came on my face, who does that?
Lots of men, but Mr. Wrightworth had done it by accident.
The man shuddered and groaned as he pulled away. There seemed to be a twinge—I dared to peek out at him through one eye before closing it as he opened his—before he walked quickly towards the door. He returned a moment later.
“Hush,” he said, something wet immediately against my face.
The wet went over every bit of my face, wiping away the remains of our scene.
“Open your eyes,” Mr. Wrightworth said sternly.
I did as he commanded, obediently meeting Mr. Wrightworth’s hazel eyes. There were a hundred things that must have gone through his head as he dropped the wet wipe into a little caddy with cleaning and first aid items in it.
And then he said, “I’m ending the scene.”
