“Does that hurt?” He asked me, amused. He’d been rubbing his cock up and down my slit for several minutes, just barely parting the lips. Up and down, almost tenderly, as He held Himself above me.
I realized I was already clenched, my hands fisted against my chest, my eyes squeezed shut, my face scrunched. And that almost-tender, barely-parting, up-and-down, slicking of his cock against my cunt didn’t really hurt too bad.
But I could feel that it was going to. I was sore already, and just the gentle slide of His dick over my swollen self felt a lot like rubbing a fresh bruise.
Just a few hours earlier, He’d pushed me; on my knees, face to the floor, back arched, ass cocked. He’d fucked me for hours–felt like it anyway–until I had long lost the ability to lubricate myself; until my thighs quivered with the effort to be still through each pinching, painful thrust; until I was reduced to silent pep-talks, silent reminders to breathe, and silent but anxious pondering over how on earth He wasn’t feeling as much drag and scrape on his parts as I was feeling on mine.
He wanted me to feel it, He said, for a long time. He circled. He pounded. He jabbed. He rode. He grunted with the effort to hurt me with nothing but his dick.
I was certainly going to feel it. Every thrust felt like it was taking a layer of delicate skin with it. I struggled to maintain position, fighting the urge to curl my back or twist my hips- anything to interrupt His unobstructed access. When the tears were pricking the backs of my eyes, when my clenched hands had left deep, bright red half moons in my palms, when my cheeks tingled with rug burn and I’d bitten my tongue in half over the urge to beg- He sat back, pulled out, pulled me up off of my knees.
At first I was relieved, grateful. Eager.
He went back to ignoring me after that single command. Back to His porn and His erotica while I worked Him, trying to stay in that jaw-stretching area where it’s deep enough but not so deep that I’m scraping teeth. After awhile I had to begin pulling off, working Him with my hand while I gave my jaw a quick pop and clench to relieve the intense cramp settling in. Each time He tapped me on the back of the head, cutting my break from seconds to milliseconds.
After the 5th or 6th time of having to pop my jaw, I started fantasizing about just sitting back and telling Him I couldn’t go any longer. Wondering what He’d do. Berating myself for trying to talk myself into it. Chastising my sex slave fail even before it happened. But as every second passed, it was becoming evident that I really couldn’t go much longer.
Then He slid down in the chair a little deeper, spreading His thighs a little and grinned at me. “I’m trying to hold off as long as I can. You’ll feel this, too.” and I almost cried.
At one point I pulled off, and, acutely aware of how raw and sore I was down below, I suggested He finish off by fucking me again. Anything to relieve my jaw, please. Trading one pain for another can be the lot in life for the property of a sadist. He looked at me, smiled ever so sweetly, and snapped and pointed at His dick. Request denied. Get back on it, bitch.
He finally fisted His hands in my hair and guided me up and down, taking away the option to back away for that millisecond break of jaw resting. I closed my eyes, tightly gripped the arms of the chair, and let Him direct, powerless to do anything but. Until finally he stiffened, groaned, came down my throat and… pushed me away. Used, done, and dismissed.
A few hours later, in the gray light of dawn, He was over me, sliding his cock up and down my slit, and asking me if it hurt.
Clenched and ready, I didn’t even open my eyes when I answered, not wanting to see the smirk on His face, or the pure enjoyment in His eyes. “No, Daddy. But it will.”
He chuckled. “Smart girl,” He said quietly, and then jammed Himself home. Pain blossomed, bright and fresh and consuming, as eH pulled back and jammed in again and again. Through the high-pitched whimper, He taunted me, laughing at my pain. I gripped my knees and forcibly held them apart, my own hands fighting my body’s urge to protect itself.
He mocked me then, leaning down close to my ear to tell me how wet my pussy was getting, jeered at my hard, erect nipples, teased me as I whimpered. “Sick little girl -jab- getting off on being -jab- hurt. Getting off on being -jab- used, being treated like a nasty fucking cunt -jab- . Look at you. -jab- So fucking wet -jab- You like this -jab- Say it -jab- SAY IT -jab-
I said it, blinking wetness out of my eyes, I said it, shame flooding my face. Because it’s so fucking true. I like the way it hurts.
Rocking back on His knees, he painfully pushed my knees apart with a growl to keep them there, and attacked my clit with His thumb, still grinding his cock into the raw meat of my cunt. I don’t know that I orgasmed so much as every nerve just opened up and laid itself bare, my body twitching uncontrollably as He ground his thumb across the sensitive nub. My whimpers rose an octave to a keen, and I squirmed. “Don’t you dare fucking touch me,” he snarled. “Don’t you dare close those legs.” My hands clasped and unclasped frantically, my legs trembled, my breathing was ragged and loud. I could feel His eyes on me, crawling, probing. Again and again, my hands fluttered against Him, wanting to push or block or stop, before I could pull them back to twist the sheet or grab my own hair instead.
He dug his elbows into my open legs, propping them further apart, His thumb still scraping across my clit, which was rapidly getting as raw as the rest of my cunt. I could practically feel the skin being rubbed away as friction built up. The pain was exquisite, brilliant and sharp, the perfect accompaniment to the deep, darker, ache that radiate from my inside as He thrust into it. I stopped fighting it, and opened myself up, welcoming, letting the pain play me like an instrument, with He as the conductor.
He watched me make the transition from resistance to surrender, and mumbled something appreciative, something praising, ‘good girl’ or ‘my girl’, but neither slowed nor pulled back His administrations upon my body, until, with a sudden arch, He plunged to the hilt in a final hard slam and then was still, straining, a fine sheen of sweat across his chest, veins visible in His forearms. I held my place, swallowing this last moment of pain, the closing note playing out, watching pleasure fade from His face as he relaxed.
Later, He brushed his hand across my cheek. “You are so beautiful.”. My hair was tousled, my mascara smeared, and I smelled of sex and sweat. “You are a sick man,” I said, grinning, brushing off the compliment.
“And thank God for that.” I whispered, as He walked out of earshot.