I Was Insolent with My Master and Paid for Every Word

That week the conversations between him and me had been long, heated, charged with that complicity only the two of us understood. As always, he kept adding perverse details that sharpened each of my fantasies until they made them gleam. I don’t remember how we ended up talking about my pubic hair, but I do remember perfectly how the conversation ended: with an order as strange as it was exciting. Not to shave until we saw each other again.

I obeyed, of course. Though I had also indulged myself by provoking him, answering him brazenly, challenging him in every message as if distance protected me. More than once he let the same warning drop: we’d see whether I was still so haughty when he had me right in front of him.

On the agreed day he picked me up in a very good mood. I was wearing a short denim dress, loose, and absolutely nothing underneath. We had barely said hello when he checked with a discreet touch that I had no underwear, and a crooked smile crossed his face. Without saying a word, he started the car.

At the first red light I leaned over and kissed him slowly, deeply, barely biting his lip. I felt his crotch respond under the fabric and my hand drifted down of its own accord, drawn to caress him over his pants.

—Look how you make me hard just by kissing me —he murmured without taking his eyes off the road.

That turned me on even more. I brought my lips to his ear and let out my sweetest voice, the one he knew so well.

—Can I suck it, master?

He thought about it for a moment, measuring the instant with that calm of his that always undid me. Then he unbuttoned his pants with the same half-smile he always wore.

—You have permission.

I positioned myself as best I could so I wouldn’t get in the way of his driving and started licking him, teasing, tempting, doing exactly what I knew he liked. He rested his hand on my nape, stroked my hair, and just when I was beginning to lose myself in the task, he told me it was enough.

We chatted about anything for a few minutes. Then he asked whether I was wearing a garter on me. I was. I showed it to him, and the way he narrowed his eyes made it clear to me that my mind was starting to understand what was coming. Because you see, when my owner gets turned on, it means his perversity levels up. I should have guessed it when I asked to suck him just minutes before.

—Spread your legs wide —he ordered, calm as ever—. You’re going to hold the garter tight, one hand on each side of your pussy.

I stretched it taut with my index fingers, horizontally, crossing it just below my fleshy mound. With that single instruction I already knew what the next fifteen minutes of the drive were going to be.

He started by calibrating, a gentle movement that drew from me a moan more pleasurable than painful. From there he only increased it: the rhythm, the tension, the increasingly cruel snap of the elastic against my skin. I could feel the burn of each crack spreading, exact and throbbing, and he alternated caresses between each blow, as if measuring how much I could take. By the last one, my moans were already tearful, almost a plea.

***

We arrived at the room. Spacious, comfortable, familiar. I undressed as soon as he closed the door and knelt in the middle. I lowered my head, kissed the tip of his shoes, and looked up at him again from the floor.

—Very good —he said, stroking my cheek with the back of his hand—. You’re a good bitch.

He told me to put my forehead on the floor.

—Bend more. More. Like that.

In that position, my breasts felt the cold of the tiles and my cunt was completely exposed, offered up. His hand ran slowly over my ass cheek until it reached my crotch, wet, open, expectant.

—Mmm. You liked that —he observed, feeling in his fingers how much I wanted him.

—Yes, master. Thank you —I managed to say before his foot came down on my head, firm, not pressing too hard but making it clear who was in charge.

The lashes of the whip began their run across my back and a shiver made me spread my legs even a little more. I know, it seems crazy that, knowing I’m about to be whipped, my body would want to expose itself even more. But that’s my reaction to him. To give him total access, absolute control of the moment, without reservations, though never entirely without fear. If you’ve ever felt something like that, you’ll be silently agreeing while you read.

That’s how one of the most intense rounds of spanking he’s ever given me began. He spent at least ten minutes punishing my ass, hard, with rhythm, the hissing whistle of leather cutting the air, the blows landing dead on different spots: ass, thighs, cunt. In my skin I felt something like a thread of embers burning right on the surface, and my body tightened and relaxed with every impact, trapped between the burn and the craving.

—Get up. Hands behind your neck.

He pointed to a spot in the middle of the room. I obeyed. I lifted my face toward the ceiling, took a deep breath, and closed my eyes. No, it still wasn’t over. I must confess that the week before I had behaved quite defiantly with him, and more than once I had promised myself we’d see whether he was still so arrogant with me standing right in front of him.

When the blows moved to my breasts, I felt the embers again, igniting, spreading with every sway of my flesh. Pain and arousal rose together, indistinguishable. He stopped to suck them, bite them, squeeze them, and immediately resumed the punishment. I always knew my tits were his weakness.

—What delicious tits —he used to tell me, and that afternoon he repeated it against my skin.

He took me against the wall and, with that same cruel garter from before, started landing blow after blow right on my nipples. There I really screamed, out of control.

—Forgive me, master. I’ve been an insolent bitch. Please, please.

My plea was sincere, but he didn’t ease up even a little. He kept going five more times, exact, malicious. My owner was enjoying me: a body at his mercy, one that screams, that trembles, that gets aroused, but above all wants to obey.

***

He pointed to the bed.

—Lie on your back. Legs wide open. Close your eyes.

I did it at once, thinking he’d finally let me satisfy him with one of my holes. But no. Not yet. He reached for a paddle and a clip. He rested the paddle over my clit, which still hadn’t received any attention that afternoon, and moved it in slow circles.

—Aren’t you always complaining that I forget your pussy? —he said with a sneer—. Let’s see if after today you ask for more attention.

And then the blows began. The paddle’s precision was lethal: it covered everything, the clit, the outer lips, the inner lips, not leaving a single corner untouched. And even so, amid the burning, my body responded soaked, betraying how much I deserved that position as his toy.

Swollen, red, aflame, that’s how I was when he took the clip and started plucking out my pubic hair while continuing to stimulate my clit. Opposing sensations split me in two: the sharp pain of each hair torn out by the root, the uncontrollable trembling, and at the same time waves of pleasure that arched my back. I spread myself like a shameless thing while I shrieked and panted, no longer even knowing what my body was asking for.

Then he made me lie back on the sofa and shave in front of him. Shame flooded me, the humiliation of doing it under his gaze, but an extra surprise appeared: my battered sex wasn’t ready for the blade. Over swollen, aching skin, every stroke of the razor was a new torture.

—If a single hair is left, I’ll pull it out with the clip —he warned.

After that I made sure to leave absolutely nothing. I went back to the bed under his attention, again with my legs completely open. He inspected me with his eyes and his fingers.

—Very good.

Even so he found a couple of stubborn hairs that he plucked out with the clip, making me cry out again, and with the paddle he whipped my pubis and the inner side of my thighs a little more, just because he could.

***

He was aroused, very hot. I could smell it, I could see it in his erection. It was glossy, the glans getting thicker and thicker, more swollen. He pressed it to the entrance of my sex and with one thrust sank completely into me. My moan didn’t wait. He gave me no reprieve, didn’t let me recover: he pulled out and drove into me again, hard, deep, voracious.

I gave myself over completely. I held my own legs up, brought my knees to my chest, and opened myself as much as I could for him. It was savage. My cunt, already far too sensitive from the punishment, received each thrust like a living reminder of everything I had felt that afternoon. Wet, burning, I let pleasure overlap every area where there had previously only been pain, and my whole body seemed to explode all at once. He kneaded my tits and yanked them while he fucked me without mercy. I panted with my tongue out, like the bitch I was, and thanked him between thrusts.

A sharper tug at my nipples dragged me to the floor, on my knees again. I understood perfectly. I’m the vessel for his semen. I opened my mouth and received the first warm load of the afternoon, warm and thick, never once breaking eye contact with him. I held his gaze and, when he was done, I smiled.

—Thank you, master —was all I said after swallowing.