The Playboy's Proposition (11 page)

Maybe he had walked away. Maybe he was just waiting to
strike. Maybe he was readying something else. Maybe my punishment for the stupid
balls was over. Okay, I was pretty sure that last option was a serious stretch.

My ass tingled and burned. The music thudded in my ears.
Sweat trickled over my scalp and down the back of my head. Soon, it would make
its way down my neck and back.

Something cold, hard and narrow slid between my legs.
Michael stroked it back and forth. I couldn’t know what it was, only that from
its rigidity and its temperature, it was surely inanimate. I was embarrassed by
how smoothly it moved over me, clearly well-lubricated by the juices from my
pussy. And I was surprised.

I hadn’t realized that I was wet. I was focused on the fear
and discomfort, not arousal. I wondered what about this had turned me on. And
why was I the last to know?

Then the hard thing was gone, and the assault on my ass was
renewed, but the weapon of choice was no longer Michael’s hands. It was big and
struck a large area, and I could only guess that it was a paddle of some sort.
It hurt like hell.

My yells fought for dominance in my head with the music. I
reached for the grace that Michael demanded of me, but it was impossible to
find. I yanked on the chains holding my wrists and ankles. I twisted and tried
to turn away from the relentless strikes of Michael’s paddle.

Whenever I had to stop my cries in order to catch a breath,
I thought I could hear the landing crack of the paddle on my burning ass. The
blows landed one after another, each strike seeming more painful than the last.

I quickly lost count of the number of blows. Four. Then
seven. Then I didn’t know anymore. If I had thought my ass had been burning
after Michael’s spanking, I had been mistaken. This was real burning. My ass
felt on fire. What the hell kind of evil stinging, burning paddle was this,
anyway?

I thought of my safe word. No. I wouldn’t use it. Not now. I
would pay for my transgressions, pay for not pleasing Michael the way I should
have. I wouldn’t lose all that I had gained the last time I submitted to him.
Couldn’t lose it. Wanted to build from it. Please him more.

And then he stopped hitting me. He rubbed my ass and I
fought for air.

Then the music was gone and I could hear again. The
cessation of the pounding force of the music was a blessing, at least.

Michael continued to rub my buttocks, soothing some of the
sting and burn. He said, “All done. You did well. I’m satisfied that you’ve
paid for removing the Ben Wa balls. I forgive you.”

He waited a moment, then said, “You’re supposed to thank me
for forgiving you.”

My voice sounded strange to me, crackly and light. “I’m
sorry, Master. Thank you, Master.”

“You’re welcome, my sweet,” he said.

I heard his footsteps on the wood floor as he moved away. I
licked my dry lips and tried to feel happy that one of the punishments was
complete, wishing he’d remove the hood now.

Michael returned and said, “Open your mouth.”

I did, fearing what he was going to stick in there. A cold
liquid squirted into my parched mouth. Water. I gulped it down as quickly as I
could, so thankful for the relief I got a lump in my throat and had to work to
swallow past it.

It ended too soon; I was still thirsty when he stopped.

I heard his footsteps recede then return to me.

He said, “Now it’s time for your second punishment. You
willfully endangered my property, your lovely body. You foolishly entered an
enclosed space with another man, without permission.

He asked, “Do you understand?”

I said I did.

He asked, “Who does your body belong to?”

I said, “My body belongs to you, Master.”

“And what am I allowed to do with that body?”

“Whatever pleases you, Master.”

“Can I inflict pain on that body?”

I trembled. “Yes, Master.”

“You deserve pain, Sweet. More than I’ve yet to give you.
More even than I will give you. Hopefully, it will be enough that you’ll
remember never to put yourself in the power of someone I haven’t approved. When
you’re with me, your body is mine.”

“Yes, Master.”

“When we’re together, you belong to me. Tell me how it is.”

I said, “When we’re together, Master, I belong to you, and
only you.”

“That’s right. Just like before, you’ll know your punishment
is over when the music stops.”

Then I was surrounded again by the deep thudding tones of
Michael’s music.

I steeled myself. I knew this punishment would be bad. I had
thought this one would be the third one, the worst of my offenses. But he had
said it was second. Fear trembled in my lower belly. I dreaded what was to
come.

I waited. I had known these punishments would be painful,
difficult. I had expected it, and dreaded it, yet felt sure I would be able to
endure. My heart fluttered when I wondered if that surety was in error.

Cold fingers pressed between my legs then stabbed up into my
pussy. I grunted in surprise, and discomfort. There was no more excess of
moisture inside me, not after the terrible ass paddling Michael had inflicted
on me. My phantom arousal was long gone. I wasn’t completely dry, but I wasn’t
slick enough to supply sufficient lubrication for the fingers jabbing in and
out of me.

I whimpered and squirmed in my restraints. His fingers were
so cold. The friction caused by the rubbing chafed the tender skin inside my
pussy. The discomfort increased at a rapid rate.

I involuntarily bucked my hips, trying to escape the
probing, but I had nowhere to go, and jerking only made him thrust harder and
faster.

A burning sensation grew and grew. Pain. I had expected a
punishment of pain. But not like this, not in this way. I whimpered louder.
This, too, made him finger-fuck me more violently.

My eyes watered under the hood, the liquid mingling with the
sweat that trickled onto my cheeks. I shook and tried pointlessly to get away
from him. It felt like I was being rubbed raw.

Then suddenly, Michael yanked his fingers out of me. I
wanted to feel relief, but I was tense, waiting. I would count on nothing
tonight.

Every second that passed I expected his return. I marked the
passage of time by my rasping breaths and the beats of the bass in the
relentless, loud music.

He must have been waiting for me to relax. The moment I
lowered my guard and relaxed my shoulders the least bit, he struck. With what,
I didn’t know. It felt like a dozen little stinging bites hit my back at the
same time.

I yelped. He struck again. More stinging bites on my back.
What was this? What was he hitting me with?

Again. This time, my lower back.

Pause.

Again. Again. My upper thighs.

Pause.

Again. Again. My calves.

I vaguely thought I might know what this thing was: a
flogger. I’d seen pictures, and knew there were endlessly different varieties.
So this was what it meant to be flogged. It hurt, but I could bear it.

Michael worked his way back up my body, only this time he
struck my sore ass along the way. I yelped. It hurt worse the second time
around.

I didn’t care about being stoic for stoicism’s sake, but I
did want to make Michael proud and bear his punishment with dignity. Before the
night began, I had imagined myself being spanked and accepting it in quiet
dignity, accepting my due for Michael and what he wanted.

Well, that had been a bunch of nonsense, I thought, grunting
and yelping while Michael drove pain into the back half of my body.

At least I managed to hold back the screams that threatened
release.

And then the hell storm began.

Blows rained down on my back and ass and legs with a
horrific speed. I couldn’t fathom how he could strike me so rapidly. Unless he
was using two floggers at the same time. Oh God. Two floggers.

Why had I ever thought it a good idea to talk to Gibson
Reeves?

So much for dignity.

My world was a dark pit of stinging bites, punctuated by my
shrieks. My heart raced and adrenaline tore through me, telling me to run, get
away. But twists and jerking got me nothing. The blows never slowed.

I couldn’t run. I couldn’t get away. I was chained in place.
And I had agreed to this.

I must endure, I told myself. I must accept and endure. I
would do it. I would.

And somehow, I did.

The hell storm ended.

The music stopped.

It was over. I had endured.

Chapter 8

Even though Michael had stopped striking me, the fire that
overwhelmed the entirety of the back half of my body, from upper back to
calves, raged on. I realized I wasn’t screaming anymore, but I was making that
funny, high-pitched noise, a sort of ongoing keening. I abandoned any further
notions of dignity.

Part of me noticed that Michael was beside me, breathing
hard, undoubtedly from the exertion of flogging me. He unclipped my wrists from
the chains, then re-clipped them together behind my back. My arms were limp,
exhausted by my mighty but pointless struggles to escape Michael’s assault. I
thought vaguely that restraining my noodle arms again was overkill since I
couldn’t have lifted a pillow at the moment.

I felt him release one of my ankles, then with his arm tight
around my waist, he pulled me to one side. He pushed me to the cool wood floor,
clipped my free ankle onto the same chain as my other ankle, and gave me a
little shove on my shoulder, toppling me over to where I ended lying prone on
one side, knees bent.

Michael said, “Rest.”

I heard his footsteps recede. Where was he going?

I felt like a broken doll, tossed in an unwanted heap. I
fought back tears. My back and ass and legs burned, and my head pounded and was
hot and sweaty. In fact, it seemed like the entire room had been getting hotter
and hotter ever since Michael had put the evil hood on my head.

The coolness of the wood floor on which I lay was my only
comfort. I wished I could roll onto my back, to try to ease the burn there, but
that would mean crushing my arms underneath me. I gave it a try anyway.

I shifted my body backward. I could tell immediately it
wasn’t going to work. My arms blocked most of my back’s contact with the floor,
and the unyielding wood made the pressure on my cuffed wrists and hands
unbearable. I wriggled back over onto my side.

I lay there and whimpered, feeling pathetic, miserable and
worn out.

I heard Michael’s footsteps approaching. He didn’t say
anything, just reached down, wrapped a big hand tightly around my upper arm and
pulled me upward.

I was, indeed, a broken doll, something to be bent at will.
He pushed and prodded me into a kneeling position, and re-clipped my hands
together in the front this time. I was basically in the same pose I had assumed
to greet him in his foyer, except my wrists were bound together and my ankles
were attached to a chain.

He said, “Open your mouth.”

I did so immediately, and the anticipated and much-needed
stream of water hit my lips and tongue. I gulped the water down greedily,
relishing its very liquidity. It soothed the dryness of my lips and throat, but
just like the first time, it ended too soon.

I moaned, but accepted his desire to keep me thirsty. I told
myself to appreciate what he allowed me to have, and that I wouldn’t wish for
more. I would be grateful he had even thought of my thirst in the first place.

Michael turned the music on again. What did that mean? He
had said my second punishment was over when the music was turned off. I didn’t
understand.

I knelt there and waited, wishing I could ask a question.
Wondering if I dared. No, I didn’t dare. I waited. Drops of sweat rolled out
from under my hood and trailed down my back.

The music abruptly stopped. I held my breath.

Michael said, “You’ve completed your second punishment.”

I released my breath in a rush of pure relief.

He continued, “Do you think I’ve given you enough pain that
you’ll remember never to endanger my property again?”

“Yes, yes, Master.” I didn’t care that my voice sounded
croaky ... and desperate.

“Then I forgive you.”

“Thank you, Master.”

“Are you ready to take your third punishment?”

I thought, no, I’m not. But why did he ask? I didn’t really
have a choice. He was ready to begin, and so I would have to be as well.

I answered, “Yes, Master.”

“Then we’ll begin,” he said. “This time, you’ll know your
punishment is over when I tell you it’s over.”’

“Yes, Master.”

“You disrespected me and embarrassed me in front of another
dominant.”

He paused. I thought he was waiting for something, so I
said, “Yes, Master. I’m sorry, Master.”

He said, “You didn’t trust that I know what you need, and
you challenged me publicly.”

He paused again. I quickly said, “Yes, Master. I’m so sorry,
Master.”

“And as it turned out, I did know what you needed. You were
excited by Hoyte’s attentions, as I knew you would be. Is this not so?”

“Yes, Master.”

“You must learn that I understand your needs better than you
yourself do. You’ll obey me in all things. Won’t you?”

“Yes, Master.” My stomach was turning flips, he sounded so
dark and fierce.

I trembled before him, my knees aching from the hard, wooden
floor, the entire back half of my body still burning, my world closed in,
blinded by the hood.

“You should never disrespect me, and you had better never, I
mean never, embarrass me again.”

I said, “No, Master. I won’t. I promise.”

“Well, let’s make sure of that, shall we?”

I thought, oh God. Here it comes.

He said, “I think you need a little taste of what it is to
be humiliated.”

I heard some scuffling around, unidentifiable sounds of
movement, a rustling.

He said, his voice growing ever deeper, “I enjoyed flogging
you very much, my sweet. It aroused me to watch you squirm and twitch and try
so pathetically to get away from the blows. Every time I landed that flogger on
you and you screamed, my dick got a little bit harder.”

A scuffing sound again. What was he doing?

Michael continued, “My cock’s hard, and I need relief. I’ve
been rubbing myself for awhile now. Open your mouth and stick out your tongue.”

I did it, and quickly, feeling for the first time in a long
while, a twitch down low between my legs.

He said, “Unfortunately, right now, you’re not worthy to
suck my dick. I’ll have to stroke myself off, thanks to your bad behavior. Does
that please you?”

I winced. “No, Master. Never, Master.”

I was miserable that he didn’t want me. My disobedience must
have affected him more than I realized, for him to say I wasn’t even worthy to
suck his cock.

He asked, “You’d rather I fuck your mouth, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Too bad. I’m going to shoot my come all over your unworthy
mouth, and maybe your tits, too, since you thought those tits belonged to you
and couldn’t be shown to my friend.”

The twitch in my pussy was long gone by this time. In front
of me, I heard sounds of movement, a slick, sliding sound. I wilted. Michael
was jerking off, in front of my face.

He groaned, then said, “I’d like to have someone else here
with me. I’d like to see his come hit your little pink tongue and I’d like to
make you swallow it.”

His breathing grew more raspy. The slippery sounds picked up
in pace.

I trembled, feeling worthless and shriveled, kneeling in
front of him waiting for him to spurt his jism on me. I didn’t even want to
think about someone else doing it, too.

Michael said, his voice gritting out at me, “One day, I’ll
let another Dom come all over your face, and you’ll like it by then. You’ll beg
me for it. Now stick out those tits.”

I arched as far out as I could for him, ignoring the
burgeoning burning pain on my back that resulted from my beaten skin being
stretched and compressed.

I felt his hand on my head, and then the sound of Michael
was gone and music filled my head.

The first spurt of semen splattered against my chin and
outstretched tongue. Another hot splash landed on my upper lip, then another
back on my chin and tongue. The gooey stuff dripped off my chin and down onto
my breasts.

Then, with the smooth tip of his cock, he rubbed the jism
around on my lips and jaw. The salty goo spread easily across my chin,
everywhere really, that had been left bare from the hood. I endured the
humiliation of it, keeping my tongue out, not flinching, being obedient, paying
the price he demanded.

The music stopped, the abruptness disorienting me.

Michael’s voice was more commanding than ever. “Rub my come
into your tits.”

Even though my hands were clipped together at the wrists, my
hands were free enough to allow me to do as he wished.

I cringed at the sliminess of the stuff under my hands. I
smeared it all over my chest and continued going over and over the same
motions.

All this time, my mouth had remained open, my tongue pushed
out. The come was beginning to dry on some parts of my jaw where it had been
spread most thinly.

Michael said, “Close your mouth and swallow it all down.
Now. No hesitating. Do it!”

I did. I may have given any number of blow jobs in my life,
but I never, ever swallowed. It made me ill, the slimy nature of it, the taste,
everything about it.

But I swallowed for Michael and fought the heaving that
began immediately in my stomach.

I heard a rustling sound, then he walked away for a short
distance and returned. A wet cloth landed on my hands, hands that were still
rubbing semen into my breasts.

He said, “Enough. Clean yourself up. You look trashy, like
some kind of porno slut.”

I hung my head. Ouch. That hurt. It shouldn’t have. I knew
what he was trying to do. He had even told me that he was trying to humiliate
me. So it shouldn’t have worked ... but it did. My throat tightened and my
stomach churned. He said I looked trashy, like a slut. Tears threatened, but I
fought them.

I scrubbed at my face, then my chest, wiping away my shame
as best I could. I assumed I had done enough when Michael snatched the cloth
out of my hand.

Next thing I knew, he grabbed my upper arm and yanked me to
my feet. He unclipped the chain from my ankle cuffs and marched me, quick step,
somewhere else. I stumbled along beside him. We didn’t go far. I knew we were
still in the same room.

He had me take a step up, then pushed me down onto a seat
with very little padding. I inhaled sharply at the pain of having my sore ass
plopped down on the hard seat.

Michael worked smoothly and quietly. In no time, he was
finished. He turned on the music and left me to my isolation and growing dread.

I had no way of knowing what kind of contraption he strapped
me into; all I knew was the miserable position he had placed me in.

I lay flat on my back on a narrow table or bench, something
hard at any rate. The table was approximately the width of my shoulders and had
a something of a tilt, feet downward.

My arms hung straight down off the sides of the table,
perpendicular to the floor. My upper arms were strapped tightly to what I
presumed were the legs of the table. My wrist cuffs were also secured to the
legs, farther on down.

A wide strap ran over my waist and held my torso firmly in
place. My legs were spread wide, as far as they could go, and bent at the knee,
strapped into some sort of stirrup contraption at upper thigh, knee and ankle.

My ass hung mostly off the end of the tilted table, but I
wasn’t in any danger of sliding off the thing, due to the various restraints
pinning me down into near complete immobility. Also, the table had a grainy,
non-slip texture that grabbed onto the aching flesh of my backside. The
grittiness against my well-flogged shoulders and lower back was nearly
torturous if I moved against it too much.

At the head of the table, Michael had somehow even secured
the horrible hood to the table, rendering my head basically immobile except for
the millimeters I could twist within the sweaty hood itself.

While Michael was gone, I tested my bonds over and over
again, shocked at how little I could move. I could wriggle my feet and hands,
thanks to the fact that they were held in place by cuffs at my ankles and
wrists. Other than some miniscule shifts in my shoulders and hips, and beneath
my mask, I simply couldn’t move anything else.

I felt like I was paralyzed. Earlier, when I was chained up
and spread-eagled, I knew I couldn’t get away, but having some play in the
chains gave me the illusion that there might be a tiny chance of escape.

This table was very different from the chains. There wasn’t
even the illusion of potential escape here. And I couldn’t imagine how I could
be more exposed with my breasts full on display and my legs splayed open so
widely. Total helplessness.

I thought of a fire breaking out in the house. Or what if
Michael slipped and hit his head and was knocked out. I thought of a criminal
breaking into the apartment and hurting Michael. There would be nothing I could
do. I would be left to burn to death, or starve, or be killed.

I was horrified at the direction my thoughts were taking.
No. I was safe. Michael was here, and he wouldn’t let anything bad happen to
me.

Or, at least nothing bad that he didn’t plan to happen.

It had not been lost on me that Michael’s demeanor had
changed over the course of my punishments. He started the evening more formally
serious than normal, but that was to be expected since punishment wasn’t meant
to be fun. However, his usual personality, his light flippancy, had still been
minimally present.

Then he began to change, becoming increasingly ... what?
Angrier. No. Not that. Intense. Yes. Driven. Yes. Darker. Definitely.

His change of demeanor unnerved me, wore away at my
confidence, at my resolution to endure whatever he did to me. I tried to focus
on my breathing techniques and tell myself I would be fine. I could trust
Michael.

I found that wriggling my fingers and toes was oddly
comforting, a reassurance that I could at least move something. So I wriggled
and breathed. And I waited. In complete darkness. And because Michael had
turned on the music when he was finished strapping me on the table, I was
effectively deaf to my surroundings.