The Punishment I Asked for Without Knowing It: Day One

I knew something was wrong long before he said a word. I confirmed it the instant he opened the door, I went out to meet him, and saw his face. There was a new severity in him, a premeditated coldness that foretold rough weather, the kind that threatens to swallow you whole.

—You know what you did wrong —he said, dropping his backpack on the floor. No hello, no kiss, nothing.

—Yes, sir.

I knelt at once, my hands still on my lap. I lowered my head a little, but I didn’t look away from his. We held each other’s gaze like two people who already know how the conversation is going to end.

—Say out loud what you’re responsible for —he ordered, curtly, while he took off his sneakers.

—I pretended to have a hangover so I wouldn’t satisfy your desires, just because I thought it was amusing, directly breaking one of the first points of our agreement.

I spat it out as neutrally as I could and had the good sense not to add anything else. I would have liked to remind him that I’d confessed my fault the day before, and that in the end we’d fucked the way he wanted, with his cock buried to the hilt in my cunt while I apologized between moans. But that wasn’t the issue right now, and we both knew it.

—Go to the bedroom. Bring the thick ropes, the ball gag, and the thin rope.

I nodded in silence. I got up and, once in the hallway, when he couldn’t see me, my face twisted. I knew perfectly well what each thing on that list meant. What was waiting for me was going to be hard. Very hard.

I took everything out of the closet, knelt again holding the gear in my arms and on my lap, and waited. And waited. And waited. And waited.

Well, you sure know how to make a proper debut of your redhead phase, Marlene, I thought, resigned to my fate, my head bowed before what was about to land on me.

I had dyed it recently, at his request. We had taken advantage of Halloween to do it and dress me as Jessica Rabbit, with that fiery hair falling over one shoulder. And there I was, kneeling in our room, dressed as her again: the tight dress outlining my tits, matching underwear, lips painted slut-red. Exactly as he had asked me over the phone, before I knew what was really waiting for me.

At last he appeared, and I even thanked him with a glance: my arms were already starting to ache. He took the gear and laid it out on the bed. When he reached the ball gag, he held it by the strap between his thumb and forefinger and let it hang, as if it were something dirty or disgusting to him.

—Not that one.

I swallowed. If I didn’t look away, it was pure pride, and on that front I have plenty. I knew exactly what he meant: the other gag, the black one, bigger than the red one we always used, horribly uncomfortable, one of those that take hell to handle.

I was about to get up to fetch it, but he was already absorbed in what he was doing, and he proceeded to tie me up without the slightest mercy.

Restraints don’t need to be tight to leave me helpless. Often they’re almost symbolic: even if I could free myself, I never do. But the way he did it this time left no doubt. I wouldn’t have escaped no matter how hard I tried. Not even with a sharp knife in my hand.

A rope between my legs lifted my dress and drove deep into my cunt, underwear included, parting my lips and rubbing my clit with every millimeter it tightened. I felt the wetness start betraying me from the first pass, soaking the fabric against the rope, and he noticed it, of course he noticed it, but he said nothing. My wrists were cinched so hard I could barely move my fingers. My elbows together —I’m flexible, but not that flexible—. An unnecessary chest harness that squeezed my tits until they bulged over the neckline, my nipples standing hard against the dress, and it finished fixing my arms behind my back. Another rope around my waist to trap my forearms against my lower back. Ankles, knees, and thighs, everything pulled tight with the same ruthlessness as my hands.

And then, the hogtie.

When the rope ran from my ankles to the harness behind my neck and tightened, I growled and gasped in equal measure. With a firm tug my back arched and I complained again. The only part of my torso touching the wooden floor was my belly.

And I knew he still wasn’t done.

You know that point where you open your jaw and the gag won’t go in because it hits your teeth? Well, that’s the black one: at its widest part it won’t pass until I make room for it in my mouth. Securing it at the back of my neck with the buckle was the least of it; spitting it out myself was going to cost me my life.

Then came my toes, tied very close together. And from there I knew what came next: the hair. He gathered it into a ponytail with another rope and, when he pulled on it to connect it to my big toes, I snapped my fingers. That’s our safeword.

—I can’t… the mouth —I stammered, not sure he’d understand me with the gag in, but the simple fact that I wanted to speak was enough for him to remove it—. I’m sorry, I can’t… When you pull my hair back I feel the gag choking me… I’m sorry… really.

He stroked my cheek and kissed my forehead. He was worried.

—Can you handle this? —he asked me—. Should we stop here?

—No, no. Keep going… I’m going to see how far I can get… It won’t be much.

—Can you take a simple cloth gag?

I thought about it for barely a second. I nodded.

—Let’s go.

And he finished tying me up.

Describing how you feel in a situation like that is complicated. If the person reading this has ever done yoga, let them imagine the hardest, tightest, most forced posture they can bear, but with no possible relief. It’s uncomfortable, very uncomfortable. And it’s worse if you try to wriggle even a little, because then it turns into pain. And also pleasure, because every micro-movement I made to ease my back rubbed the rope against my cunt, against my swollen clit, and I felt that if I kept struggling I would come just like that, tied up and with my mouth full of fabric, without him even having touched me. There isn’t a single part of the body you can move —well, the fingers; not even the mouth, because with the neck stretched it tends to stay open—, only an intense, constant, stubborn pressure that wraps every cell of your being. You reach a point where you don’t even know which part hurts most. In my case, maybe my back. Or my cunt, dripping through the rope onto the floor, and he saw it and did absolutely nothing.

Beside me, sitting cross-legged and not blinking, he waited for me to snap my fingers. As soon as I did, scissors for tailoring in hand, he cut every one of my bindings as casually as if he were carving up a roast fresh out of the oven.

The relief you feel in that moment is just as hard to explain. The closest thing I can think of is when you go to the physiotherapist and they thoroughly work over an injured area: that release that comes just as they stop. Or when you come out of the dentist after a deep cleaning and your whole body wants to melt into the chair from sheer relaxation.

I was left like a jointless puppet, and he massaged each area marked by the ropes, helping me rotate each joint in circles. When he reached my inner thighs and my soaked underwear, he gave a half-smile and ran two fingers over the fabric, squeezing my cunt from outside. He brought them to his nose, took a deep breath, and put them in my mouth so I could taste myself. He didn’t say anything, but the message was clear: he knew perfectly well how much the restraint had turned me on, and he wasn’t going to give me the pleasure yet. It’s beautiful to be cared for like that when you feel so vulnerable. It’s tender. Or at least that’s how I experience it.

But he wasn’t done with me.

—Take the handcuffs and put them on yourself, behind your back.

I stared at him, speechless, completely frozen. He had punished me plenty already, and we’d just come from a moment of affection and tenderness, and… and… and…

—Do you intend to disobey me?

I was unable to answer or hold his gaze. The rope session had worn down any attempt at defiance, even if I hadn’t liked the question one bit. I’m a good submissive; I was just thrown off and exhausted, I wasn’t trying to offend him. I always follow a direct order.

—No, sir —I answered, defeated, head bowed.

I went back to the closet to look for the handcuffs. I didn’t know where they were; we hadn’t used them in ages. Neither of us liked them. But that was the point, of course. I always enjoyed bondage, and he was applying it in a way that made it feel like punishment. And he was succeeding.

After a good while rummaging around, they finally turned up. Before putting them on, I knelt with my back to him. The metallic ratchet sounded twice in a row in the bedroom, and with my forehead against the closet, I waited for further instructions.

And again I waited, and waited, and waited.

He called his parents to let them know he’d gotten home. He listened to some voice messages, sent one or two back to his friends. Meanwhile, I could feel the trail of saliva running between my breasts and my cunt throbbing with every second he ignored me, and that —I knew— was also part of the punishment: making me wait wet, swollen, desperate for him to fuck me, while he talked about family menus as if I didn’t exist.

The message he was sending me was crystal clear.

—Who earned all this? —he asked, turning his attention back to me.

—I did, sir.

—Am I to blame for you being like this?

—No, sir.

—Turn around, pretty girl.

I obeyed.

—Look at me.

I obeyed.

—I’m asking you again, and I want an honest answer, not what you think I want to hear. Do you feel this is all my fault?

Sitting on the bed, elbows on his knees and hands clasped together, he leaned toward me. There was a sad smile on his face.

—May I speak freely, sir? —I asked, my heart on the verge of collapsing.

—Always, darling.

And the words poured out of my mouth like a torrent. Bitter and sweet, frantic and soft. I knew full well that what I’d done was stupid, that I’d let myself be carried away by a vain sense of power in denying him what was his. A power I didn’t even enjoy, as I later proved when I confessed my mistake. That I was deeply sorry for ruining the costume fantasy that way, because I was sure he would have wanted to break it in a very different manner. That one thing was to pull little dumb pranks on him in daily life, and another entirely to betray the agreement the two of us had signed, one of the pillars of our relationship.

—And I’d love to tell you I won’t do it again… but you know what I’m like. You know I love to tease you, and that many, many times I act without thinking.

He took my chin and our faces were left a kiss apart. Seeking his understanding, I rested my cheek on his knees and my hair spilled over his legs. From there, with my cheek pressed against the fabric of his pants, I could clearly feel the hard bulge straining at his fly. All that composure, all that owner’s coldness, and his cock had gone stone-hard watching me tied up and humiliated. I moved just enough to brush his erection with my cheek, and he sighed.

—I know, pretty girl. I know —he said, stroking my head—. What really matters to me is that punishments don’t damage what we have, that when I apply them you understand they’re part of the game we call dominance and submission. I’d never forgive myself for punishing you and breaking you so badly inside that, when we went to sleep, we ended up turning our backs to each other in bed.

—No, never that… —I replied with my eyes closed, terrified just imagining it.

—Your punishment still isn’t over —he told me, almost as if he were apologizing. With one hand he sought out my red-painted lips and slid his thumb into my mouth, and I sucked it slowly, watching him, while with the other he lowered the zipper and pulled out his cock, long, thick, with a viscous drop at the tip that he offered to me like a reply. He gripped the shaft and ran it over my painted lips, smearing them, and whispered—: Open.

I opened my mouth as far as the handcuffs and the position allowed. His cock went in to the hilt in one thrust and I coughed, tears sprang to my eyes and my mascara ran, but he didn’t pull out. He held my head by the ponytail and started fucking my mouth slowly, marking every thrust, driving deeper and deeper until I felt his balls slap my chin. With my hands cuffed behind my back I could do nothing but open my throat, breathe through my nose between thrusts, and swallow the saliva mixed with his pre-cum. My cunt was killing me with emptiness, clenching around nothing, dripping down the insides of my thighs.

—That’s it, that’s it, pretty girl —he gasped—. It was with this little mouth that you lied, wasn’t it? Then now you’re going to use it for what it’s for.

I nodded as best I could with his cock jammed down my throat. He pulled his shaft all the way out, shining with my spit, and gave me two light smacks on the cheek with the tip before pushing it back in. He repeated the gesture over and over, spitting on my lips, while I cried from pleasure and humiliation in equal measure.

When he was close, he yanked his cock out of my mouth, flipped me onto my back on the rug —the handcuffs biting into my lower spine— and hiked Jessica Rabbit’s dress up to my tits. He ripped off my soaked underwear in one motion and smelled it before throwing it far away. He spread my legs wide open by the ankles and stared at the mess between my thighs, the swollen, red cunt, marked by ropes, literally dripping onto the wooden floor.

—Look at you. Look how your own punishment has got you, piglet.

—Yes, sir… please, sir…

—Please what?

—Fuck me. Please. Fuck me hard. It’s yours. All yours.

He positioned himself between my legs, dragged the head of his cock through the lips of my cunt until it was soaked, and rammed it in to the hilt in one thrust. I screamed. The position, with my hands cuffed underneath me, arched my hips upward and he came in at a brutal angle, slamming into the bottom with every stroke. There wasn’t a single soft movement: he fucked me like someone ending an argument, one open hand against my neck, not squeezing all the way but reminding me who was in charge, and the other pinching a nipple over the rope chest harness I was still wearing.

—This is what you denied me yesterday, remember? —he growled, fucking me harder—. This cunt. My cunt. Pretending to have a hangover like a stupid little girl.

—I… I’m sorry, sir… it won’t… ah… it won’t happen again…

—Damn right it won’t.

He shoved me face down, the handcuffs biting into my back, and lifted my hips by grabbing my red ponytail. On all fours, no, because I couldn’t use my arms: my face pressed into the rug, my ass in the air, and him behind me, spitting on my asshole before sinking his cock back into my cunt. Each thrust dragged me a few centimeters forward and he yanked my hair to put me back in place, impaling me again. The sound of his hips slamming against my ass filled the bedroom, mixed with my muffled moans against the floor and his rough growls.

He ran a thumb wet with spit over my hole and pushed it in up to the knuckle. That was the trigger: I came like a bitch in heat, clenching around his cock in spasms I felt in every inch, shrieking against the carpet, my legs trembling uncontrollably. He didn’t stop. He kept fucking me while I came, stretching the orgasm until it became unbearable, until I cried out asking him to come too.

—Where? —he muttered through clenched teeth—. Tell me where.

—Wherever you want, sir. In my mouth. On my face. Wherever you want.

He yanked his cock out of my cunt, turned me like a doll, and knelt over my chest. He pumped himself two or three times with his right hand, holding my ponytail with his left, and came on my face with a long groan. Thick, hot streams of semen fell over my forehead, my closed eyelids, my parted lips, my cheek, my neck, sliding through my fire-red hair. He squeezed out the last drops by rubbing the head against my lips and I stuck out my tongue to lick him clean, meek, obedient, covered in his cum.

He stayed like that for a few seconds, looking down at me, breathing raggedly. Then he leaned in and kissed me slowly on my stained lips, not caring in the least about getting dirty himself.

I lifted my gaze and found that beautiful face, a little shadowed.

—Shall we keep playing, pretty girl?

I nodded, a tender smile on my semen-smeared lips.

—I love you, Marlene.

—And I love you, Adrián.