Slave day of the week
I arrive home, exhausted and frazzled from another 10-hour shift. I tromp through the snow and force my legs to propel me up the steps, stamping the snow off of my boots as I go. Swinging open the apartment door, I set down my laptop bag with a heavy sigh and slam the door behind me. I take off my boots and walk over to the fridge, grabbing the carton of orange juice and pouring myself a glass, when I hear: “Slave!” the harsh, angry voice of my Mistress resounds in my ears like a slap to the face. “Why did you not present yourself to me as soon as you arrived?” She stands in the doorway from the living room, glaring at me. Immediately, I drop to my knees, “I’m sorry, Mistress. I forgot what day it was.” It’s true, I really had forgotten. Between the long hours I’d been working and the constant wetness of my pussy, everything blurred together and each day seemed identically exhausting, identically frustrating. I realize that it had also been exactly one month tonight since my last orgasm. Of all nights, this is not the night to make such errors.
“I don’t want to hear your excuses, slave.” Her voice is quieter, this time, but she sounds deeply annoyed, which I sometimes think is worse than angry, and she twists an extra layer of disdain into the word “slave.” I wait, on my knees, eyes downcast. She walks across the kitchen, ignoring me, and grabs a measuring cup from the cupboard. She strides leisurely over to the 20-pound bag of rice in the corner and unclips the bag clips holding it shut. Without so much as glancing in my direction, she commands me, matter-of-factly, “Strip.” I rise to my feet and begin to remove my shirt. “I did not direct you to stand, slave.” The chill in her voice makes me shudder as I force my knees back to the floor. I unbutton my shirt, removing it and folding it beside me, then unhooking my bra and gently easing it off, trying not to brush the itchy, mesh fabric too much against my swollen nipples and the welts all over my breasts from last night. Then I awkwardly slip my pants and panties off, squirming on the floor to remain kneeling while pushing my slacks around my knees. I lean back, arching my back, to disentangle them from my ankles. As I’m bent over backward, nervously trying to finish removing my panties, Mistress walks over and stands in front of me, staring down at me as I feel my cheeks flush with embarrassment. Hope wells up in my chest at seeing her smile for the first time this evening. “You look like you need some help, slave,” her voice takes on a sweet, musical, mocking tone. “Hold still.”
She laughs lightly, but I know that it’s an order. I tense my muscles, pulling my body taut and forcing myself to look at the ceiling as I feel her hands grasp my left nipple and push it between the plastic jaws on the first bag clip. She quickly does the same to the other as I bite my lower lip, trying desperately to keep my muscles rigid and still. I can feel her eyes carefully inspecting her work, noting that the clip on my left nipple is biting into one of my welts as well as squeezing my nipple mercilessly. She grabs the handle of a clip in each hand and tugs them, “Stand.” I struggle to obey quickly as she pulls the clamps just a little faster than I can move my body, the warmth of pain emanating from my nipples over the whole of my breasts. “Thank you, Mistress.” She chuckles evilly, as I hear her dip the measuring cup, which I had forgotten about, into the rice and scatters it on the floor in front of me. She stares at the floor, idly playing with the clip on my right nipple. She decides to pour a few more scoops of rice onto the floor. “Now, kneel.”
She tugs the clips on my nipples downward and I follow them, bending my knees until her hands stop with my legs bent at a 45-degree angle, and she holds them still. I pause, wondering what to do. “May I kneel, please, Mistress?” I ask. “I told you to kneel, slave. Why are you so slow to obey tonight?” “But, I can’t kneel with where you’re holding the clips, Mistress,” I protest, confused. “That, slave, is incorrect. You can kneel perfectly well. And you will, now.” Her tone was sharp, this time, and finally understanding, I let my knees drop to the floor, pulling the rest of my body downwards and yanking my nipples out of the clips. I grit my teeth as the pain shoots through my nipples and the grains of rice press into the flesh of my legs. “Stay there.”
Let the brush torture continue in the bedroom
She leaves the room. I wait, knees and tits sore, cunt dripping wet and aching. I don’t know for how long. Finally, she comes back into the kitchen. “Stand up.” I rise unsteadily, “Thank you, Mistress.” She smirks and grabs me by the hair, yanking on it and pulling me, stumbling after her, into the bedroom. I stare longingly at the silk sheets on her bed, but she releases my hair and orders me to lie on my stomach on the floor. The rough, itchy carpet chafes my sore tits as Mistress straddles me. “Keep your forehead on the floor. Your hair is a mess. It’s a good thing I just got a new hairbrush.” I hold my forehead obediently on the floor as Mistress begins to pull a hairbrush through my hair. I sigh contentedly and relax, grateful for the gentleness she shows me. “Thank you, Mistress.”
Mistress pulls the brush through my hair again, this time pressing the bristles against my scalp, along the back of my neck, and down my spine. It tingles and I shiver a little. Mistress gets to her feet and tells me to lie on my back on the bed. I do as I am told and Mistress lies down beside me. “Keep your palms flat on the bed, slut.” I smile as she calls me a slut. She only uses words other than “slave” for me when she’s pleased. Slowly, she begins dragging the bristles of the hairbrush over the tops of my breasts. It tickles at first, and I press my lips together, holding back a giggle. Mistress notices and begins to press harder, though still moving the brush achingly slowly across my skin, now down the side of my left breast and along the underside, then up across the center of my chest, over the top of my right breast, down the side and under, then back across the chest. The tiny, light red lines traced by the bristles form an infinity symbol; the regularity of the pattern helps me to melt into the pain as Mistress gradually moves the brush harder and faster.
The pattern breaks as she starts circling my left breast, spiraling the brush slowly inward. I grit my teeth as my Mistress rakes the bristles across my welts, getting closer and closer to my sore nipple. I brace myself against the inevitable, as she skims my aureole and she pauses, observing the strain in my face. She stares into my eyes, “Are you enjoying yourself, slut?” I gaze up at her and swallow nervously, “I’m enjoying your enjoyment of me, Mistress.” She flashes me a wolfish grin. The answer is the same every time, but she never tires of hearing it. She knows that it’s true. My eyes are still locked in hers as she drags the brush across my nipple suddenly. I let out a sharp cry and she smiles cruelly, scrubbing the brush back and forth across my nipple. I struggle to keep my palms flat against the bed and take deep breaths, punctuated by my occasional involuntary cries and whimpers.
She stops, and I gasp for breath, trying to regain my composure. Then she moves her attention to my right breast, following the same intricate procedure, but the spiraling is slower this time. The memory of pain fresh in my mind muscles tense, I wait. Occasionally, she deviates from the routine to give a little special attention to my larger welts, grating the bristles against them and admiring her artwork, “This one is nice. Riding crops leave quite lovely marks, don’t they?” “Yes, Mistress.” A jolt of pain sears through me as she unexpectedly drags the brush roughly across my nipple. I scream; I wasn’t expecting it this time. The music of her laughter makes me wet, even as my nipple burns with pain under the relentless bristles. I am moaning and my shoulders twitch. She pauses again, “Are you ready for something different?” she asks. I am terrified and curious, “Yes, Mistress, if it would please you.”
She drags the brush softly, lightly, down my belly and through my bush. “My, you’re wet,” she comments with taunting nonchalance as I feel the bristles catch, stuck near the end of the stroke in my cum-slicked pubes. Before I can respond, she yanks the brush free, pulling a bit of hair along with it. I yell, “Yes, Mistress.” She flips the brush over in her hand and smacks my vulva with the back of the head of the brush several times. I whimper as she smacks my swollen pussy lips with the brush, gasping for breath when she finally stops. “Do you like my new toy?” “Yes, Mistress.” “Then let me show you my favorite feature of it.” She clicks a small switch on the handle that had escaped my notice until now. The brush vibrates.
I really really need to cum now
She presses the back of the brush against my vulva and I moan in pleasure. She rubs it slowly back and forth against my aching mound. “Do you like this, whore?” I savor the edge of derision in her voice. “Yes, Mistress.” “Spread your legs wider, bitch.” I gladly open my legs as far as I can, my wet pussy lips parting, and she slides the quivering handle of the brush between my labia, running it softly up and down the length of my cleft, just fast enough that it doesn’t touch anyone points for too long. I shiver every time it glides over my clit, biting my lip and longing for the sensation to linger, but she makes sure that my craving remains unsatisfied. The pleasure makes me tingle all over. Maybe tonight. Maybe this time she will let me cum. I lie still, gazing at the intent focus on my Mistress’ face, trying to hold my legs still, so as not to irritate her. She rubs more slowly, finally letting the handle of the brush rest lightly on my clit. I can tell that she is listening intently to the moans, sighs, and gasps rising unbidden from my lips, calculating how close I’m getting. My clit throbs as I approach the edge, expecting her to pull the brush away, but she doesn’t. Maybe tonight.
“May I cum, please, Mistress?” I ask meekly. “Not yet, slave. You must wait. I will tell you when you may cum.” “Yes, Mistress.” I force myself to hold still, wanting desperately to grind against the brush. I’m getting steadily closer and she shows no sign of stopping the stimulation, and I can tell that she does not intend to give me permission to cum yet. I feel myself reaching the edge and panic begins to tighten in my chest. I’m terrified that I might cum without permission. “Please stop, Mistress. I can’t hold back much longer.” “But slave, I’m so much enjoying this new brush.” She purses her lips in thought, “I suppose I could go back to using it on your tits if that’s what you’d prefer.” She presses down on my clit, bringing me to the teetering edge of orgasm, seconds from the climax, and I pant desperately, “Yes, please, Mistress.” She pulls the brush away from my aching clit, savoring the expression on my face, contorted with fear and frustrated desire. “Very well.”
The bristles go straight to my nipples, first the left and then the right. She rubs them viciously as I scream at the sudden onset of pain. I grip the sheets reflexively, seeking an anchor to keep myself still. “Palms flat!” she snaps at me, rapping my knuckles hard with the back of the brush. I immediately straighten my fingers and gasp, “I’m sorry, Mistress.” Without comment, she drags the bristles leisurely across my breasts in a long, meandering design, never lifting the bristles off my skin. Gradually, she increases the pace until she is scouring my breasts roughly. I wail in pain, “Please, no more, Mistress, please.” She pauses and smiles, clicking the switch on the hairbrush and beginning to rub the handle along the length of my pussy again.
I take long, deep, ragged breaths, trying to calm my arousal. I love and dread the sensation, craving it and fearing its power to push me into disobedience. I try to think of something, anything other than the vibrator moving back and forth over my clit, sending pulses of pleasure through me. I try to ignore the sensation and begin to count the Fibonacci series in my head. 1, 2, 3, 5…it feels so good. 8, 13, 21, 34…I’m craving, I desire, I love. 55, 89, 144, 233…want it so much. 377, 610, 987, 1597…desperation. 1597…1597…desperation, desperation, desperation, desperation. I can’t keep count and this word is becoming my new mantra. I’m getting too close.
“Please, may I cum, Mistress?” I plaintively ask. Her lips wrap slowly and cruelly around her response, “No.” She pauses, smiles sweetly, and adds, “And stop asking for it. I will tell you when you may.” I quickly stammered, “Yes, Mistress. I’m sorry, Mistress. Thank you, Mistress.” She nods in approval. “Then will you please stop teasing me, Mistress?” I glance up at her, hoping that she will show mercy to me. “Are you sure, slave?” I know in an instant that she does not plan to be merciful. “If I take the brush off your wet cunt, it will have to go back to your sore tits.” Continuing to rub the brush against my clit, she lightly pinches my left nipple with her other hand. I yelp. “You only have two options, slave: pleasure or pain.”
“Pain, please, Mistress.” I force the words from my throat, voice shaking. “Please, hurt me, Mistress. I can’t hold myself back anymore.” She pulls the brush away from my crotch and moves it back to my breasts, scraping the bristles against them as I wince and shudder and scream. My throat feels almost as raw as my breasts. I have lost all sense of time, but I know that the length of time I can stand either form of stimulation is growing shorter. I struggle to endure the grating bristles of the brush on my tender nipples for as long as possible, but I soon must relent. “Please, no more pain, Mistress. Please tease me instead, Mistress.”
Back to the wonderful, tempting warmth of pleasure. I know I won’t be able to stand it long this time. I stare at my bright red tits, my skin raw, and then glance up at my Mistress’ cruel, deeply amused smile. She moves the vibrating handle of the brush back and forth gently, slowly across my clit. Even this light stimulation has me nearing the edge in what feels like less than a minute. I’m terrified of having to endure more pain and I am terrified of displeasing my Mistress. The tension of conflicting fears and conflicting desires torment me and I feel tears beginning to trail down my cheeks. I’m so close to orgasm, “Please, hurt me, Mistress” I whimper. “Please, I’m on the edge, Mistress. Please, hurt me.” She holds the brush against my clit and leans over me, whispering into my ear, “Cum for me.”
I am awash in pure joy as I am finally allowed to let the pleasure surge through me. I feel weightless, overwhelmed by bliss, and it seems to go on forever. I realize that my eyes are closed and I open them. Mistress smiles down at me and softly strokes my hair. I don’t have words yet, but she can read the gratitude on my face. She kisses me lightly on the forehead and folds her arms around my still trembling body. I am exhausted, and happy, and very much in love.