Paying the price – part 2

(c) 2024, by P.D. Vile
Story tags: Mf, bdsm, cons

NOTE: This story is very different from my usual stories. Many of my regular readers might not like it at all, because of the extreme content.
Yes, there is (sweet, consensual, and very loving) sex between a 14-year-old girl and an adult male. But the main focus of this story is on bdsm. Extreme bdsm, even, in my eyes – although hardcore bdsm fanatics might disagree on that.
The focus of part 1 is on the sub, the recipient of pain. In this part, we shift focus to the Dom, the one who dominates the submissive and may use pain, humiliation, and many other tools to assert their dominance over the sub.

NOTE: Before starting the story, I really must express my gratitude to “e”. Just as part 1, this story would not exist without you, and after I wrote the first draft, you made it better, together with “a”. I also want to thank other “a” and “d” for their proofreading of, and feedback on, the final draft. All four of you are awesome, and I am happy to have you in my life!

The night before

I wake up. As my consciousness returns to my brain, the first thing I notice is the terrible pain in my upper legs, that instantly reminds me of last night, when I had to endure seventeen hard strokes with a single tail whip.

And yet, despite that memory, despite the pain, I have a smug grin on my face. A grin that feels like it will never fade, imprinted on my face for forever.
And for good reason. I close my eyes and let my thoughts go back to last night. Not the pain, not the punishment, but to what came after that. After you applied salve to my wounds, after Master Jim … no, it’s now just Jim again for me … so after Jim told me to “claim” my reward … to claim you.

I could barely walk. Every movement hurt. And I was also tired, so incredibly tired. I just wanted to lie down and sleep. But you had different plans. After you helped me lie down on your bed, you kissed my lips, then whispered in my ear,
“Stay awake, ‘Gramps’ – or you’ll miss out.”
I nodded and then closed my eyes anyway. But before I could even drift off, I felt the most wonderful sensation. My dick in a closed space, nice and warm, wet, cozy, feeling as if it was where it always had belonged, for the first time in my life. My eyes shot open, I looked down, and there you were, eyes sparkling, mouth smiling, but also filled with my cock, that immediately started to swell, to fill all available space.

You pulled up your head a bit, as my dick grew beyond what you could keep in your mouth. But not for long. You winked at me. And then you lowered your head, swallowing more and more of my length, making me shudder for joy as your lips brushed along the length of my cock, until I hit the back of your throat.
But you didn’t stop there. I felt the pressure of your esophagus, felt it give way, and then my tip slipped in that narrow ring, and your head went further down, taking my dickhead in your throat, and you didn’t stop until your lips touched the soft stubble of my pubic area.

Despite having shot a load just before, my dick was instantly rock hard again. And it grew even more when you started to bob your head up and down, fucking me with your throat, without ever coming up for air. The sensation was totally overwhelming, unlike anything I had ever felt before.
I got so excited that I forgot my pain, for a short while. But I also forgot about you. It was only when I noticed that your face was no longer deep red but actually already shifting towards crimson that I realized that you were choking yourself on my dick. A short moment of panic. I felt I had to do something. But I still didn’t have enough strength to even lift my hands. Or … Was it really a lack of strength? Was I simply enjoying this too much?
But then, when the crimson got even deeper, when I knew I really had to do something, you suddenly came up. A loud gasp for air, followed by heavy panting, Snot running from your nose, eyes watering, but a huge grin, almost splitting your face in two.

“Did you like that, P.D.?” you asked, once you were able to breathe normally again.
“Like? That was … I mean … oh shit, hell yes!”
“Good! I might do that some more then. Later. But for now, I just want you hard. I want you in me, P.D. I want to feel that hard pedo dick of yours deep inside my fourteen-year-old pussy. I want to fuck your brains out, until you pump those little pedo-makers of yours deep inside my womb.”

I moan as you move your body over mine. One knee to each side of my hips, your body now towering over me. You quickly look down to check you’re not accidentally touching my legs.
“Did I hurt you?”
“No, totally not. It’s just the words you said. The prospect of fucking you. I have so long dreamed of fucking a girl. A girl your age.”
“Or younger?”
I nodded. “Or younger. And then I met you, and I started to dream of fucking you. I so wanted that. So, just hearing you say it …”

You didn’t let me finish. Your right index finger touched my lips. Your left hand grabbed my pole and pointed it up, aiming it right at your tight entrance, as you lowered yourself. I watched in awe, as you lowered your perfect body. A sharp inhale of air from me, and a happy purr from you, at the first contact of the tip of my rod against your hot and wet labia.

You halted there for a short while. Winked at me, a teasing smile on your lips. But you didn’t let me wait long. Just a short second, and then you already lowered yourself further. I closed my eyes, to savor the feeling of your tight cunny embracing my dick, then opened them again, because I wanted to see. And so I watched, with bated breath, how my hardness spread your lips, pried them open, until they gave way, and the purple head of my fuckrod disappeared in your love tunnel.

As my throat made uncontrollable grunting noises, you kept lowering yourself, taking in inch after inch of my length. My dick felt better than ever before, encapsulated in your warm wetness, squeezed to perfection by your tight cunt, as you kept going until I was all the way in. It was so incredibly hot, to see your small frame on top of me, your crotch touching mine, knowing you had taken all of me. And it felt so good, so much better than even my wildest imagination.
You held still for a short while, and I don’t know what I enjoyed more: the feeling of enormous pleasure in my dick, or the intense look of happiness on your face.

You smiled again, making the world better than it already was. And then you started to move. Up, down, back up again. Slow motions, teasing, savoring the feelings, giving me the greatest sensations I could wish for. Speeding up a bit, then down again. You pushed yourself down to twist your hips, so that my dick moved around in your tight space. Some quick movements up and down, then a pause, where you just held still and whispered sweet words about how good this was for you. I wanted to reply, but did not find the words. And I knew I didn’t need to. I knew the expression on my face spoke volumes.

You leaned forward, closed your hands in an embrace around my neck, as your lips met mine, and we kissed. Your body still moving up and down, sometimes fast and urgent but most of the time leisurely, slowly, enjoying every second.
I somehow found the strength to lift my arms, close them around your back. I stroked your soft skin, teased your buttocks, caressed your hair. And moaned in your mouth as I felt your body tense and shake in an orgasm. Not a big, crashing orgasm, but a nice and gentle one.

I don’t know how long you kept fucking me like that. I don’t know how many orgasms you had. But in the end, after an eternity of pleasure, you raised your upper body again, took my hands and pressed them against your boobs, used your other hand to support yourself a bit, and then started to ride me like crazy. Up and down, up and down again. Every downward motion was just you dropping your full weight, to impale yourself as deep as possible. Every upward motion was fast, eager for the next drop.
Your wild ride made my legs start to hurt again. Or hurt more. So much that the feeling, that I had forgotten about for a while, grabbed my attention again. But at the same time, the wonderful feeling of you fucking my hard dick as if your life depended on it got stronger. And as pain and pleasure mixed into a combination of sensations that my brain was unable to process, you started to orgasm. A big one this time. You screamed and shuddered, and your vagina contracted around my dick, grasped it, pulled it inside, and forced me over the tip. And so, as pain and pleasure shot through my body in equal amounts, I shot my thick sticky seed deep inside you.

The morning after

And now I lay here. On my back, in a comfortable bed. My legs still hurting. Not yesterday’s unbearable burning pain, but a lingering sensation that will certainly haunt me for at least the next weeks. Even though the sheets are thin and soft, I have thrown them off because even that feeling against my skin hurt me.
But that pain doesn’t matter. Because right there, to the left of me, is you. Sleeping. You are so beautiful in your sleep. Your naked body fully relaxed. Your eyes closed, your chest gently heaving and falling with your slow, relaxed breathing. Your mouth, your gorgeous lips, that suddenly form a slight smile. Are you having a nice dream?

I could lay here, just watching you, for hours. Not because you are so beautiful, even though you are. But because you are you. Because you seem happy and free of all sorrows. Because you are here with me. And because you are mine. Mine, not as a possession, but as a loved one, who wants to spend time with me, and whom I want to spend time with. I don’t know yet what we will do this weekend. Perhaps we can go swimming together? Perhaps we can go see a movie? Or perhaps you’ll just cuddle up to me on the couch, and we’ll be silent together?
And yes, there will very likely also be more sex. But not now. Now, at this time, I just want to enjoy your company, your closeness, you.

You wake up. I hear your breathing speed up, see your eyes flutter. And then you open them, turn your head towards me, and smile. That smile that I love so much, that smile that instantly makes me forget my aching legs. Well, for a few seconds, at least.

You lean towards me, peck my bearded cheek, then cheerfully ask:
“Sex first or breakfast first?”
“Are those my only options?”
“Do you need more?”
I pause, pretend to think, then smile.
“No, I think those will do just fine.”
“So? Which one first?”

The thought of food triggers a soft, grumbling sound from my belly. You laugh and get up from the bed, with an energy I myself certainly do not have after last night.
“Just stay here, old man. I need you to save your energy. For … other things. So just lay here and wait, while I prepare breakfast.”
And then you throw me a kiss, turn around, and wiggle your cute butt in a very exaggerated way as you walk out the door.
I just sigh, fold my hands behind my back, close my eyes, and relax.
Life is good.

A rasping sound startles me out of my relaxed state. It sounds like Jim clearing his throat. And indeed, as I open my eyes, I see him enter your room.
I briefly consider pulling the sheets over my body. But then I recall he saw it all yesterday already. And so I just remain as I am, as Jim grabs a chair and sits down next to the bed.

“I trust Christine made sure you had a good night?”
“She did,” I smile, “way more than I could ever have hoped for.”
“Good. I really hope that, after what you endured last night, you feel it was worth it.”
“Just meeting her in person, just getting to know you and her, and talk over dinner yesterday. That alone is already enough to make it totally worth the price I paid. The rest is a bonus. A very nice bonus, that I am glad she wanted to give to me.”

He smiles. But then gets serious.
“Good. But that is not what I came here to talk about.”
I look up at him.
“You clearly love Christine.”
A statement. Not a question. Yet I feel compelled to answer.
“Yes, sir. Very much. But you already know that. I would do anything for her.”
“Would you really?”
“I … I think I proved that yesterday?”
“Yes, you did. You proved it very clearly. To me.”
He paused, and looked at me.
“But what about her?”
“Sir?”

He remains silent. Looks at me, as if he expects me to understand him. I don’t. After what I went through yesterday, after the pain I took upon me to save her from it, how can he say this? Of course she knows how much I love her. I mean, she already knew, but after yesterday, there can be no doubt.
And yet, Jim looks at me. Expectantly. As if I should see something obvious, something I just fail to see. What else is there, besides my obvious love for Christine?

After a long, awkward silence, he finally speaks again.
“Mister Vile, how would you define love?”
“Oh, easy. You truly love someone when their happiness is more important to you than your own.”
“Yes, indeed. Now think back of yesterday.”

I actually start to get upset now.
“Well, but that’s just what I did!”
I point at the purple marks on my legs
“If this does not prove that I put her happiness and well-being before mine, then what the hell does, Jim?”
He chuckles.
“It does prove your dedication. I already acknowledged that. It’s solid proof, for you and me. But what does it tell her?”
“That I …”
But then I interrupt myself. Because it finally starts to dawn on me.

“So you are saying …”
My voice fades. Jim finishes my thought for me.
“She likes pain. Enjoys it. Needs it. And you took it from her. Because you cannot stand to see her suffer. Not even when she wants to suffer.”
“I … I guess I did.”
“So in a way, you showed her that your feelings matter more than hers.”

I lay in silence for a long time. Jim just sits on the chair and waits, until I have finally gathered my thoughts enough to speak.
“I guess I really fucked up. And now I don’t know how to make it up for her.”
To my surprise, Jim’s response is a chuckle.
“What?”
“It’s not that[/i] bad. She’s not stupid, you know. She [i]knows why you volunteered to take over her whipping. She knows you did it out of love, simply because enjoying pain is not part of your mindset.”
“Well. Okay. Guess that makes sense. Good to know. But then, why do we even have this conversation?”
“Because I hope to convince you to do something for her that she will never expect, but really enjoy. And if you truly love her, then you will get over yourself and do this for her.”

I hear the clunking sounds of plates and cutlery on a tray. Jim stops talking and signals me to shut up as well. So, we are both quiet as you enter the room, with a tray, loaded with toast, bacon, eggs, jam, coffee, orange juice, fruits, and all kinds of other food, that all looks great and smells even better.
“Hey, P.D., I made breakfast for us both. Do you want …”
You stop talking as you see Jim. You just stand there, look at him, unsure what to do, now that he is here.
“Thanks, sweetheart. Very kind of you to make breakfast for Mister Vile and me. Leave it here on the table, then return to the kitchen. Mister Vile and I have things to discuss.”
“Yes, Master,” you reply meekly. Then you put down the tray, nod in Jim’s direction, and leave the room, closing the door behind you.

Sugar on top

Half an hour later, Jim and I have finished the very excellent breakfast. Jim gets up, wishes me good luck, and leaves the room.
“Christine? Darling?” I hear him say, “we’ve finished our conversation. You can return to your room now and spend time with mister Vile.”
Just a few seconds later, you run into the room. Your eyes find the empty tray.
“Did you enjoy your breakfast, P.D.?”
“Yes, very much. And so did Jim. You cook well. I hope you had not expected him to leave some for you?”
I pretend not to notice the slight look of disappointment on your face.
“No, P.D., I knew he would eat it all. I helped myself to some toast that was left over from yesterday.”
“Good,” I only say.

And then you crawl into the bed, and I smell your scent and feel your soft hands play with the little hairs on my chest. I nearly forget myself, nearly succumb.
“What shall we do now, P.D.? Do you want to start with a blowjob? Or do you want to try anal? No matter what you want, my body is …”
Your voice fades as you look at my face. As you see me, looking sternly, one eyebrow raised, you stop talking. Then, after an awkward silence, you sink your head. No longer looking me in the face, you ask: “What is it, P.D.? Don’t you want to have sex? We can do other things too?”

I pause. Wait until the silence is awkward, then wait a bit longer. When I finally speak, I force myself to speak in a soft voice, barely audible, and very slow.
“Sex? In this room? Look around.”
I gesture at the tray with empty bowls, the plates that Jim and I left on the floor, my empty coffee mug next to it.
“It is a mess here. How can you expect me to focus on sex when the room is not proper?”
“Oh, of course. I understand.” you whisper.
I doubt you really do. Your face tells me you don’t. But you still get up from the bed, start to collect cutlery, plates, glasses, and mugs, put it all on the tray, and then leave the room with it. A minute or so later you return, with a cloth. You wipe the table and the dirty spots on the floor, then leave again. And then you return.

“There. All clean again. Sorry I did not …”
“Where’s my coffee?” I interrupt you brusquely.
“Your … coffee?”
I sigh.
“Yes. My coffee. Brownish liquid. Hot, with a nice bitter taste. Energizing. Surely you have heard of it?”
I see your shoulders drop. A little.
“Oh, I am sorry. Sorry, sir. I did not know you wanted … you didn’t ask for …”
I sigh again, loud enough to cut off your words.
“I thought you were smart. I had not expected that I need to spell out every little detail.”
“I am sorry, sir. I will get your coffee right away.”

I wait. Conflicting feelings rage in me. I do not like myself for treating you like this. But Jim was right. True love means putting your likes above mine. And strangely, totally unexpectedly, I feel what appears to be a kind of rush. The power I have over you. The way you do whatever I tell you to, take the blame even when it is not your fault at all. It should not feel good. It should not make me feel superior. And yet, I cannot deny that it does. That a small part of me actually enjoys this.

You return, holding a cup of coffee. You hand it to me. Then, when I don’t extend a hand to accept it, you pull a small table close to the bed, and put the coffee cup on top of it.
I look at the coffee, in silence. I hear you swallow, but you say nothing.
“I don’t see any sugar.” I then say, with a disappointed voice.
“Sugar? I thought … You asked for black coffee yesterday? I didn’t know …”
“So, you just assumed?” I now ask sharply, “and you thought it was okay to just assume? Take that with you!” I point at the coffee, with a disgusted face, “and come back with sugar. Am I clear?”
“Yes, Sir!” you quickly assure me, as you pick up the coffee and hasten out of the room.

I wait, until you return. Again with a cup of coffee, the stirring straw still in it.
“Here’s your coffee, Sir,” you proudly say, “with sugar this time.”
“Good,” I say.

I pick up the coffee. I then stir it with the straw, seemingly absentmindedly, as I talk.
“I wonder what came over you, just now. You know that my legs hurt. Very much. And all because of you. Because I took your punishment. And yet, you seem to think only of sex. You seem to think that I could put away the tray myself. That I could make my own coffee. Really, I had expected more gratitude, after my sacrifice.”
You keep shrinking as I talk. Your shoulders are hanging down, you are looking at your feet, and when I finally stop talking, I can barely hear your whispered “I am sorry, Sir.”
“You should be,” I affirm.

By now, the coffee has cooled to the right temperature.
“Oh well. You are forgiven,” I say in a kind voice, “let me drink this coffee and then we shall see what to do the rest of the day.”
You look up, your face happier again. And then, when I know you’re watching me, I take a small sip of the coffee, recognize the nasty taste of sweetened coffee in my mouth, and instantly spit it out again, making sure that you are in the splatter zone.

“God, damn!” I exclaim, “this is truly disgusting! Who the hell wants sugar in their coffee? What were you even thinking when you gave me this? Are you trying to poison me?”
And with one fell swoop, I throw the cup at you. It hits you right in the chest, and as you scream from the hot coffee on your skin, the cup smashes on the floor and breaks, leaving a pool of coffee at your feet. The coffee dripping down from your breasts, over your tummy, across your legs, slowly adds to that pool.

But I look at your face. To check how you respond.
After the initial shock and pain, I see anger flare up. Then surprise, followed by disappointment. I see something glisten in your eyes, and I hear you swallow down a lump.
“I … I don’t understand. I thought you … You said … you wanted sugar in your coffee. You sent me back to fetch it. I did as you asked, P.D.!”
“No,” I say, as I look disappointed and shake my head, “no, sweetie. You did not do as I asked. Think back to what I said.”
“I know what you said. You asked for …”
I quickly raise my hand in a commanding way, and am relieved to see that it has the desired effect of making you shut your mouth instantly.
I drag out the next words, speaking as slow as I can muster.
“Think carefully. Remember the exact words. Do not make even more mistakes.”

You remain silent. A frown on your face, as you concentrate. Then, finally, you respond. Slowly, drawing out each word, looking at my face for confirmation.
“You said that you didn’t see sugar. And then you sent me back to come back with sugar.”
“And?” I prod, “what did I say in between?”
“That I should not make assumptions.”
“Yes. Good girl. Now, tell me, did I tell you where to put the sugar?”
“No, Sir, you did not.”
“So why did you put it in my coffee?”
“Because … because I …”
Your voice slowly fades as you speak, but I remain silent, forcing you to finish the sentence.
“Because I made an assumption, Sir. I am sorry, Sir.”

You sink to your knees, legs slightly spread, right in the middle of the cooling puddle of coffee. Your hands are on your knees, palms up. Your back is straight, but your face is down. But I still see enough of your face to see that you are starting to realize what I am doing.
“I am sorry, Sir. I made a mistake. I am a stupid girl.”
“Yes, you are,” I say.
I hate myself for doing so, but I still do it. I see that my words hurt you, see that you had not expected this cold confirmation.
“But just sitting there won’t fix your mistake. Go back to the kitchen. Get me a new coffee. And sugar. And no mistakes this time.”
You hastily get up.
“Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

I let out a deep sigh once you are out of earshot. This was hard to do. Especially agreeing when you called yourself stupid was tough.
And yet … to my horror, I also notice that a part of my brain enjoys this. Enjoys making you suffer and squirm. Enjoys seeing that I have you at my mercy, that I can make you do whatever I want. I am shocked at myself, but I cannot deny that having this power … is a thrill.

You return, carrying a serving tray. On it are a cup of coffee, and, neatly arranged next to it, two sugar cubes. I notice that you have not even taken the time to clean yourself up. You rightly understand that serving me comes first.
I nod in the direction of the table, and you carefully put the tray on top of it.
I throw you an approving smile.
“Well done. Good girl.”
“Thank you, Sir!”, you respond, a happy smile on your face.

Name-calling

You sit down next to me. Put a hand on my thigh.
“Can we already do things, while you wait for the coffee to cool down, Sir? I could suck your dick, if you want to. Or perhaps you want to suck my boobs, Sir? Or …”
I interrupt you. Again.
“Before we even do any of these, you really need to stop calling me that.”
“Calling you what, Sir? Oh, wait, you mean … Sir, do you not want to be called Sir?”
“Of course not. You know I am not your sir.”
“I am sorry, Si… P.D., I will call you P.D. again.”
“Wrong!”

A simple word, and it is enough to instantly get you silent again, to get you back into scared rabbit mode. You so want to do good, you so want to please me, you just don’t know how. You cannot avoid failure.
“Wrong?”
“Of course it is wrong. How dare you call me by my first name.”
I sound annoyed now.
“Oh. Eeuuhhhmmm … Mister Vile then?”
I’m glad I have some acting experience. This is not an easy role to be in. But I have to do this. So I turn up the anger even more. My voice gets louder, and my fists clench.
“No, you idiot. Of course not!”
“I’m sorry, Sir!” you instantly reply, then clap your hands over your mouth.

I sigh. A deep, very disappointed sigh.
“So I really need to explain this? Well, then. Surely you remember what Jim said yesterday?”
“Master said a lot of things. Which one do you mean?”
“At the end. When we were back in the living room.”
“He said I should reward you. That we should have sex.”
“But those were not his words.”
Once more, a deep frown on your face.
“He told you to claim me,” you then say.
“Indeed,” I confirm, “and that is what I am doing right now. I am claiming you. Claiming you as mine. My property.”
You nod. I confirm what you already suspected.

“But property can have just a single owner. You are mine now. You are no longer Jim’s.”
Your eyes go wide in surprise. You swallow.
“So perhaps now you know what to call me?”
“Yes, … master,” you whisper, barely audible.
“Speak up, girl! I can’t hear you!” I bellow.
“Yes Master!” you say.
“Yes. Good girl. I am your Master now.”
I pause, then add, slowly, drawing out the words:
“Your only Master. Until I return you to Jim.”
You swallow. You lower your head, look at the tips of your toes.
“Yes, Master. I understand.”

An awkward silence follows. I have you where I want you. You have submitted to me. Just as Jim told me you would, once I push you enough. The plan I had thought up has worked.
But I now realize the flaw. I have no followup. You are awaiting my command. And I have no idea what to make you do.
You look at me, clearly expecting me to do something. Say something. But what?
My doubts return. The doubts I already voiced to Jim, and that he brushed aside. He was so sure that I could do this. I want to. I don’t want to disappoint him … no, you[/i]. I don’t want to disappoint [i]you.
I have to give you a command. Make you do something. Make you feel that I am in charge.

It takes too long. Way too long. Finally, it is you that breaks the silence.
“So, any commands, Master?”
Your voice is still submissive. But in your eyes … I see that spark again. The spark I also saw yesterday, when you defied Jim. That spark that I love so much, and yet do not want to see now. It is not strong, but it’s there.
I look at you. Still standing there. Head still turned down. Your chest and legs still smeared with the coffee I threw at you. You stand right next to the puddle that’s still on the floor where you stood before. From there, I see a trail of coffee smears towards the door and into the hallway.
I smile. I know what to do.

“Yes, Christine. I think you should clean up this room. And the hallway, and I guess also the kitchen. You really made a mess.”
You hesitate. Why do you hesitate? I think back of what Jim told me.
“Be decisive,” he had said, “do not show insecurities. She needs a strong master. She wants to be guided by someone who knows what’s good for her.”
Be decisive. I had hesitated for way too long. And then … the way I said it. “I think”. Why had I said it like that?

You lift your face. You no longer look at your toes. You look at me. And I drown in your eyes again. They are so beautiful. The mirrors to your soul, to your beautiful mind. I just want to look into those eyes, tell you how special you are.
I hesitated too long. I should have …
Too late now. Your lips curl in a smile. Your eyes light up even more.

“But Master,” you say demurely, “that is your coffee. Perhaps you still want it?”
“Huh? What? Me? Spilled coffee? Why would I want it?”
“I don’t know, master.”
“Then why do you think I want it?”
“I just do not want to make any assumptions, sir. You told me not to.”
I sigh.
“Yes, I did say that. But I’m telling you now. I do not want that coffee anymore. It’s on the floor. I don’t want it.”
“Thank you for clarifying, sir. Most enlightening”
“Watch your mouth, Christine. That is not how you should talk to me!”
“¿Prefieres que hable en español, señor?”
“No, of course not. Don’t speak Spanish!”
“Le français serait-il meilleur, monsieur?”
“Stop that! Speak English, please!”
“Since you ask so nicely.”
“And do as you are told!”
“Yes, sir. Speaking English, as I am told, sir.”

I groan. I only now notice that you stopped calling me master. I know it wasn’t a mistake. You did it on purpose, to test me. I should have responded right away. But I didn’t. I failed the test. And now you know that I am not the strong master that I should be for you.
Secretly I admire you for your courage. I love that you dare stand up to me. But I need to smother this. I need to act angry.
“And call me Master!”
“Yes, master.”
You say it, but you don’t mean it. I hear it in your voice. I see it in your eyes. The respect you had for me a few minutes ago is gone. You know I don’t control you.

Cleaning

I take a deep breath. Then I point to the coffee trail across the floor, to the door, and into the hallway.
“So, Christine. Tell me. What is that?”
“It is coffee, master.”
“Why is it there?”
“You threw it there, master.”
“And that trail? How did that coffee get there?”
“You smeared me with coffee and then ordered me to go to the kitchen and back, master.”
“Are you saying it’s my fault that the floor is dirty?”
“Oh no, sir. Sorry. No, ‘master’. I would not dare to say that.”
But I look in your eyes, and I know, just know, that you mentally add: “but I absolutely implied it, and I would do that again.”
And I know I lost this battle. Everything I say now would only make it clearer that I know you have won, and that you know that I know that.

But a lost battle is not a lost war. I need to find a way to get you back into submission. And the only thing I can think of right now is to at least get you to do what I told you to do.
“It does not matter anyway. You still need to clean it up.”
“But why now, master? I can do it later. You are only here today and tomorrow. Don’t you want to do other things?”
“What things?” I ask, and then nearly bite off my tongue as I realize that was the wrong response.
“Ohhh, I can serve you in so many ways. My mouth, my cunt, my ass, they are all yours to use in any way you please, master.”
“And what about your hands? Are they mine to use as I want?”
“Oh, yes! Yes, master. Thanks, master!”

You take a step towards me, hands reaching for my soft penis.
“HALT!” I yell.
You freeze dead in your tracks.
I think back of what Jim told me. A situation like this … I am sure he would at least slap your face now. I try to will myself to do it, but I just can’t. I just hope you don’t notice how I raise my hand, then drop it again.
“You will use your hands as I want. And what I want right now, is for you to use those little hands of yours to clean. The. Fucking. FLOOR!!!”
“Y … yes, Master.”

You drop on all fours and start smearing the coffee with your bare hands. The mess only gets worse. I wait a minute or two, before snickering:
“It really does not get cleaner this way, you silly girl. Did you not even consider using cleaning utensils?”
“Master? You did not command me to use anything?”
“I told you to clean the floor. You are not cleaning the floor. You are smearing coffee on the floor. So go, get what you need, then get to cleaning the floor.”

You stand up and leave the room. Still naked. Still dirty, leaving even more coffee stains as you walk. I follow you, not bothering to get dressed either. As I pass the door to the living room, I see Jim, sitting in a comfortable chair, reading a book. He looks at me and raises an eyebrow in an unspoken question. I nod, to indicate that I’m okay, that things are fine, and that I don’t need his help.
I know it’s not entirely true. But I believe I can pull myself back together and do what I promised Jim to do. Promised myself to do. I don’t want him to help. At least not yet.

I catch up with you in the kitchen. You now have a damp cloth, that you are using to clean the floor in front of you, and a bucket with soapy water next to you. You crawl slowly forward, inch by inch, meticulously cleaning all stains you see before moving further. I smile as I see that you at least make sure to do a very thorough job.

I don’t stay there to watch you. You are still gorgeous. I still want to watch you. Heck, I could be perfectly happy just watching your beautiful body all day long. But staying with you, watching you scrub the floor, sends the wrong message. I already messed up before. I can’t afford to make more mistakes. You deserve that I at least give it my best possible attempt.

It takes a long time before you finally arrive in the room. I wait, silent, until you have cleaned all the stains, and the large puddle. You rinse the cloth one final time, pick up the shards of the broken cup, and do a final swipe across the now impeccable floor. Then you drop the cloth in the bucket, raise your upper body, and once more sit in front of me, knees slightly spread on the floor, hands on your knees, back straight, looking down. A position that, as Jim explained to me, signals submission and patiently awaiting your next order.

“Did you clean everything, as I told you to do?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Don’t …”
I pause, looking at your face, that now shows surprise and anxiety at what I’m about to say, and why I sound angry.
“… lie!”
“Master?”
I point behind you.
“Look!”

You look, and you see a few new coffee stains, from the remaining coffee on your legs.
“That is not clean.”
“N … no. No, Master. It is not. I am sorry.”
“Why is it not clean?”
“Because I crawled over it after cleaning it, Master?”
“And why did that stain the floor?”
“Because I am a dirty girl, Master?”
“Yes. A dirty girl indeed. And surely you do not expect me to put up with a dirty girl, do you?”
“No, Master. I am sorry for being dirty Master.”
“Yes. As you should be.”

I wait. Silent. Look at you. A stern look. You look back, briefly, then sink your eyes.
A minute passes. Another minute. I raise my eyebrow, knowing that, even with your eyes down, you will notice.
“Master?”
“Are you clean yet?”
“N … No, Master, I am not. You did not command me to clean myself.”
“So you lied to me?”
“Never, Master!”
“Do you expect me to put up with a dirty slave?”
“No, Master.”
“Are you a dirty slave?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Then what do you expect?”

I see you swallow heavily. I feel so sorry for putting you through this. Even when I know you are a submissive by nature, even though I know you want to be dominated and controlled, I feel bad about myself doing this to you. And I feel even worse about myself when I notice that, if I am completely honest, I have to admit that a part of me is enjoying it more and more to put you through these mind games, to torture you with impossible and conflicting commands.

“I expect that you will not put up with me, Master,” you whisper, barely audible, “or perhaps, if I am lucky, I can hope that you will command me to clean myself so I can live up to your expectations.”
“Finally a good idea. I knew you had it in you. Yes, girl. Go clean up!”
“Yes, Master! Thank you, Master.”
And with those words, you turn to leave the room

“Halt.”
I do not even raise my voice. Yet you instantly freeze.
“Yes, Master?”
“Did I dismiss you?”
“No, Master.”
“So? Where were you going?”
“To …,”

You pause. I am happy to notice that you take the time to consider your words. You clearly understand, by now, that any wrong word can backfire.
“To clean myself?”
“Oh? And where do you think you need to go, in order to clean yourself?”
“To the shower, Master?”
“Shower?” I ask, pretending to be shocked, “I do not recall granting you shower privileges?”
“M … Master?”
I point at the bucket with the stained and now cold water and the dirty cloth.
“Surely if it is good enough for the floor, it is also good enough for you?” I say scornfully.
“Oh, yes. Of course, Master. I will do it right away, Master.”

I watch as you try to wash yourself as good as possible with the dirty water. I would normally enjoy the graceful motions of your gorgeous body. But I can’t. I am too distracted by the thoughts of what I plan to do next. I don’t want it. But I know Jim is right. If I love you, then I will do this. I’ll have to force myself to do it.

As you are still busy washing yourself, I see Jim stand in the doorway. You notice him too. He looks at the scene of me, sitting patiently on the bed, while you try to get the worst coffee stains off of your body with water that is almost as dirty as you are. But he does not comment on it.
“How’s everything going here, P.D.?” he asks.
“Everything is okay, Jim. There was a little incident with spilled coffee, but as you can see, Christine has that all under control.”
“Good. Having a good time, sweetheart?”
You look at me, then at Jim, then back at me, doubts written all over your face.
“It’s okay, you can answer Jim.” I say reassuringly, “Please, sweetheart, tell Jim if you are having a good time?”
I make sure to stress his name extra.
“Yes, Master,” you whisper.
And then, turning towards Jim:
“Yes. I am having a good time.”

A silence follows. Jim looks surprised and a bit shocked. You look at me, pleading almost. But I look stern.
“I am having a good time, what?”
I look intently at Jim’s face. I see that he understands.
“I am having a good time, …” your voice is barely audible by now, “Jim.”
I watch Jim’s eyebrow rise higher than I ever thought possible, as he softly chuckles. But then he leans towards you and whispers, loud enough for me to hear: “We will discuss this once our guest is gone.”
And then he turns to me, smiling.
“I see you are doing an excellent job, P.D. I’ll be in the living room. Let me know if you need me for anything.”

“Am I clean enough for you, Master?” you ask, throwing me an appreciation-seeking look.
“Yes, yes, good enough. Good girl.” I reply absentmindedly.
“Please, Master. Can I have your permission to use fresh soapy water to clean the floor again? I do not want to smear your floor with stains of this dirty girl.”
“Not now, Christine. The floor can wait. I would now like you to go into Jim’s cellar and fetch the paddle for me.”

Tipping point

While I wait for you to return, I take the object I have previously taken from the kitchen and hidden under the bedsheets. I look at it and shudder. Will I have to use it? Will I even be able to?
And when I do, will I …
I shudder.
Will I be able to control myself?
I hastily put the object back under the sheets when I hear your footsteps.

You come back into the room. Once more, I cannot help but be amazed at your sheer beauty. I so want to take you in my arms, hug you, kiss you, caress you, tell you that you are beautiful, and then make endless sweet love, as the equals I believe we are.
But I cannot. Must not. Not now.

You offer me the paddle, and I accept it. I then look at it, inspect it. My thoughts are reeling. Will I actually be able to use this on you? To hit you, to make your buttocks red, to make you whimper with pain and beg me to stop? Or to continue?
I feel the weight of the paddle in my hands. Feel the grip of the handle, the hard wooden structure of the business end.

You look at me, and you seem to read the doubts in my mind. I see that twinkle in your eyes again, as you look me up and down.
“Well, then, Master. Now that you have the paddle, have you already worked out what to do with it?”
As I am still trying to come up with the best response, you already fire the next shot.
“That side,” you point, “is where you hold it, Master.”
I open my mouth, want to tell you that I know that, then snap it shut because I realize that you know that already.
“And then you make that end move fast, and hit a surface. For instance here.”
And with those words, you turn your back towards me and wiggle your cute butt.
“If you can, of course. Can you, Master P.D.?”

“Silent, girl!” I command.
I know I’m failing. Again. I try to recall Jim’s advice: “She’s submissive. But that does not mean she yields to everyone. She needs a strong dom to control her. If you don’t show your strength, you won’t get anywhere. You absolutely must show her that you are the boss.”
Well, I clearly failed. And I know that even hitting you with the paddle now will not restore my authority. I need to … have to …
I sigh.

I see you open your mouth, ready to comment on my sigh. Then shut it again, as you recall my last command to you. A small part of my brain is suddenly dying to find out what you want to say. But I silence it. I need to reassert my dominance. I have to …
My free hand reaches under the sheets and finds what I need.

The paddle clatters on the floor as my left hand grabs you by the throat and I push you against the wall. My right hand flashes out from under the sheets and holds the steak knife right under your eyes. I move it a bit, left to right, then back. Your eyes follow every motion of the tip of the blade, as the color drains from your face.
“Now listen very carefully, young lady. It seems you have forgotten your place. It seems you need a reminder.”
My left hand feels how your throat expands as you swallow, and then you give me the tiniest of nods to indicate your understanding.

I move my right hand down, still holding the knife, until I am at breast height. Holding the knife very loosely, I put the tip against your skin, make it touch your chest bone. I try to keep my hand still, but it does still tremble a little.
“Now, I am not at all like Jim.” I say, trying to make it sound like casual conversation, “I do not have his many hours of practice. I do not have his level of control. So, I will just keep my hand still, and I suggest that you do the same with your body. It really would be a shame to damage your flawless skin, wouldn’t it?”
I see a slight shudder run through your body, but then you hold still again.
“I asked you a question, girl!” I shout, as I raise the knife and hold it a fraction of an inch in front of your throat.
“I am sorry, Master,” you squeak, “you are right Master. That would be a shame, Master.”
“Perhaps I’ll do it anyway,” I mumble softly, as I draw the knife from your throat back down to your chest bone, making sure that the tip touches you very lightly. You shudder again.
“If that is what Master desires,” you reply obediently.

I feel adrenaline flow through my veins as I realize that you would indeed let me cut you, if I so desire. My every wish is your command, totally, no limits. Never before have I felt this powerful, this strong.
It startles me that I even enjoy this. Have I not always been the defender of consent? Have I not always rejected any notion of using force? And yet, here I am, enjoying the power rush of holding the girl I love so much at knifepoint.

“No,” I slowly reply, “no, I do not desire to damage you. But I might have no choice, if you don’t behave like the good girl you are supposed to be.”
“I will be good, Master.” you whisper obediently.
Why do I suddenly feel an urge to cut you, even just a little? Why does it make me feel good to subdue you like this?
I fight down that urge, fight down my doubts.

“Good,” I say.
I release my left hand from your throat, but you remain perfectly still where you are, aware of the knife that still rests loosely against your chest. I know I only loosely hold it between my fingers, but you don’t know that. You don’t dare to risk moving forward. And you have no other direction to move.
“Here is what you will do.” I say, as I now grab the knife firmly with both hands and take a step, still keeping the knife pointed at you.
“You will move very slowly, as you pick up the paddle and hand it to me. Then you will get on the bed, on all fours. And then you will ask me, no, beg me, to paddle your butt.”
You nod and start to move, but stop dead when I swish the knife in front of your body.
“When I say so.” I add in what I hope is a threatening voice.
“Yes, Master.”
“Are my instructions clear?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Good,” I say as I put the knife away. I know I don’t need it anymore. “Then you can start now.”

Red flesh

I watch as you slowly, without any sudden movements, bend over to pick up the paddle, stand up again, hand me the paddle, then get on all fours on the bed. Even though I did not say so, you make sure to position yourself so that I can easily reach your butt.
I stick my hand between your legs and roughly feel up your pussy.
“Damn, you are so wet, Christine!”
“I am, Master. I hope it pleases Master?”
“It does,” I respond, as I push my thumb fully inside you, then twist a bit,
“Oooohhhh. So good, Master.”
I instantly withdraw my thumb.
“You forget yourself, girl. This is not about your pleasure.”
“I am sorry, Master!”

I know I have to do it now. There will not be a better moment. I have been working up to this moment all this time. If I don’t do it now, then it won’t happen at all. And then Jim will know, and you will know, and I will know, that I do not love you enough to get over myself.
I have to …
Slap!!!

I did it. I actually did it! I hit your butt with the paddle.
I look at you. You look at me. Surprised? Disappointed?
And then … you laugh?
Why do you laugh after I just hit you? Aren’t you supposed to yelp in pain?

“Why are you laughing?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Master. But that … that really was not a hard hit, you know. I appreciate what you tried to do, but you have to hit me like you mean it.”
“I … I did …”
I swallow my words. You are right. I thought I had hit you hard enough, but I did not put in all my strength.
“Okay, I could have hit you harder. But that is no reason to laugh at me!”
“You are right, Master. I am sorry, Master.”
“So, what do you think would be appropriate punishment, Christine?”
“I think I should be punished hard, Master. More than a paddle can do. I think we should ask Master Jim to whip me, like he did you.”

I freeze in place. I see that you startle, and then fear gets in your eyes.
I sigh. Deeply. Then speak, extremely slowly, building suspense with every syllable.
“Do you …”
I trace the back of my right hand over your cheek.
“… really think …”
I grab your hair.
“… that I need Jim …”
I pull your head up hard.
“… to discipline you?”

“No, Sir … Master! No, I don’t.”
SLAP!!!!!!
“YELP! Thanks, Master. I deserved that.”

My hand trembles. My thoughts race. I hate myself. I lost control. Your suggestion that only Jim could punish you properly hit hard. Harder than I thought possible. For a short while I was angry at you, really angry.
I think back of Jim’s words. “She’ll taunt you. She’ll make you angry. Use that anger. But take care. Don’t let that anger use you.”
I have failed. Again. I have lost control.
I take a few deep, slow breaths to calm myself.

You break the silence.
“You are right, Master. You do not need help to discipline me. You do have what it takes.”
My anger flares up again. Even in your apology, you remind me that you doubted me.
Why does that make me so angry? I was doubting myself all the time. I still am not really sure. After all, I only managed to really hit you when I was so angry that I lost control. I am a terrible master.
But I don’t want to admit that to you. Don’t want to show my weakness.
And so I try to show a menacing grin.
“And I am not done with you yet.”

I remind myself that you want this. Crave this. And that I must do this, for you.
SLAP!
I hit as hard as I can. I see the flesh on your buttocks vibrate a bit after the slap. But I do not hear a yelp. And I know that, despite my efforts, I did not manage to unleash my full strength.
SLAP!
Another hit, and now you yelp lightly.

I realize I need to do one more thing before I can continue. So, I bring my face close to yours.
“Asparagus,” I hiss.
“You … you know my safeword?”
“Jim told me. I will respect it.”
And then I stand up again and raise the paddle once more.
SLAP!

You turn your face towards me. I see disappointment. And then a sparkle in your eyes, as a newfound determination appears to come over you.
“If that’s all you can do,” you ask mockingly, “why bother giving me a safeword? It’s not like I’ll need it”
I raise the paddle, then hesitate.
“Was that one hit before just an accident?”
I feel my mouth open, then shut. I want to say something. Need to say something.
“Did the paddle slip from your hands? Was it gravity that helped out?”
“You … you …”
“Because by god, I think I would feel more if I just throw it up and let it fall on me.”

I feel anger well up inside me.
Use that anger. Don’t let the anger use you.
SLAP!!!
“Yelp!”
Your body flinches. I see a red mark on your buttock where I hit you.
“Thank you, Master. I did feel this one, Master.”
My anger increases even more, as you keep reminding me of my failure to properly hurt you.
SLAP!!!!
“Thank … you … Master.”

I feel a new surge of power flow through my body as I notice how much trouble you have to say the words. I did it. I finally managed to hurt you. To get you to struggle for breath, struggle for words. It is amazing how good this feels.
Amazing? Good?
What am I? What have I become?
I don’t want to be like this. I don’t want to enjoy this.
And yet …

One more strike, I tell myself. One more strike, to make sure I have done it properly.
Slap!
A weak one. I know it. Right as I hit you, I already know there is not enough force. My doubts held me back again.
You giggle.
“What’s that, Master? Tickling me?”
SLAP!
“Sorry, Master, but that will not work. I am not ticklish at all.”
SLAP!

The anger is boiling up in me again, and I try to channel it, try to use it. But at the same time, I see the now deep red color of your ass cheeks. I know that you must hurt as badly as I did yesterday. And where I was almost crying, you sit there, smiling, taunting me.
It makes me mad and at the same time I feel pride in my heart, pride of the trooper you are, pride that you are able to endure this all, out of love for me.
And then shame at myself for not managing to overcome that final hurdle, that still holds me back. That fear to hurt you too much. To harm you.

And then you find the words to finally push me over the edge.
“Master, if that’s all you can do, I understand why your wife left you.”
All of a sudden, I see red. The world narrows. I see only your butt, and I want to hurt it.
Use your anger. Don’t let your anger use you.
I channel my mental strength to retain at least a bit of control, as I raise my hand and bring it down, then again and again and again and again.
SLAP!!!!!! SLAP!!!!!! SLAP!!!!!! SLAP!!!!!! SLAP!!!!!!

I hear you wince in pain every time the paddle hits the deep red flesh of your buttocks. I see your body shake uncontrollably after every hit. And I feel blood rush through my veins, feel the adrenaline in my brain, feel the joy of being in charge, of being stronger, of putting you in your place after you pushed me.
SLAP!!!! SLAP!! SLAP!
A small voice in the back of my brain tells me to stop now. And somehow, despite the joy I still feel with every slap, I obey. I drop the paddle, and as my vision clears, I see deep purple marks on your buttocks, and even a few blisters.
And below that, I see your slit, literally dripping juices.

Blood rushes down, towards my groin. My dick springs to attention. I want you. I want to fuck you, use you, take advantage of you. I don’t care anymore what you want.
And so I grab you by the hips, pull you roughly towards me, push my dick against your wet cunt and push all the way in, in one fast movement. And I don’t stop until I bottom out, not caring whether it hurts your cervix. Then I pull back and ram back in again. And again.
“Use me, Master!” you groan.
“Yes, I will use you. Use you like the cunt you are. Make me cum, you slut!”
I keep pounding you, not caring about … no, damnit, actually enjoying your cries of pain every time my body slams into your bruised ass.
It takes just a few thrusts more, before I unload my balls inside you.

I pull out. Some sperm drizzles out of your cunt. My dick is coated in sperm and your juices.
“Turn around!” I command, “and clean me.”
“Yes, Master,” you moan.
You turn around on the bed and lick me clean. First my balls, then the stubble around the base of my cock, and finally my soft cock. To my surprise, blood flows down again as you lick across its length. By the time you have cleaned the outside, it is almost hard again. You peel back my foreskin and lick my dickhead.
“Suck me.”
“Yes, Master.”

You open your mouth, but before you can even start to suck me, I just push my dick in. All the way, until I hit the back of your throat. You gag and sputter, but I don’t care. My hands grab your hair and pull, so you can’t get off, and I feel my dick instantly grow to full length.
I pull back again, then push in, hard, all the way. I feel my dick slip inside your esophagus. It is so tight, so incredibly tight. And I hold your face, and just keep it there, as I enjoy the tight ring around my dick, but also enjoy the feeling of incredible power I have over you.

One of your hands grabs my wrist. But you don’t try to hold me back. You just hold me there, almost tenderly, as I make small movements with my hips, fucking your throat, never leaving it.
I see your face turn red. But I don’t stop. Your face becomes a deeper red. I still don’t stop. I see a pleading look in your eyes, and I feel crazy with power as I still continue to use your throat for my pleasure.

And then your hand falls powerlessly off my wrist, and I instantly pull back out. A gurgling sound as you gasp for air, snot runs out of your nose, your eyes fill with water, but before the color of your face is even back to normal, I plunge back in again.
This time I do not stay in until you nearly pass out again. I stay in for just a few seconds, then pull out and back in. And keep repeating that. Every time I pull out, you can breathe, if you are fast enough. But I don’t care whether you actually do. I just thrust in again and you’ll have to wait for your next chance.
You sputter and gargle. Snot runs across your face, that remains red all the time. Your throat squeaks as you breath, raw from the abuse I put you through.

“This is all you are, girl,” I say, as I plunge in again, “a set of holes to be used.”
You gargle, and I see that your free hand reaches for your cunt as you start to play with yourself.
“A little whore, only here to serve.”
I feel movement as you move your face up and down, not much, but as much as you can while impaled on my throbbing member.
“My …”
I grab your hairs, pull you real close again, as I thrust hard forward,
“… property!”
And then I hold still as I cum again, spewing my seed directly into your belly.

I pull out, Exhausted. You are still diddling your pussy.
“Permission … to cum, Master?” you ask with hoarse voice.
“Granted,” I pant.
And as I collapse on the bed next to you, I hear you explode in your orgasm.

Aftercare

You collapse next to me, and I embrace you and kiss you.
“That was so amazing,” I sigh.
“For me too,” you pant.
“You did so well. You are such a good girl.”
“Thanks, Master.”
“I am so proud of you. The way you took that beating, that was so good.”
“I’m proud of you too, Master. It must have been hard for you to hit me like that.”
“Please, can I now be P.D. again?”
You kiss me.
“Yes, P.D. Yes, you can.”

We lie close for some time. Just cuddling. I stroke your hair. You play with the short curls on my chest.
“So, did Master Jim convince you to do that?”
I nod.
“He told me that it was selfish of me, to take a whipping away from you.”
You smile.
“I know why you did it. It was not selfish.”
“It was not. But I still took it from you. Jim told me that if I really love you, I get over my sensitivity and beat the crap out of you.”
“And you did.”
“With your help. I could not have done it …”
You press a finger against my lips.
“Shhh. That is not important. You did it. That’s what counts.”

We lie silent for a few more minutes. And then you kiss me.
“I still cannot really believe that you actually managed to do that.”
“Neither can I,” I admit.