Hurt Me (Your Pet For The Night)

by Audrey Grace

  Hurt Me (Your Pet For The Night)

  By

  Audrey Grace

  * * *

  Table of Contents:

  Hurt Me (Your Pet For The Night)

  About the Author

  Bonus Material 1 - Leash Me (Your Pet For The Night)

  Bonus Material 2 - Submitting to the Doctor

  Bonus Material 3 - Bound and Humiliated

  Bibliography: Erotica

  Bibliography: Gay Erotica

  Bibliography: Lesbian Erotica

  Bibliography: Erotic Romance

  License

  Hurt Me (Your Pet For The Night)

  She had been left alone by him in an empty room. There was a sound, a single sound, and it was the music playing from his stereo. The stereo sat on a shelf near high up the wall, where she couldn’t reach.

  The music was contemporary pop, and it played quietly in the background so that the most audible sounds were the hisses of treble. But it was him.

  Looking around the room, she knew that everything in here was him. All him. It had an air of use, of a significant time that it had been lived in, but it was clean, and the air was fresh. It was taken care of. He was like that. He would not let his room beat him.

  It was a special room, formerly a guest room, but he had had it re-purposed some time ago.

  He called this room his ‘dungeon’ and laughed to himself every time he did so. She understood why he laughed, too. It was his dungeon in the sense that it was his prison. He locked away in this little room those desires and yearnings and passions that are secrets, secrets because they have to be.

  The world is unforgiving, but nobody casts judgment in the dungeon. How can they when its very existence is a secret?

  I looked around the room, seeing the myriad of lit candles placed seemingly at random throughout. Their flames licked the air softly, heated the room, and let go their subtle scent.

  She reflected on the situation. Some would be nervous, left alone in the dungeon helpless like that. But she wasn’t. She couldn’t be. She couldn’t even pretend to be. She trusted him entirely.

  His presence was relaxing, and her submission to his wishes, his desires, was almost therapeutic in its ability to make her feel replete, satisfied.

  More than that, though, is that he was easy to trust because he wore his vulnerabilities like clothing: on the outside.

  So it is here that she can be herself, and here that he can be himself.

  It is here that they can be together.

  In this room, this dungeon, this prison.

  She wiggled the ropes that bound her wrists, not too tightly but tightly enough. She arched her back and felt the warm air in the space it created. Her naked skin bathed in a comfortable temperature that was not too hot but just warm enough that should she get excited, her body would bead sparkling jewels.

  Her hands were leashed above her head, and she was stretched along the length of her body. Her ankles were bound too, legs spread outward; open.

  She could not move save an inch or two left or right, and she loved it that way. The helplessness, knowing that he could do anything to her, and that he would do anything for her.

  She knew he loved it too.

  Footsteps creaked outside the door, and the squeaking hinges told her that he was coming. She tried to look up at him, but she could not. Her eyes were wide open, looking for his silhouette, looking for the familiar shape of his head.

  The door clicked shut and she knew he was now inside the room, inside his domain. Here he was master.

  She saw him finally! The candlelight danced along his body, and she saw that he was carrying a bag, big and black. She felt a shiver of anticipation run up and down her spine, and she hummed with delight, savoring the thoughts of what was to come that were racing through her mind. All the different possibilities…

  What could be in the bag?

  They rattled as he set the bag down on the table.

  He reached for the zipper and opened the bag slowly, and turned to look at her for a moment. Their eyes met, but his expression did not change. He simply looked back at his open bag, and she was ready for the reveal of those hidden treasures tucked away.

  She felt both anticipation and intrigue as she watched him unpack the contents of the bag. Out came a butter warmer and a tea light candle. He did not take anything else out, and she hummed and grinned at him, wondering what else was in the bag of goodies.

  He assembled the warmer, and lit the candle. The small ceramic dish over the equally small and soft flame would act as one heat source, and he poured chrysanthemum-scented oil onto the dish. The oil would heat, would warm, would become almost hot.

  Almost.

  She quivered at the thought.

  His hands went back into the bag, disappearing all the way up to his elbows. He looked at her without smiling, and she looked at him with a tentative grin pulling apart her lips. What was he getting now? Why so deep in the bag? Her heart was already thumping in her chest.

  Just watching him rummage through the bag, hearing the clinking and rattling of its contents… it drove her wild. She could already feel her body readying, heating.

  And from the bag he pulled out a small metal pan. It had a spout, and she knew it was made for heating and pouring sauces, gravies… hot liquids.

  “The spout is perfect for pouring,” he said to her. His voice was firm and confident. It reminded her that this was his domain. He could have said that the spout was for dicing vegetables and she’d nod her head in agreement.

  “And this,” he said, pulling from the bag in his second hand a large, cuboid block of red. “I think you know what this is.”

  She looked at the object he was holding, and listened as he dropped it into the pan. It didn’t clang or clank, so it was fairly soft and malleable.

  Then she knew what it was. It was a block of wax.

  Her mind flashed forward in giddy excitement: He was going to pour hot oil on her, and then he was going to top it off with molten wax.

  She shuddered in anticipation, instantly wanting the feel of the near-painful sting on her nipples as the hot oil would be dripped on like olive oil onto a salad, before being smothered by the wax.

  The warmth would be potent and focused — she knew from experience — and it was something entirely exotic. Something that the body never got used to.

  She snapped out of reverie and looked once again at her master. His side profile was silhouetted, and she could see a faint bulge in his trousers.

  Even he was getting ready.

  He carefully removed a hot plate from the bag, and he set it down on the table and plugged it into the wall. She squirmed a little against her binds, and wanted to bring her legs together, as if to seek physical confirmation of her own growing desires.

  He placed the metal pan lipped with a spout on the hot plate, and then turned to look at her. Behind him, she knew that big block of red would begin to lose its solidity, would begin to slowly cascade down its own sides, until it became a pool of deep, red, viscous, molten bliss.

  She saw him turn once more toward the bag, and from it he pulled out a cooking thermometer. He placed it into the pan with the wax.

  The visual gesture wasn’t necessary — she trusted him. But that he wanted to show her that he was in command, but that he would not hurt her… it touched her mind in places that only heightened her physical yearning. It added the fuel to her flame.

  In silence, for minutes, she stared at him and he at her. He was bathed in shadows, and nothing but the bridge of his nose and his bright sparkling eyes could reliably be seen. His trousers were tented, and in any other situation he might look ridiculous.

  But
not here. This was his domain.

  He folded his arms over each other, and she saw that he was wearing his bright orange shirt, his favorite. That told her that she was going to be in for a wondrous, perhaps even surprising night, and she let herself smile at the thought.

  Adjusting his position, he dipped his finger into the oil gently warming over the small candle flame. He touched his finger and thumb together, measuring the temperature.

  He stepped forward to her, and he came fully into view, no longer a shadowy mass standing far, far away. He held his finger above her, and she saw the oil on it form into a single droplet.

  It leapt off his digit, and soared downward through the air before hitting her in between her breasts. She moaned as she felt its warmth for the briefest of moments, just a flash, a hint, a flare. But then the droplet was cool, and the soothing smell of chrysanthemum reached her nostrils.

  She craned her neck upward, and he bent over to plant a soft and gentle closed-lipped kiss on her yearning mouth. Their kiss was a single kiss, but it lasted for seconds, and she felt the warmth in his lips penetrate into hers.

  As he broke the kiss, she felt him pinch her lower lip very lightly in between his, a subtle conversation. He was expressing his desire.

  “Would you like to begin?” he asked as he straightened his back, and looked down at her from beside her.

  “Yes,” she said, nodding and biting her lower lip where it had been pinched so lightly in between his.

  “Good,” he said, and he moved to get the warming plate. He poured the oil into the palm of his right hand. “Close your eyes.”

  She closed her eyes, her mind spinning. She wanted that first sensation of the hot oil on her wanting skin, the sudden jolt of nerve endings all suddenly activated by a near-painful warmth. Her skin cried out for it, yearned for it, needed it.

  A point on her right shoulder was where the oil first made contact with her skin, and she shuddered and laughed in delight as she felt the warmth of it trickle down her skin, like small tributaries weaving their way over the dips and curves of her body.

  The oil ran down her armpits, and she hummed in delight.

  The oil spilled over her collarbone, and down in between her breasts, and she bit her lip and grinned.

  The oil pooled in her belly button, and she squired against her binds.

  As the oil began to cool on her, she could feel herself relaxing, growing used to the idea that there was going to be more. She watched as he refilled oil into the palm of his hand, and he poured that over her left shoulder.

  As before, the oil trickled down across her body, into her armpit and across her collarbone before joining the cooling stream in between her breasts.

  She squealed and hummed as the oil made its way down her, heating her skin that had grown sensitive from the first run of chrysanthemum.

  He set down the dish of oil and dipped both his index fingers in before bringing them to her nipples to ring them lightly, setting her aureolas ablaze. Her nipples were stiff and firm, and his fingers brushed gently against them so that they too were set on fire, and she moaned loudly.

  She was beginning to pant, and she could hear her thumping heart in her head.

  He began to caress her breasts with his oil-slicked hands, massaging the warm liquid into her skin. She heard him sigh a happy exhale, very nearly a moan as he softly touched and kneaded her silken, glistening skin.

  He traced each of her mounds carefully, as if they alone could satisfy him indefinitely. His fingers climbed until they could ring and pinch her stiff-tipped peaks, and he excited them continuously, his fingers dancing as if they had no intention of ever stopping.

  He ran his fingers upward kneading and rubbing the bit of skin that lay in between her breasts and her armpits. His fingers seemed to coax pleasure from the pores of her skin, and she hummed and grinned and her head lolled from side to side.

  She gasped as he removed his hands from her body, leaving her feeling naked, unclothed. He returned his hands to the dish of oil, and did so with agonizing slowness so that she arched her back and craned her neck and moaned at him in anticipation.

  He returned, and this time he took the intoxicating heat to her navel, displacing the cooling oil already filling it, before rubbing the warmth into her stomach and belly. The creeping tendrils of oil ran downward and around either side of her mound.

  The two heat sources met, and she groaned her pleasure as she felt the creeping fingers of the chrysanthemum heat run down either side of her sex.

  She was already warm and slick and swollen, but she grew impossibly more so. Color streamed into her sex as her heart worked maniacally to send more blood there.

  Another moan escaped her lips. It was all she could do to release the pressure building within her, the powerful, near-violent lust that was pooling inside.

  He began to knead her flesh like he had done so before, only this time on her stomach and her lower abdomen. She shuddered and shivered as his hands stopped just shy of her mound, as they traversed just shy of the pit of soft and silken flesh in between her leg and her heated, longing sex.

  She knew she was being teased, her physical senses manipulated, and goose bumps erupted on her body as if to cry out ‘touch me!’

  His hands moved to the jutting bones of her hips, and his fingers lightly trace down her inner thighs, tracking the warm oil in their wake, and she was reminded of the wake left by a jet ski in the sea. She moaned and hummed at him, giggling slightly, just waiting for the moment that he would make contact with her pulsing, hungry sex.

  She could feel his fingers down by her knees, tracing down the insides of her thighs, all the way to the arches of her feet. She laughed as his finger followed the curve, and wanted to move her foot away in ticklish recoil, but couldn’t because of the binds.

  She leaned forward, her stomach crunching, and bucked her hips upward. It was an invitation into her warm and wet heaven, and she wiggled her hips at him, begging him inside.

  His spare hand went and hovered over a candle, and he began to warm it. She felt his warm touch cupping her magnificently, and she moaned out her pleasure. Slowly his finger ringed her anus, its delicious warmth spreading upward through her sex. He brought his finger up one side of her outer lips, before gently circling her clit.

  And she squirmed in heavenly delight.

  She felt him draw figure eights, around her clit, across her folds, around her anus. Her breathing was quickening, and her heart rate was speeding up. She rocked her pelvis slightly on his fingers, relishing pressing herself against his light and teasing touch.

  He continued to draw the eights over her pulsing pearl and puckered button, and ever so rhythmically, and ever so methodically, and she could feel within her a pressure building, a kind of need.

  Then slowly, excruciatingly slowly, he lifted his fingers off her.

  “Do you want to come, girl?” he asked her, and she could see him taking in the sight of her body squirming having lost its source of stimulation.

  “Yes!” she hissed hoarsely.

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, please. Yes, please!”

  “You can only come, my dear,” he said, and a grin spread on his face. “When I give you permission.”

  “Okay, okay,” she panted.

  “And tonight you will call me Master.”

  “Yes, Master,” she breathed.

  “Do you want me to touch you again, girl?”

  “Yes, Master, yes!”

  The return of his fingers to her clit was electric and somehow relieving, and she jolted in bliss as he began to draw the figure eights over her sex again. With his other hand, she watched him retrieve the warming pan of wax and bring it over to her.

  His fingers left her again and she moaned her disapproval. He plucked the thermometer from the pan and looked intently at it.

  “Perfect,” he announced, before his eyes met hers. “Now we just need this,” he said softly to himself, before pulling out a small
paintbrush from his trouser pocket. He grinned at her, and she hummed back at him, her mind flirting briefly with the fear of the hot sting that was soon to come.

  She watched as he dipped the paintbrush into the pan. He was slow, methodical, like how he touched her. He treated the paintbrush with as much care, with as delicate fingers, as he treated her.

  She awaited his next move, smiling at him.

  “Clarissa,” he said quietly, calling her name. She looked at him and there was something different in his eyes. She watched as he turned over the brush in the hot wax, end on end on end.

  “Yes, Master,” she whispered.

  “I have to tell you something. It’s sort of a surprise.”

  “What is it, Master?”

  “In fact,” he says, lifting up the paintbrush and dribbling a tiny stream of wax over her wrists. She writhed beneath its sting, but did not sound out the pain. “In fact,” he repeated, “I think I’ll show you.”

  “Show me, Master?”

  “Any minute now, Clarissa.”

  She waited, wondering what was to come. A knock at the door was heard, and she gasped at him, eyes wide.

  “Come in, please,” he called out.

  “Master?” she asked, wondering who was there. She was exposed, naked, oiled.

  She was hot and wet and wanting.

  The door opened but she could not see who was there. A faint smell of perfume reached her nostrils, a subtle scent. She heard the sounds of heels on the floor. The woman was walking into the room.

  Clarissa gasped as the woman came into view. She was a rare beauty, the mixture of a boyish face, angular cheeks, thick lips and short black hair that so often did not mesh well. The woman was perhaps of mixed heritage, and Clarissa found herself wondering who this was.

  The woman’s eyes were cast down toward the floor, and Clarissa recognized her obedience immediately. Her obedience to him.

  He was the Master of two tonight.

  “I can’t see you yet,” he said, and immediately the woman began to undress with careful and quick efficiency. Each piece of clothing she removed, she neatly folded and placed atop the counter. As the woman’s thin body came into view, Clarissa could not help but admire her. Her breasts, though small, were perky and clung to her chest. Her stomach was flat and the faint hint of muscle could be seen. Her hips were wide and her legs thin and long, and though the woman was not especially tall, her naked appearance gave off that impression.