I look over his shoulder and into your eyes. You smile, and nod.
“Yes, love, it’s ok” you say, and I shiver, inhale deeply, and only then do I focus on the man infront of me. Suddenly aware of my nakedness, my eyes drop to the floor, and I wait tentatively for instruction. My heart pounding in my chest reminds me of just how alive I feel at this moment, despite the nerves which threaten to subjugate me.
I’m reminded that I am here simply to be used, in which ever way He chooses. You have obviously planned the evening accordingly with Him…..I was not party to this, and briefly, internally, rebel.
His hands scan my body, pinching, prodding, slapping, moulding me like a piece of clay into the shape he requires.
You watch, seemingly enthralled, your erection clearly visible through the restrictive fabric of your jeans, yet you remain passive, clothed, aloof. Then you rise from your chair, and leave the room, abandoning me to this man’s desires. Panic momentarily sets in, the need to flee overwhelming, yet I stay, because it’s what you wish.
He uses me thoroughly, discards me when He’s finished, wiping his wet cock on my cheek.
I find I cannot breath, let alone stand, but you pull me painfully into position, kicking my legs apart. My feet hurt, I’m not used to wearing heels, but I wore them for you, for Him. I want to step out of them, physically withdraw from the memory of Him, but you command me to stand, to remain still, so I endure the pain.
As your hand loosens and removes itself from my hair I slump forwards, resting my forehead against the wall, palms flat against the smooth surface.
From nowhere I’m hit, by what I don’t yet know. All I know is pain. Stinging, all consuming pain. Endorphins course through me, and I swim, once again my legs threaten to give way.
You hit me again, and again, each strike punctuated by a word.
The only one I hear is whore.
I despise that word, and you know it.
“I told you to fuck Him, not enjoy Him!”
The flogger rains it’s fury on my flesh.
“You were there for Me, not Him, and certainly not for yourself”
From the fog I emerge, and find my voice.
“Who the fuck are you calling whore?” I retaliate, causing a brief, but significant pause in proceedings.
You spin me to face you, grab my throat between your fingers, and squeeze. I try to swallow, but I can’t. Doesn’t matter anyway, my mouth is bone dry.
What happens next shocks me, humiliates me, hurts me.
Truly, deeply, hurts me.
You slap my face, hard.
I cannot process the emotions which that simple act elicits, and, comically, I tilt my head, furrow my brow, and stare quizzically at you, tears charting their own path down my stinging cheek.
I am the proverbial rabbit caught in the headlights, the moment frozen, recorded, etched into both our memories.
Neither of us speak.
You turn me round once more, guide me to where You want me to be. You unzip your fly, your cock bouncing free of it’s fabric cage.
You take me then, all your emotion invested in each thrust.
I am Yours to do with as You will, to fuck, to use.
You begin to unleash connected syllables into my ear, your body clothing mine, your hands seeking mine, fingers entwining, shallow breaths now in sync.
“Mine” You say.
Each statement is spoken softer than the last, each word suffused with tenderness.
Now I cry in ernest, now I begin to understand.
I did what You wanted.