Chapter 7: The Online Date
The red dress was not a dress.It was a proclamation, a betrayal in silk and spandex. He’d laid it on the bed that morning, a tiny, shimmering slash of crimson next to the brutal, utilitarian toys from the shop. It had thin straps, a neckline that plunged to the navel, and a hem that, when I pulled it on, barely covered the curve of my ass.I stood before the full-length mirror, a stranger staring back. The dress was backless, exposing the faint, fading welts from the crop. My nipples, still tender and swollen from the hours in the clamps, were outlined sharply against the thin material. He’d ordered me to put the steel claw clamps on again before the dress. I’d done it myself this time, my fingers trembling as I screwed the tension tight, gasping as the sharp teeth bit deep. They were hidden now, but their presence was a screaming secret beneath the red silk.
“No underwear,” Raju had said, his voice casual, final. “And this.” He tossed me a small, lacquered wood box. Inside, nestled in black velvet, was a simple, heavy steel plug, smaller than the others but impeccably polished.“A placeholder. To keep you mindful.”
I’d inserted it, my body accepting it now with a shameful familiarity, a resigned gasp. It sat inside me, a cold, hard stone of submission.
Now, he looked me over, his expression unreadable.“You look expensive.And empty. Perfect.” He handed me a clutch, also red.“Your phone, your keys, nothing else. You will meet Vikram at the Skye Terrace in Bandra.Nine PM. He is expecting you.”
“Who is Vikram?” The question was out before I could stop it, a feeble echo of the person I used to be.Raju’s smile was thin.“A connection. A man with particular tastes, who appreciates refined… materials.I found him on a site.He paid a premium for tonight. Your obedience is included in the price.You will do everything he says.You will please him. If you displease him, you displease me. Do you understand the consequences?”
The memory of the double-ended dildo, of the ropes, of the relentless vibration, flashed behind my eyes. My asshole clenched around the plug.“Yes.”
“Good.Now go.Take a cab. Don’t be late.”
The cab ride was a bubble of surreal normality. The driver made polite chatter about the weather; I stared out at the glowing, chaotic beauty of Bandra, the art deco buildings and trendy cafes blurring past. My body thrummed with a low-grade terror, a wire pulled tight. The dress felt like wearing nothing, the cool vinyl seat of the taxi kissing the bare skin of my thighs.Every bump reminded me of the plug. Every deep breath made the clamps pinch.
The Skye Terrace was exactly the kind of place the old Sara would have loved—sleek, open-air, with breathtaking, unobstructed views of the Queen’s Necklace coastline, the city lights bleeding into the dark Arabian Sea. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume, cigar smoke, and the salty tang of the sea breeze. It hummed with the low murmur of money and influence, the clink of glasses, the soft laughter of beautiful people. I walked in, my heels clicking on the polished concrete, and I felt every eye on me. Or I imagined I did.The dress did not belong here, not really. It was too loud, too revealing, a statement of intent in a room of subtle implications.
I gave Vikram’s name to the host, who directed me with a slightly raised eyebrow to a corner table by the glass railing.He was already there.Vikram. Middle-aged, with salt-and-pepper hair styled with careless precision, a sharply tailored linen jacket over a dark shirt. He had a strong, clean-shaven jaw and eyes that held no warmth, only a calculating appreciation. He stood as I approached, his gaze travelling down my body slowly, openly, like he was assessing a car he’d just bought.“Sara,” he said, his voice a smooth baritone. “You are exactly as described. Please, sit.”
I sat, perching on the edge of the chair, painfully aware that if I settled back, the hem of the dress would ride up even higher. The cold night air swirled around us, finding its way under the table, a chilling caress on my naked cunt.I crossed my legs instinctively.
“Uncross them,” Vikram said quietly, sipping his whiskey.“And spread them.Let the air in. I want to see.”
A hot flush of humiliation spread from my chest to my face.I glanced around. We were relatively secluded, but not invisible.A group of women laughed at a table nearby.A waiter moved gracefully through the space. Slowly, I uncrossed my legs and let my knees fall apart. The breeze touched me there directly, a shocking, intimate violation. I felt myself grow wet, a traitorous physical response that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with abject exposure.
“Good,” he murmured. “Now, tell me about what you’re wearing under this very pretty dress.”
I swallowed.“Sir?”
“The clamps.Raju mentioned them.Describe them to me. In detail.What do they feel like?”
My mouth was dry. I took a sip of the water the waiter had brought, my hand shaking slightly.“They’re… they’re steel. Claw clamps.They have two pincers, with… with sharp tips. They’re screwed tight. They bite.”
“How tight?”
“Very.”
He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his voice dropping to a confidential level that was somehow more threatening than a shout. “On a scale of one to ten, with ten being the worst pain you’ve ever felt, where are they?”
I thought of the dildo, of the ropes, of the crop. “An eight,” I whispered.A slow smile spread across his face. “Excellent.” His hand disappeared under the table.I froze. His fingers found my knee, then trailed up the inside of my thigh, higher, until his thumb brushed the very edge of the lace—no, there was no lace, just skin.He didn’t touch my cunt. Instead, his hand moved upwards, over my hip, my stomach, and then his fingers found the silhouette of the clamp through the thin red silk of my dress, right over my left nipple.He didn’t grab it. He flicked it.The vibration was a detonation of pure, sharp agony. The clamp swayed, the teeth digging deeper, the pressure fluctuating with a nauseating intensity. I gasped, my back arching, my hands flying to clutch the edge of the table. A low moan escaped my lips before I could choke it back.
“Shhh,” he said softly, his eyes locked on mine, gleaming with pleasure.“We’re in public. Be a good girl.” He flicked it again, harder.Stars burst behind my eyelids.My nipple felt on fire, connected to a live wire. I panted, tears pricking my eyes.“That’s it,” he coaxed. “Feel it.That’s your purpose right now. To feel that, for my entertainment.” He finally withdrew his hand, leaving the clamp quivering, the pain radiating out in deep, throbbing waves.“Now, the other one.Describe the sensation. Precisely.”
I was trembling.“It’s… a sharp, pinpoint pain.It’s constant. It pulses with my heartbeat. It… it feels like it’s pulling my nipple off.”
“Beautiful,” he sighed, taking another sip of whiskey.“You have a way with words. Raju said you were intelligent.That makes this so much more… flavorful.” He signaled the waiter. “Another Talisker, please.And for the lady…” He looked at me. “What would you like?”
The question was so absurd, so normal, it disoriented me. “A… a gin and tonic, please.”
“House gin is fine,” Vikram said, dismissing the waiter. He turned his full attention back to me.“You will finish your drink.You will smile. You will make polite conversation.And you will keep your legs spread just like that. If anyone asks, you are a consultant, and I am a client.Understood?”
“Yes,” I breathed.
The drinks came. I sipped the gin, its bracing coolness a stark contrast to the heat of my shame. He asked me about my work, and I answered in clipped, professional sentences, my mind screaming the entire time. I was acutely aware of the open space between my legs, of the plug nestled inside me, of the brutal, aching weight on my chest. He watched me like a scientist observing a fascinating, distressed specimen.After twenty minutes, he leaned in again. “I’m getting bored with the pretense.Stand up.Follow me to the restroom. Now.”
I set my glass down, my movements mechanical. He stood, casually taking my arm as if to guide me, his grip firm.We weaved through the tables. I felt dozens of eyes on the red dress, on my shaky walk. We entered the main indoor section, all dark wood and soft lighting, and he pushed open the door to the men’s restroom. It was empty, thank god, a monument to minimalist luxury.He locked the main door behind us. The room had two urinals and a single stall. He pushed me towards the stall, unlocked it, and pulled me inside, closing and locking the stall door behind us. We were crammed together in the tight space, the sounds of the bar now a distant hum.
“Hands on the wall,” he ordered, his voice shedding its polite veneer, turning rough, hungry.
I placed my palms flat against the cool tile, bending forward slightly. He gathered the back of my dress in his fist and yanked it up over my hips, fully exposing my ass.The cool air hit me. He gave a low, appreciative sound.“The plug.Raju’s mark. Good.” He didn’t remove it.Instead, I heard his zipper, the rustle of clothing. Then his hand was between my legs, fingers probing, sliding through my wetness. “So eager for it, aren’t you? Such a filthy little cunt, dripping all over yourself in a public bar.”
He spat on his fingers, then pressed them against my asshole, beside the plug. The intrusion was shocking, rough.I cried out, my forehead pressing against the tile.
“Quiet,” he hissed. Then, with his other hand, he reached around my front, his fingers finding the clamp on my right nipple through the dress.He didn’t flick it this time. He grabbed the entire clamp between his thumb and forefinger and twisted.The world shattered into white, blinding pain. It was a whole new dimension of torture. The metal teeth ground against the sensitive flesh, the torque threatening to rip it clean off.A scream tore from my throat, muffled by the tile.
“I said, quiet!” he growled, twisting harder.Black spots danced in my vision. I bit down on my own lip, tasting blood, the metallic tang mixing with the salt of my tears. He held the twist for an endless moment, then released it. The relief was almost as painful, a flood of sensation so intense it made me sob.He didn’t pause. I felt the blunt, fat head of his cock nudge against my cunt.He was thick, unyielding. He didn’t ask.He didn’t prepare me beyond my own traitorous wetness. He just pushed, forcing himself inside me in one long, brutal stroke.
“Fuck!” he grunted, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise.
I was stuffed full, stretched around him, the plug in my ass creating a tight, crowded pressure that made every movement agony. He fucked me with a driven, mechanical rhythm, each thrust jarring my entire body, shaking the clamp on my tortured nipple, sending fresh jolts of pain through me. The tile wall was cool against my cheek.The smell of his cologne and soap mixed with the scent of sex and my own sweat. He pistoned into me, his breathing harsh in my ear.
“You’re just a hole,” he panted, his voice guttural.“A paid-for hole. This is what you’re for.To take a stranger’s cock in a shitroom stall. Remember that.”
His words carved into me deeper than his cock.They were the truth, stripped bare and ugly. This was my function.My value.I was a vessel for violation. The pain, the humiliation, the sheer degradation of it all coalesced into a strange, dark current that ran through my core. My cunt clenched around him involuntarily, a spasm of ruined pleasure born from utter ruin.He felt it.“Slut,” he breathed, his pace quickening. “You fucking love this, don’t you? Being used like a cheap whore.”
I didn’t answer.I couldn’t.I was beyond words. I was just sensation—the slam of his pelvis against my ass, the searing fire in my nipple, the cold tile, the hot, hard thickness splitting me open.
He shifted his angle, driving deeper, and one of his hands snaked around my hip, his fingers finding my clit. He rubbed it in rough, circular strokes, his touch calloused and impersonal.It was too much. The pain, the fullness, the crude stimulation—it pushed me over an edge I didn’t know existed. An orgasm ripped through me, violent and unwelcome, a convulsive wave of shame that made my knees buckle. I screamed into the tile, my body spasming around his cock.That set him off. With a final, savage roar, he slammed into me, burying himself to the hilt, and I felt the hot, sudden flood of his release inside me. He stayed there for a moment, pulsing, grinding against me, milking his own pleasure from my wrecked body.Then he pulled out abruptly. I slumped against the wall, barely holding myself up, feeling his cum start to leak out of me, mixing with my own juices.The clamp on my nipple still screamed. The plug felt like an anchor.He zipped himself up, his breathing returning to normal with alarming speed. He looked at me, dishevelled, tear-streaked, with my dress bunched around my waist. He reached out and casually unscrewed the clamp from my right nipple. The release was so sudden, so profound, it was another kind of pain—a rush of blood and sensation that made me whimper. He pocketed the clamp.
“The other one stays,” he said, his voice back to its smooth, civilized tone.“A souvenir for you.Now, clean yourself up. You have five minutes.Then go home. Tell Raju you performed adequately.”
He unlocked the stall door and walked out, leaving me alone in the harsh fluorescent light of the bathroom stall. I heard the main door open and close.Silence.Slowly, I pulled my dress down. My legs were shaking so badly I could barely stand.I looked at myself in the small mirror over the sink. My makeup was smeared, my lips swollen and bloody.My eyes were hollow, dead. The red dress looked garish now, a costume for a horror show. The one remaining clamp dug into my left breast, a final, mocking claim.
I cleaned up as best I could with paper towels, the coarse material scraping my skin.Every movement hurt.I felt raw, opened up, and hollowed out. The lingering feel of him inside me, the smell of him on me, was a brand.
I walked out of the men’s room, through the buzzing bar, and out into the night. No one looked at me twice. I was just another woman in a short dress, perhaps a little unsteady.I hailed a cab.The ride home was a blur. I leaned my head against the window, the cool glass a small mercy.The city lights streaked past, beautiful and indifferent.
I let myself into the silent apartment.Raju was in the living room, reading on his tablet. He looked up as I entered.I didn’t speak. I just walked to the center of the room and stood, waiting, my clutch falling from numb fingers to the floor.
He looked me over, his eyes missing nothing—the tear tracks, the smudged makeup, the way I subtly favored one side because of the clamp, the slight, sticky dampness I knew he could sense. “Well?”
“I… I performed adequately, Sir,” I whispered, repeating Vikram’s words.
A slow smile touched his lips.He set the tablet aside. “Come here.”
I walked to him, every step an effort.“Kneel.”
I sank down before him.
“Open your mouth.”
I did.He looked inside, as if checking.Then he nodded. “You may remove the plug.And the clamp.Then shower. You will sleep on the floor beside my bed tonight.No blankets.”
“Yes, Sir.” The words were ash in my mouth.
As I shuffled towards the bathroom, every ache, every sore spot, every memory of Vikram’s hands and voice and cock was a layer of grime I could never scrub off. And yet, as the hot water beat down on me, as I removed the final tools of my torment, a terrifying clarity settled in the hollow space he had carved out.This was my life now. I was a thing to be sent out, used, and returned. And the deepest, most shameful truth, the one that coiled in the ruins of my soul, was that a part of me… a part of me was already looking past the pain, past the humiliation, to Raju’s approving smile. That was the only compass point left in the void. And I would follow it, no matter where it led.
And I would follow it, no matter where it led.
The next morning arrived not with a sense of renewal, but with the grim reality of inventory.My body was a ledger of debits. The ache in my cunt was a dull, persistent throb. The bruised flesh around my left nipple, finally freed from the clamp in the shower, was a violent, shocking purple. A deeper, internal soreness from the plug and Vikram’s rough usage pulsed with every movement. Yet, Raju had allowed me to dress in simple linen trousers and a loose silk blouse, my armor for the world.The conference call with the Singapore clients was scheduled for 10 AM. It was a lifeline, a thread of Sara Kapoor, Senior IT Consultant, that hadn’t yet been severed.I set up my laptop at the dining table, notes arranged, pen poised. The apartment was silent; Raju had left earlier with a quiet, “Do not fuck this up.” At 9:58, I logged into the secure portal, my professional smile already practiced in the black mirror of the screen.My client, Mr. Tan, and his team appeared in a grid of polite, expectant faces.We exchanged pleasantries. I began my presentation on the proposed network architecture, my voice clear, my explanations concise.For twenty-seven minutes, I was whole.I was competent. The numbers and flowcharts were a sanctuary.
Then, at 9:27 AM, the balcony door slid open.Raju walked in.He didn’t look at me. He moved to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and began noisily preparing something. The clatter of a glass, the gurgle of a juice carton. I tried to focus, my voice tightening slightly. “As you can see on slide seventeen, the redundancy here is critical to uptime.” Raju walked behind me, deliberately within the camera’s field of view. He wasn’t dressed as the servant anymore.He wore dark jeans and a black t-shirt that strained over his shoulders. He leaned against the kitchen island, arms crossed, watching me.Not watching the presentation. Watching me.Mr.Tan was asking a question about latency protocols. I dragged my eyes back to the screen.“Could you repeat that, please?The connection momentarily…” I lied.
“The latency, Ms.Kapoor.In the Mumbai-Jakarta hop.”
Raju chose that moment. He pushed off the island and walked slowly, with utter casualness, to stand just behind my chair. I felt his presence like a static field.My skin prickled. He placed a hand on my shoulder.His grip wasn’t forceful.It was possessive. His thumb began to stroke the base of my neck, back and forth, a slow, intimate rhythm.
“I… I apologize,” I stammered into the microphone. “The… the primary node would handle the reroute, minimizing the lag.” My mind was scrambling, dividing itself.One part clung to the technical jargon. The other was screaming, hyper-aware of the heat of his hand, the implied claim in his touch witnessed by four strangers in Singapore.He leaned down.His lips were close to my ear, his breath warm. He didn’t whisper. He spoke in a normal, calm tone, knowing the laptop’s mic would pick it up.“You’re wet, aren’t you? Sitting there, talking your corporate shit, and your cunt is soaked. For me.”
The words, delivered in that blandly conversational tone, were a psychic detonation. My entire body flushed with a heat that was equal parts terror and devastating, shameful arousal.I froze.On screen, Mr. Tan’s face had shifted from professional interest to confused discomfort.“Ms.Kapoor? Is… everything alright there?”
Raju’s hand slid from my shoulder, down my arm, and came to rest on the table, his fingers drumming lightly next to my mouse. A blatant, invading presence in the frame. “Tell him you have a delivery at the door,” Raju instructed, his voice still perfectly audible.A choked sound escaped my throat.I managed to mute the microphone. The pixels of Mr.Tan’s face were frozen, waiting.I looked up at Raju, pleading silently. His expression was stone.“Unmute.Say it.”
I unmuted. “My apologies… there’s… a delivery.At the door. Just… one moment, please.” I hit the mute button again, my finger trembling.“Good girl,” Raju said. Then he grabbed a fistful of my hair at the scalp and wrenched my head back. The chair scraped violently on the floor. He bent me backward, my spine arched over the chair back, my throat exposed to him.He held me there, a trapped animal, and kissed me. It wasn’t a kiss of passion.It was a branding. A hard, dominant invasion of my mouth with his tongue, claiming the very breath I used to speak to my clients. I whimpered into it, my hands coming up to clutch weakly at his wrists. He bit my lower lip, sharp and painful, before releasing my hair and letting my head snap forward. I gasped, disoriented, my professional façade shattered into dust on the dining table.
He straightened up and walked casually back to the kitchen as if he’d just fetched a glass of water. I stared at the screen, at the muted, confused faces.My lip throbbed. I could taste a faint, coppery hint of blood.My blouse was disheveled.I was ruined.
“Get back to it,” Raju said, sipping his juice.“Finish your call.”
Somehow, I did. My voice was a hollow, shaky instrument. I avoided all eye contact with the camera, focusing only on my slides.The questions ended quickly.Mr.Tan’s goodbye was stiff, professional, and infinitely distant. The moment the call disconnected, a sob erupted from my chest. I folded my arms on the table and let my forehead drop onto them, my shoulders shaking.The silence that followed was worse than the violence. I heard him finish his juice, rinse the glass, place it in the sink. Then his footsteps approached.He didn’t touch me.He stood over me.
“You were late,” he said, his voice quiet and deadly.I lifted my tear-streaked face, bewildered. “The… the call was for ten.I was on time.”
“Not the call,” he said. “You were late coming to me after Vikram.You took time in that bathroom. You took a cab home.You walked to this apartment.You hesitated before opening the door. You wasted minutes in the shower.You stole time that belongs to me. Every second of hesitation is a second you are not submitting.That requires correction.”
RAJU’S PUNISHMENT.
He let the word hang in the air.Correction.It wasn’t about the sex with Vikram. It was about the milliseconds of autonomous thought afterward.The punishment for the sin of a lingering self.“Strip. Now.Everything.”
I stood on trembling legs. My fingers fumbled with the buttons of the blouse, the clasp of the trousers. I let each piece fall to the floor until I stood naked before him, in the same space where, an hour ago, I had been a professional. He looked me over, his gaze a cold inventory.“To the bedroom. On your knees at the foot of the bed. Face the wall.”
I walked on unsteady legs, the parquet floor cool under my bare feet.I knelt, the hard surface biting into my kneecaps. I stared at the perfect white expanse of the wall, listening to him move around the room. I heard the clink of metal, the rustle of the black bag from the sex shop. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird in a cage.He didn’t speak. His footsteps came close behind me.I flinched as something cold and metallic touched the back of my neck. He was placing the collar around me, the one from the first night. The leather was familiar now, its weight a perverse comfort.He buckled it tight.Then I felt him kneeling behind me.
His hands touched my hips, repositioning me. He pushed my torso down until my chest was against the floor, my ass raised high in the air.The position was profoundly vulnerable, profoundly degrading. I heard the sound of a bottle opening.The sharp, acrid scent of acetone filled the air. Nail polish remover. He’d seen my perfectly manicured nails, French tips, a relic of my old life.
He took my right hand, forced it open flat on the floor beside my head.I felt the saturated cotton pad in his grasp. He started scrubbing at my thumbnail, not with gentle wipes, but with a hard, abrasive pressure, grinding the chemical into the nail and the surrounding skin.The acetone burned the sensitive cuticle. He scrubbed each nail on that hand raw, removing every last trace of the pale polish, leaving the nails bare and the skin around them red and stinging.
“This is you,” he said quietly, working on my pinky finger with brutal efficiency.“The polish.The blouse.The conference calls.It’s a shellac. A pretty layer over the real thing. I am removing it.”
He moved to my left hand, repeating the process.The chemical burns were a bright, focused pain. When he finished, he tossed the cotton pad aside.My hands felt flayed, exposed. He then produced the rope, the same coarse hemp from before. He bound my wrists together behind my back, the knots biting into the newly sensitized skin.I was now bound, collared, and presented.
“You delayed your submission,” he said, his voice close to my ear.“So you will beg for it. You will ask for what you tried to postpone.”
I heard him unbuckle his belt, the leather sliding through the loops with a soft, threatening hiss.He wasn’t undressing. He folded the belt in half, gripping the buckle and the end.
The first crack landed across the crest of my ass.The pain was a brilliant, white-hot line, searing through my nervous system. I shrieked, the sound echoing off the bare wall.“Ask,” he commanded.
Before I could form a thought, the second strike landed lower, across the tender backs of my thighs. I jerked against my bonds, a fresh cry torn from my throat.
“Ask for the punishment you are owed.”
Tears blurred my vision of the white wall.“Please!” I gasped.
“Please, what?”
The belt landed again, this time diagonally, crossing the previous welts. The pain was layered, compounding. “Please… punish me!”
“Louder.”
“PUNISH ME!” I screamed, my voice ragged.“For what?”
He didn’t strike. The anticipation was its own torture.I sobbed, the words a broken slurry of shame and necessity. “For being late!For hesitating! For stealing your time!”
“Good girl.”
The belt fell again, not in a rhythm, but in unpredictable, searing intervals. He painted a canvas of pain across my ass and thighs, each strike a stinging clarification of my status.I lost count.I lost coherence. I was just a vessel for this sensation, for the sound of leather meeting flesh, for my own desperate, begging cries. The heat built into a fiery mantle, a uniform agony that wiped my mind clean of everything but him and the pain.Then, the belt stopped. I heard it drop to the floor.His hands were on me, rough, kneading the burning flesh of my ass. He spread me open, his thumbs digging into the sensitive skin near my hole. I felt the cool, lubricated tip of something much larger than a plug press against my asshole. It was the double-ended dildo, the one from the shop. It hadn’t been used since that first, horrific night.“This,” he growled, “is for your hesitation. This is the consequence you tried to delay.”
He pushed.The stretch was obscene, impossible. My body, already traumatized from the belt, revolted. I screamed, a raw, animal sound, thrashing against the ropes. He leaned his weight into it, forcing the thick, bulbous head past my clenched, protesting ring of muscle.It was a brutal, tearing invasion. Once the widest part popped inside, he didn’t pause. He fed more of the massive silicone shaft into me, inch by excruciating inch, until I felt the central base seat firmly against my asshole, the other end protruding out from between my cheeks.
I was panting, drooling onto the floor, utterly impaled.The feeling of being stretched so brutally, so completely, overwhelmed every other sense. He left it there, a monstrous fullness.Then I felt his hands on my hips again. He positioned himself.The head of his cock, hot and hard, nudged against my cunt. He was going to take that, too. While the dildo split my ass, he would claim my cunt.The dual violation was a concept so degrading it broke something final inside me.
He didn’t enter me gently.He slammed himself inside my cunt in one deep, powerful thrust. I was filled beyond capacity, stuffed in both holes, a living sheath for his pleasure and his punishment tool.A guttural moan ripped from him. He began to fuck me with a hard, driving pace, each movement jostling the huge dildo buried in my ass, sending shockwaves of brutal sensation through my core. The pain from the belt, the deep stretch of the dildo, the friction of his cock in my cunt—it all merged into a single, overwhelming tsunami of feeling.
“This is your place,” he grunted, his thrusts becoming harder, faster.“You don’t get to hesitate.You don’t get to linger. You belong here, on the floor, full of my shit, taking what I give you.”
His words were gasoline on the fire of my humiliation.My body, traitorously, began to respond. The intense, overstimulated pressure sparked a perverse, undeniable arousal. I came, suddenly and violently, my body clamping down around both intrusions in a spasmodic convulsion of shame. The orgasm wracked me, drawing a broken scream from my throat.My climax triggered his. With a final, deep plunge, he buried himself to the hilt and came inside me, his release hot and claiming. He held himself there, pulsing, as my own trembling subsided into shaky aftershocks.
He pulled out of my cunt, then carefully, slowly, withdrew the dildo from my ass.The emptiness it left was almost as shocking as the fullness. I collapsed fully onto the floor, a heap of sweat-slicked, bruised, and used flesh. He left me there, bound and collared, for a long time. I listened to him move around the apartment, the sounds of normal life resuming.The running of a tap. The soft click of a cupboard.Eventually, he returned.He didn’t untie me. He rolled me onto my back.My vision was blurry with spent tears. He looked down at me, his expression unreadable. He placed a hand between my legs, his fingers sliding through the mess of his cum and my own fluids.He brought his fingers to my mouth.“Clean them,” he ordered.
I did. I sucked his fingers clean, the taste of our sex and my submission a final, degrading sacrament.“Your punishment is complete,” he said, finally untying the ropes. The blood rushed back into my hands with a painful prickling.“Remember the delay. Remember the cost.”
He stood up.“You may shower.Then you will prepare lunch. You will wear only the collar.”
I lay on the floor, the ghost of the dildo still haunting my ass, the welts on my skin throbbing in time with my heartbeat. The polished woman with the French tips was gone, scrubbed away with chemical and pain. All that remained was the raw, correct thing on the floor.And as I pushed myself onto my trembling hands and knees, I knew he was right. This was the real thing. Everything else had just been polish.