He thrust up inside of me, the kind of hard thrust that hit me with painful delight while my pussy still felt tender from where he’d sewn me. “Yes, my love?”
His smile was wicked when he went still while I stared down at him, wide eyed and frantic for more of that exact kind of movement. “Please, Ivory, please.”
He obliged, thrusting again, and I squealed. “Yes, baby?”
“Ivory, master, Ivory, Ivory, please, please, master!” I cried the words in a list and he laughed, lifting me in that punishment rhythm I loved so much. “Oh my God, oh my God, I’m so sore, it’s so good…”
He purred beneath me and held me down to grind into me while I shook with orgasm. “It’s such a good thing for you to be nice and hurting, isn’t it baby?”
“Oh, yes, master. I love how you hurt me.”
“Oh, I noticed. I should have left that pussy sewn shut and used your asshole instead to remind you what a little pain slut you are.” He laughed when I squealed, milking him with the pleasure his words gave me. All I could think of were those strange paingasms and how much more intense they were than orgasms, how much I wanted more of them and didn’t want more of them at the same time. “Christ, Tuesday. I love you.”
“I love you, too.” I smiled, breathless, flushed with pleasure and the words came easy when I was in that state, though when I came down it seemed mortifying how cheesy he had fucking turned me. Seriously? I not only met his eyes while we fucked but also confessed to love while looking in them? What kind of sappy ass movie shit was that?
————
After he crossed the “I love you” line with me, he started to have romantic moods every now and again. I learned to dread them.
On the first occasion, he sent me a bouquet of roses that were carved out of wood because he had discovered than I didn’t like real flowers or balloons. I cried like a child when they wilted or went down, which he had learned with the rose from his collaring me. At first I was delighted, clasping a hand to my mouth when they were delivered to my work midday. And then I was wary because I didn’t know this mood of his.
He was already home waiting for me when I arrived and he wasn’t drinking scotch which usually meant he wanted a rough session in the dungeon and intended to get drunk on me instead. “Hello, my pretty love. Did you have a good day?”
I grinned, still wary, but nonetheless in love with my flowers. “It was amazing. But I’m sure you already know part of it.”
He chuckled and gestured to the table, where I obediently placed the beautiful fake flowers in the center. “It was the least I could do after my rose, pretty girl. And I’ve been in a rather romantic mood the past couple of days.”
I blinked and trembled because he was clipping my leash to my collar and grabbing a pair of scissors from the drawers. He casually cut through the pretty shirt he had gotten me, this one a graphic tee, while I watched and waited. “I thought I would enjoy this one on you, but there’s no red in it, pretty little fae.” He had me take off my skirt while he watched, his eyes appreciatively going to my pussy since he had commanded me to no underwear. “Why do I have you wear skirts without panties, little slave?”
I obediently answered, instantly, and my arousal was already climbing. “To be available for you, master, whenever it pleases you.”
“Such a good girl. Come with me, little pet.” He rattled the leash and I went to his side, hesitantly, but that caused him to frown. “I see the collar isn’t enough tonight. Move faster when I say, Tuesday.”
I whimpered when he switched the leash clip from my collar to my nose ring and now I definitely jumped at his command, eager to avoid anything pulling on that sensitive ring. The first time I hadn’t moved fast enough, he had left me tethered in the dungeon with the leash tied through a hook in the ceiling. I was forced on tiptoe for an hour and, like the night with my tits and the board, I learned quickly the pain of it and jumped when the leash was clipped to it. But he mostly didn’t do that anymore so long as I scurried like a mouse to follow him.
This time he did. He took me to the archway rack, tapping the side while I looked at the whipping post once and shuddered. His smile was odd, something that made me nervous until I figured out which mood he was in.
This time it didn’t take long to figure out his mood. He started with my cuffs, pulling my wrists apart so that they were down at my sides but stretched out. The ankle cuffs were next and he cuffed those as wide as he made the spreader bar. He used the leash attached to my nose ring and tethered it above me in a humiliation hold. I trembled because that humiliation made me sure his romance would be… harsh.
And then he approached me with the cock gag and the blindfold harness and I felt tears in my eyes already. He hadn’t even started yet but I knew what the cock gag meant. He had burned it into me.
“Ah, such pretty tears. I haven’t even done anything, baby.” He lifted the gag. “Is this why you’re crying?”
“Yes. Yes, master.” My voice was scared and pathetic.
“Why cry at the gag, lovely? Is something wrong with it?”
He knew there was nothing wrong with it. Our exchange was a lead up to one moment where he would ask a specific question. “No, sir. Nothing’s wrong with it.”
“Is it because of what the cock gag means, baby?” I nodded slightly, the motion pulling on my ring, and waited for the next question which lit me up like a flame with its twisted answer. “What does the cock gag mean for the night, little Tuesday?”
“It means that I’m your p-pain slut.”
“Very good, pretty girl. Some nights I prefer my little whore but I’m feeling too romantic tonight. I prefer my sweet pain slut instead. Open for the gag, Tuesday. Behave yourself. You know you don’t need to talk for this and you know how I prefer you to make less sound.” I opened helplessly, my face feeling stretched with the gag and the taut leash in my nose ring. He fit me with the blindfold next. “All you need to worry about is suffering for me.”
I trembled all over already, scared because when he said the phrase “pain slut” he meant dark experiences like the first night I’d been in his dungeon. This time was no different. He always ceased speaking because he didn’t want anything from me and said he had no reason to talk to a little torture toy. He didn’t need to when he wanted me to hurt.
The cane was first this time. Sometimes he liked to torture me all over with it, but this time he evidently decided he wanted to focus on one specifically tender area and that was my thighs. I squealed behind my gag when he started with the insides of my thighs. He flicked his wrists in efficient, brutal stripes, alternating between my each leg. He worked his way down too, going low to my knees where the marks would show when he made me wear shorts and walk in the park with him. He paced around me and eventually made it to the backs of my knees and thighs and here, it was obvious that he could have a much better swing with the cane. I felt the intensity of the stripes that I knew would be bloody. He had trained me with the cane so hard and well that I could tell now when my body would show my blood. I was screaming with every flick, each line like a paint of pure fire. It was as if he had brushed over my flesh with kerosene and then struck a match. And my screams and tears didn’t stop him. He kept going until I had that raw feeling in my throat like the first night, that feeling of screaming so much for so little sound to make it through the cock gag.