Anniversary Assignment: Bound And Caned

This is the last of four assignments given to Breanne to celebrate her one year anniversary writing for Michael Alexander Stories. Breanne's eloquence, her unflagging spirit, her joie de vivre, as well as her sexual appetites have enriched the blog and website and kept us all entertained. Hopefully she will go on for several more years.

If you are a new visitor, especially if you're looking for the remaining parts of Breanne's "Riding The Horse", please follow the link or click on the banner at the top of the right side column. It will take you directly there. But you might want to think about reading the assignment below. It's worth it. - MA

Bound & Caned - Assigned by Mistress Sara

I’ve started to notice that when I have to leave the house to meet with either Kari or Mistress Sara, I really don’t have to worry about what I’m wearing, do I? Kari likes me to show up at her apartment naked, which of course means a twenty eight second dash through the parking lot, up some stairs, and along the balcony, leaving me slightly breathless as well as naked. Mistress Sara on the other hand prefers me in something elegant.

And elegant I was on Saturday morning. Around eight o’clock I signed off the computer (and chatting with Master Barrett) and took off my chastity belt. I had been wearing it for several days, suffering from the cyclic hourly vibration torments Master Barrett had devised to keep me sufficiently “wet” for Mistress Sara. Once freed of my burden I showered, cleaned up (and I DO clean up nicely), and got dressed in a soft flower print knee length skirt, sans panties of course, a white blouse, sans bra of course, and a blue button up cardigan. Sensible but sexy heels went on next and after slinging my bag over one shoulder, I waved goodbye to my mother, jumped in my Saturn coupe, and drove to north Houston.

Like a good girl, I had lifted my skirt so that my bare skin was touching the seat. I have a confession to make. I watched “The Story of O” on Netflix the previous evening and was still suffering from that romantic longing of submission that came with faked BDSM scenes, horrible sound effects, and the personal conviction that the girl who played “O” had never ever been whipped, butt fucked, or from her rather unconvincing moans, even had sex. I swear most sixteen year old girls could do a better job faking it. Hell, if I had been cast, I would have told the director “No seriously. He can actually whip me… AND butt fuck me!”

Oh well. French films… what can I say?

The drive was calm and relaxing, which was good because while not exactly nervous, I wasn’t exactly calm either. When you are going to your own torture session, it’s tough not to get all “Amnesty International.” But I knew what I was getting in to and when I finally got to the Woodlands and found Mistress Sara’s apartment, I was pretty wet.

Wet despite the fact that my pussy was empty. For this assignment, Mistress Sara wanted me open and fresh, which certainly made things easier for me. But I’ve gotten to the point where, while not USED to being stuffed, NOT having stuff inside me is about as sexually… intriguing as having all sorts of sex toys being used on me. I could feel my pussy pulsing, questing, wanting, and I shut my car door and climbed the stairs to her apartment.

The door opened only a few seconds after I opened it and there was Mistress Sara. She was dressed all in black, but it was skin tight leather, leaving little to the imagination, but with all the salient parts hidden. The outfit seemed to swirl down her body like liquid paint and I bit my lip, suppressing my longing to get on my knees and plant hot kisses on her belly, slipping my tongue along the edge where flesh met leather. Instead we kissed on the lips, our arms slipping around each other as Mistress Sara tasted me. She pulled me into the apartment and took a step back after our kiss to look at me. Her eyes seemed to glitter.

I stood there like a sixteen year old girl on her first date, slightly breathless, excited, a little nervous, and definitely wet and ready. Mistress Sara reached out with a soft hand and touched my cheek, cupping my face. I closed my eyes as she traced the outline of my cheek, my lips, and then slipped her fingers over my chin and down my throat. Slowly I felt her slide downward toward my cleavage, eventually coming to the knitted cotton of my cardigan and the softer material of my blouse. She began unbuttoning my cardigan, which took only seconds and then she gently pushed it off my shoulders. I helped take it off by shrugging my shoulder, but that just drew her eyes to my breasts even as she slipped the knitted sweater off my arms. Then Mistress Sara was unbuttoning my blouse, taking her time to appreciate the growing exposure as my cleavage grew until skin was visible from chin to belly button.

And she still hadn’t pulled my shirt open to expose my breasts. Once the every button was unfastened she moved close again and put her mouth on mine. We kissed, sweet and delicate and I seemed to melt in her embrace. Then her tongue went downward, over my chin and down my throat, a wet line of delicious sensation that caused a shiver to run through me. Her warm breath blew against my chest, between my breasts and I moaned thinly as instead of opening my shirt and exposing the straining tips, she moved downward, going to her knees as her mouth moved along my belly.

Her fingers touched my ankles, right above my high heels and slid upward along the outside of my leg, moving toward the back. Her hands went up under my skirt quickly, cupping my bottom and squeezing me, kneading me, as she planted warm wet kisses along my tummy. I tried to spread my legs, hoping she would touch me elsewhere, but her arms tightened around me and I found myself locked in place. What was only a minute later but felt like hours, Mistress Sara pulled her hands out from under the skirt, without ever touching me anywhere but on my posterior. But now her fingertips came up along my sides, toward the front, where she grabbed the pointed ends of the front of my shirt. I stiffened, not in alarm, but instant desire as she flicked both halves of my shirt front aside, exposing my midriff all the way up to my shoulders. My breasts, heavy and ready and wanting, the nipples hard as rocks and sticking straight out were suddenly exposed. As the shirt started to slip off my shoulders her fingers came up and grazed my nipples, touching me so lightly that it was as if a feather or a few stray hairs had crossed my skin. I gasped and my pussy tightened abruptly.

Still on her knees in front of me, Mistress Sara pulled my shirt down my arms and back. Make no mistake; her position was not one of subservience. I was clearly the submissive. Her position on her knees was not about yielding to me, or presenting herself in a mixed light. Mistress Sara is so comfortable with her role as a domme that even being on her knees, if by her own choice, is a position of power. My shirt fell to the floor and then her fingers were at the waist band of my skirt, unbuttoning the single button at the side and letting the flower covered material slip down my legs to puddle around my high heel clad feet. I stepped out of the fallen skirt with what I thought was grace.

Mistress Sara rose to her feet with twice the grace of my movements. She leaned forward, kissed me again, and then took my hand and led me to the sofa. Her apartment was lavishly decorated, demonstrating the wealth she possessed. Sara is a lawyer, and a pretty good one. As far as decoration went though, it wasn’t so much her personal taste as it was a combination of Sara and my other Mistress and best friend, Kari. Kari is an interior designer, and a damned good one and that was how she had met Sara. Kari had set us up on a blind date at tapas restaurant one evening and well… things went right were Kari expected them too.

There was one thing out of place however. The living room, which normally sported the usual items like a sofa, love seat, end and coffee tables, still held all those things, but it also had one new item. Set off in an open space that now seemed rather crowded, Mistress Sara had added what looked to be one of those home exercise stations. It was metal framed, easily standing six and a half feet tall, and sporting a number of winches, pulleys, handles, and even a bench, along with a central core full of weights. I got the distinct impression that Kari had NOT been involved with the purchase, much less positioning of the equipment since the ergonomic flow of the room had been distinctly altered, and not in a good way.

But my attention was pulled away from Mistress Sara’s new exercise equipment as I was pushed onto the couch. I sat down with a thump as Mistress Sara seated herself next to me, leaning forward with one arm around my shoulders, the other across my front. I about died in bliss as her hand cupped my right breasts, her thumb delicately rubbing my nipple as we kissed. This continued for several minutes, her left hand moving back and forth between my breasts, not always tantalizing the nub, but caressing the sides, the valley between, and even tracing a finger down my stomach to my sex, almost but not quite touching my clit. It was like torture, but of a kind that I rarely experience. It set my nerves alight and felt like I had taken a hit of caffeine, ginseng, sugar, and concentrated pheromones.

She kept me in that heightened state for maybe five minutes, just barely caressing me, never letting me sink any deeper into sexual bliss. My body wobbled between totally relaxed to wanton desperation. Mistress Sara kissed me again and then leaned over and sucked my nipple into her mouth. It was like lightning had struck and I gasped. Then she was moving over me, straddling me, sliding down my body until she was once more kneeling on the floor in front of me. Her palms touched my thighs as her mouth moved down my belly and then I was spreading my legs for her as her tongue and lips came dangerously close to my sex.

And then she licked my clitoris. I almost orgasmed right then. It was a probing delicate movement, not the rapid lapping men like to do. My fingers tightened into fists, trying to clench the cushions. But the heavy leather couch resisted my need to brace myself even as Mistress Sara’s head pushed deeper between my legs. Her tongue left my clit and dipped along the folds of my need and I started to hyperventilate a little as I struggled to contain myself.

She seemed to sense how close I was because she suddenly pulled back and rose to her feet. I blinked, trying to recover from the sudden loss of warmth as she moved away. My body was on the edge, stimulated to the point of insanity, struggling to figure out a way to move toward completion. But that was not Mistress Sara’s intention. She returned almost immediately, but this time carrying my bag.

And a pair of bracers.

Bracers are a kind of leather protector which fits from your elbow to your wrist. Usually intended to provide a measure of protection to a swordsman, these were sold black and sported a number of metal circlets and clasps. Obviously intended for bondage, Mistress Sara began buckling first one, then the other on my forearms. They went on tightly, but not uncomfortably and I wondered momentarily if she were planning on securing my arms together behind my back. Instead, she began clipping the bracers together in front of me, providing me with a freedom of movement that was only restrained by the fact that both arms were now connected and bound together from wrist to elbow. I could have even masturbated like that.

“Legs up, my dear,” Mistress Sara ordered next, opening my bag. I brought my feet up and placed them on the couch so that I was in sort of an exposed squat. Certainly not the most erotic of positions, but it did have the effect Sara wanted. My nether regions were totally exposed. She drew my vibrating anal beads out of the bag and held them up. I tensed slightly. I’m not a fan of my vibrating anal beads, despite the fact I seem to have to wear them so often. In fact, I’m not a fan of ANYTHING that goes in my ass, and that includes cock too. Rule #4 states “the anus is not an entrance. It’s an exit. Human being and Slogerian Sludge Worms have an annoying habit of sticking their gonads in any dark damp hole regardless of sanitary conditions. Don’t do it.” Yeah, so much for that rule, right?

But to my surprise, Mistress Sara didn’t stick the anal beads into my anus. She grinned and began slipping them into a different hole, a wetter hole, a hole that made me gasp in sudden sexual ecstasy. I had never inserted my anal beads into my pussy, but I’m going to again sometime. They filled me in ways I had never imagined and when Sara turned the vibrating function on to low I had another scary moment where I thought I might cum. But even as I was gritting my teeth, straining against the sudden swell of pleasure, Mistress Sara reached into my pussy and began pulling the beads out. Evidently she had put them in starting at the middle, which is possible considering the size of the beads and the size of a woman’s sex. So when she drew them out, she was able to start with the smallest bead. She pulled and the second bead came out, then the third. But before she drew any more out of my sopping wet sex, she began rubbing that first, still vibrating bead against my ass.

I had oiled my rear end before coming that morning. In fact, I oil my ass most days. You never know when you’re going to get butt fucked and let me tell you, since girls don’t naturally lubricate their rear ends during anal sex, its smart for a nympho humiliation pain slut to add a little mineral oil to that spot just in case. Of course, I was now gushing enough from my pussy that lubrication wasn’t really an issue. Mistress Sara had seen to that. The first bead popped into my ass and then my mistress began threading the beads from my pussy to my rear end. I felt the final one leave my well and move toward the already mostly stuffed back door and then sink in, leaving me to suffer the uncomfortable feeling of fullness, while enduring the mild but steady vibrations in my bowels.

I’m going to admit, having a vibrator up my ass isn’t terribly erotic for me. I could walk around all day stuffed with my anal beads, on their highest vibration, and if I didn’t have anything in my pussy or stimulating me in some other way, I’d never cum. But if I WAS stimulated in some other way, then the anal beads are an enhancement much like pain is. If I’m already turned on, then watch out. Vibrating anal beads just make it that much more intense for me.

When my rear end was completely stuffed Mistress Sara once more went to my bag. This time she extracted my vibroballs. These are two purple plastic egg shaped objects, both attached to a set of wires that lead up to a bright pink remote control that also holds two AA batteries. Mine were fresh of course. Duh. Mistress Sara ran both objects through the glistening sex cream coating my petals and then indifferently pushed them inside my well. I gasped, my hips jerking forward in penetrative response to the intrusion. But it was a GOOD intrusion. I shuddered, eyes rolling up into my skull as Mistress Sara turned on the vibroballs to their lowest setting, leaving me to stew while she went back to my bag.

This time she came out with my butterfly clitoral stimulator. This is nothing more than another vibrator, though rather than being cock shaped, it is a small plastic bump on the backside of a butterfly shaped battery case. Velcro straps hold it into place and Mistress Sara pulled me forward and to my feet carefully, ordering me to stand while she fixed the butterfly vibrator above my clit. I was starting to feel it by then, the intensity building. I was already half way up that staircase and each second I endured the vibration of the anal beads, the vibroballs, and now the muted roar of the clitoral vibe (which Mistress Sara had kindly set to its highest level), I was rapidly climbing those stairs toward a predictable outcome.

She reached down, grabbed my purple G spot vibrator in one hand and then led me away from the couch, around the coffee table, and to the corner where her new exercise station stood. A padded red leather bench stuck out from one side and I was taken too it.

“Lay face down on the bench, feet toward the machine,” ordered Mistress Sara, still smiling, her eyes sparkling. I obeyed of course. The leather was cool under my skin and I found that I had to bend my knees, lifting my feet, to keep from banging my toes against the metal frame and the stack of heavy weights hanging in the core. My arms were above my head, stretched out straight thanks to the bracers that bound them together. The worst part was of course the butterfly clitoral vibrator. It was now solidly pressed to my clit and I knew it would only be minutes before I was cumming. I shifted a bit to get comfortable and then Mistress Sara moved down toward my feet.

“Spread your legs for a moment, Breanne,” she said.

I did so and I felt her probing at my slit. I lifted my hips and ass. There was another hum and I felt a different vibration. To my astonishment she pushed my G spot vibrator, a seven inch purple cock into my pussy, shoving aside the two bullet vibrators already inside me.

Under normal circumstances I would say that there wasn’t enough room inside my pussy for all that. But I was incredibly wet, incredibly horny, and because I was on my stomach, and immediately after insertion Mistress Sara had me close my legs, I was able to handle having not one, not two, but three tiny machines embedded inside me, each with a mind of its own. Okay, if not a mind, then a motor. The vibroballs complemented each other, both purring at practically the same rate. The G Spot vibrator however was jammed between them and going at a different speed which created this rolling imbalance inside me, stimulating me twice as much as either the vibrator or the vibroballs would have been able to accomplish. I grit my teeth and tried to keep my thighs from pressing together too much as the sexual stimulation brought me that much closer.

A strand of rope, thick soft nylon rope, was wrapped around my legs, from bent knee to my ass, securing my legs together as well as to the bench. Then another silky strand was wrapped around my ankles. This was then tied above me to one of the outstretched limbs of the exercise station, keeping the lower half of my legs and feet from banging or getting caught in the central support structure of the station. Lastly, another strand of rope was threaded through two of the rings embedded on my bracers. I watched, head up as Mistress Sara threaded this rope upward through what looked like a pulley attached to the same metal limb above me. She pulled on the rope and my arms moved upward, but she only tightened it up enough to secure my arms and keep me from flapping around everywhere.

She left me then, but only for a minute. I suffered in silence, my new position only slightly dampening my sexual need. I could still feel the build up and I knew that nothing was going to stop the orgasm I was going to have in a minute or so. I watched as my body involuntarily spasmed, as Mistress Sara brought a long thin bag to the coffee table and opened it. Upending the cloth, she poured out an assortment of narrow thin sticklike items.

Canes.

And whips, and crops, and rods. There were like ten or fifteen of them, ranging from a brutal looking bamboo rod about as thick as my pinky to this thin little willow switch that looked like it had been cut that morning. It was still green. There were canes made of plastic, of wood, and there were several crops, two of which ended with the typical leather flap on the end. My heart froze as I looked on, studying the implements of punishment as my bottom clenched in sympathetic anticipation. I felt a pain in my chest as my heart labored to send another pulse of blood beating through my body and then I cried out in orgasm, the cresting wave of pleasure and adrenaline and endorphins flooding my system and eliciting a sound that was nothing but pure release and lust.

Mistress Sara glanced over at me, picked up that willow switch, and approached. “So, should I start with your tits, your ass, or your feet, slave?” she asked.

I was in no condition to answer. I was still rocking with the orgasm. And since none of the vibrators had stopped, the let down from climax didn’t go very far. Almost immediately I was kicked back up the hill toward another orgasm. I think I gasped something unintelligible, not that it mattered because Mistress Sara moved down to the end of the bench, lifted the willow switch, and hit me.

My feet had been tied together, and since my legs were bent at the knee, the soles of my feet were facing the ceiling. The delicate arch, that spot Master Barrett likes so much to have me snap with a rubber band, was Mistress Sara’s target and I felt a line of fire cross both my soles. I cried out, no longer in the throes of orgasm, but in the wellspring of pain. It hurt. And she didn’t wait for my toes to uncurl or for me to relax. She swung again, laying another red line across my feet. I yelped, the orgasmic release I had felt moments before melting away as the pain even damped the slowly building urge to cum that I was already dealing with. Another stroke had me wincing, my face scrunching up into an expression that could only be described as painful. I grit my teeth, tears springing to my eyes as a fourth, then a fifth stroke of that willow switch landed, leaving hot lines of agony across my soles. And Mistress Sara didn’t just keep to the arch. One stroke landed across the balls of my feet. Another across my heel. By the time she reached her tenth stroke I was silently sobbing, my feet feeling as if I had pressed a hot iron to them.

Mistress Sara didn’t bother to stop. She left my feet alone though. Her next stroke managed to break my teeth clenching silence and bring a cry out of my lips. It struck my ass, leaving another red line bisecting both quivering globes. Another stroke a little lower had me crying out, pulling hard against the rope holding my arms slightly above my head. A moment later I was thumping my groin against the bench as my mistress beat me, swinging the switch with quite a bit of force against my ass. I could no longer control myself, crying out, almost screaming and at some point Mistress Sara stopped hitting my ass, left the room, and returned with a ball gag. I was sobbing at this point and she forced me to open my mouth and accept the cruel bit, stuffing it in deeply. Then I got three more strokes across my rear end.



Black leather filled my tear streaked vision and Mistress Sara, in all her brunette beauty and dominatrix coloring, reached up above me. Suddenly my arms were tugged upward, my torso following. I felt my breasts come up off the bench, dangling beneath me as I was bent in half at the waist, in a direction my body was never intended to go. I felt the strain. It was like a yoga position, a difficult one, and had I not been bound I would have never been able to hold it. Yet, it also frightened me. Now my face was trapped between my upper arms and I was looking downward at both the bench and my dangling breasts. Mistress Sara bent over slightly and then swung her willow switch past my nose, landing a perfect sharp stroke across both nipples.

Had I not been gagged I think that I would have roused the neighbors. It was like a foot long paper cut with lemon juice poured on it. It was like being bitten by fire ants. It was like getting a super bad sunburn and then rubbing sand into your skin. It was pure agony. And yet my pussy clenched and the vibrations coming from my loins suddenly seemed twice as strong, twice as potent, and I felt the rush. My mistress hit me again across the breasts, this time missing the nipples, but leaving another raised welt slightly above both swollen areolas and pointed tips. I thrashed a little, which made it harder to aim I’m sure, but she proceeded to give me another stroke, then another, until I was finally just hanging there, my breasts feeling hot and heavy and throbbing even as the tears poured down my cheeks to drip from my chin onto the bench beneath me.

Mistress Sara lowered me back down and I let out another muffled whimper through the gag as the weight of my upper torso was placed directly onto my whipped breasts. I sobbed again, almost choking on my own spit and Mistress Sara stayed right there beside me, setting the willow switch down as she stroked my head, my arms, and then my back. My breathing slowly settled and my muscles, which had all tightened to the maximum, began to slowly unwind. Of course as I recovered from my beating, the non-stop buzzing vibrations between my legs, against my clit, and deep inside me began to make them selves more prevalent to my mind. It wasn’t much longer than ten minutes before I was no longer agonizing over the caning I had received, but was dealing with the steady thrum of sexual urgency.

The combination of anal beads, vibrator, vibroballs, and the clitoral stimulator were doing some pretty interesting things down there. It’s tough to even describe. Everything part of me was buzzing, as if I were riding a motorcycle, except each part of me was riding a different motorcycle, and one of those motorcycles was equipped with a dildo that had completely stuffed me and translated every bump in the road and every vibration of the engine right into my pussy. It was incredible, and had I not just been received thirty strokes of willow switch to my feet, ass, and breasts, I would have cum a lot sooner. As it was, I didn’t cum for almost twenty minutes after my first beating.

Even as I was moaning from the overwhelming orgasm, Mistress Sara had returned to the coffee table and selected a thick plastic rod. She swished it once through the air and it made an evil hiss. I really wasn’t in a condition to understand what was coming, not when my body was going through the motions of climax, but then my mistress moved down to the end of the bench and I felt the first impact of the rod against my soles even before the orgasm had ended.

These blows were nothing like the willow switch. Where the willow switch had been a thin line of fire, these were sharp strokes that seemed so much thicker, wider, and spread a lower grade hurt over a wider area. Where the switch left welts, the rod left bruises and I could feel the pain of each stroke penetrating twice as deep. I thrashed against my bonds again. But unlike the previous whipping, this one was delivered while still strong with the flood of sexual release and the pain in my feet went no higher than my pussy. It clenched tightly against the vibrating rock hard objects inside, my hips pumping up and down and I began to work myself again, not in spite of the bastinado torment I was receiving, but because of it.

When Mistress Sara finished the ten strokes to my feet, she moved to my heaving ass, matching the up and down movements with blistering strokes that again brought tears to my eyes. It hurt. Oh god did it hurt, but the pain, which quickly became a heat, seemed only to cook my sex organs and push me higher. When Mistress Sara was done, I gasped as she once more hauled my arms up, bending me in half and revealing my breasts.

She didn’t hit me as hard this time as she had with the willow switch. Her strokes were strong, yes; but not the cutting line of agony. She beat my breasts and I could see blue lines forming across them. Her last stroke landed across both nipples, crushing the tips into my flesh and making me shake as bone deep pain flooded inward from my chest. And it was this final stroke that drove my loins over the edge, making me both sob and cum again at the same time.

Mistress Sara noticed. She didn’t release my arms, lowering me down. She just moved to the coffee table and selected a new tool. This one was a crop, a standard riding crop complete with little leather flap to make the noise that scares the horse. She brought it over quickly to me and without even a word of warning began swing the crop at my tenderized feet. My world turned white as the pain washed up through me. I was still partially insulated from it thanks to my orgasm, but as the rush of adrenaline faded the pain broke through and by the time Mistress Sara finished my feet and moved to my ass I was crying again. I could feel this throbbing ache near my toes and then this was swallowed as the crop struck my ass. It didn’t hurt nearly as bad as either the plastic rod or the willow switch, but nevertheless it stung bad, especially against the wounds already in place. As I bit down on the rubber ball gag I swore to myself I wasn’t going to cum again.

The crop against my breasts was the worst of course. They were already so tender, so available, so delicate. The skin was pink from the contact with the whips and there were a multitude of crossing red lines across both globes. Deeper, darker, thicker lines were underneath, bruises forming across my white breasts making it clear that they had been the target of vicious action. Mistress Sara grinned as she aimed precisely with the crop, letting the thin wooden strand land across one nipple while the leather pad snapped at the other. This caused some uneven sensations across my bosom which didn’t improve things at all. First one, then the other breast hurt more and I was grateful when the ten strokes were done.



Mistress Sara lowered me down at that point, letting me rest. Of course she also let me continue to suffer the vibration torment of the various machines she had implanted inside me earlier. But the cropping I had just received had gone a long way to still the raging monster that I normally consider to be my libido. I could feel the tremble of my toys, but it would be awhile before I was suffering from their encouragement.

Mistress Sara meanwhile had put away the crop and was now standing in front of me. She untied my bracers from the rope and then unclipped my wrists, freeing my arms from their restrictive bondage. I still WORE the bracers, they were just no longer connected. I sighed in relief stretching my arms before pushing them under my torso to get my weight off my breasts. Then, to my relief, she removed the ball gag, allowing me to work my jaw and moan for the first time. The ball gag was placed to the side and Mistress Sara stood in front of me, unzipping the tight leather pants she was wearing. Suddenly my attention was on her, rather than me, and I seemed to forget the throbbing ache in my jaw and tits, the burning of my ass or the soreness of my feet. She peeled the pants downward, revealing a trimmed and shaved pussy, with just a tiny line of pubic leading to her shaven slit. She was wet. I could tell. A deep breath filled my nose with her scent. For a moment she struggled with her heels, but even that was sexy and then her pants were off, leaving her bare from the waist down. She left the room for a second and then brought one of the dining room chairs in, setting it down directly in front of the bench and my face. She swung one leg over the chair and me, straddling the upholstered and padded chair, even as she settled herself, moving her sex forward.

I realized what she wanted and lowered my head downward. Our bodies met; my tongue and her clit. I duplicated the caress she had given me earlier and I concentrated on her little nub as if my very life depended on it. I licked and sucked and worked at Mistress Sara until she was gasping, her fingers entwined in my hair, my tongue driven as deeply into her slit as possible, while she pulled me toward her, trying to fuck herself with my face. When she came the juiced flew across my eyes, splattering me and soaking my cheek and nose. I could taste her dripping down into my mouth. My own libido was starting to come back, the urge to follow Mistress Sara into orgasm increasing with every mechanical repetition of “rotations per minute”. I went back to my mistress’ clit, hoping to distract my own rising urges with another round of sexual misconduct.

My mistress pushed my mouth away even as I sought to continue the tongue lashing I was giving her. As far as I’m concerned it was my right. She had given me a rather brutal lashing. Why shouldn’t I be allowed to reciprocate? But the difference between a submissive and dominant is that the submissive doesn’t get to make the decisions, except for one. And this wasn’t that one. Mistress Sara pushed me away and got up, her own chest heaving as the orgasm slowly ebbed. I watched as she slowly put her pants back down, the leather actually seeming to mold to her sex now as she tugged it up into place. I licked my lips, tasting her flavor and wanted more.

And then suddenly I realized I was close. Not right there quite yet, but close enough that I needed to try and hold off. I closed my eyes and held my breath, even going so far to push down on my breasts, trying to create enough pain to hold off the oncoming orgasm yet not cause severe distress to my body. It only worked for a minute or so before the earthquake between my legs finally forced me toward the edge of the cliff. I dug in with tooth and nail but in moments my legs were dangling over the abyss, then my waist. When my breasts fell into open air I gave up and let myself fall over the edge into orgasmic bliss, stimulated into ecstasy by mostly the clitoral vibrator, but helped along by the anal beads, vibroballs, and g spot vibe that was still buried inside my body. It must have been an impressive lead up too, because just as I climaxed Mistress Sara returned to me, this time holding a strangely shaped implement. It was a cane, of that there was no doubt, but it seemed to be made of one really long piece of wood, which had been bent into a three inch loop formed in the middle so that both ends met and formed the handle.

It was rather long and the length hampered Mistress Sara’s ability to hit my feet. It still hurt of course, but the blows were nothing compared to the ones I had already received, though the strokes still reignited the pain of my earlier caning. She had better luck with my ass, now having more room to really swing the cane. I was too far gone to recognize how different the little loop felt. All I know was that I was being beaten again and I felt as if someone had driven knuckles deeply into my tush, bruising me deeply. Sara had rebound my forearms together and when it was time to beat my breasts she hauled on the rope, tugging me back into the position were my breasts were exposed and dangling beneath me. Half way through she was forced to stop and put the ball gag back in due to my screams.

When it was over I lay there trembling, half in hurt and half in stimulation. At that point had Mistress Sara offered to turn off the vibrators in exchange for another whipping, I might have agreed. I would have accepted even another hundred lashes of the sap to my clit. As it was I managed to just suffer for another twenty minutes before feeling the seeds of another orgasm sprout and grow inside me.

The next cane she hit me with was a rattan sting cane, which feature a number of rattan reeds bound together. It wasn’t as bone penetrating deep as the other canes, but my god it hurt, especially on my breasts. For some reason my nipples kept getting stuck between the reeds when Mistress Sara struck me, thus pinching and pulling my nibs outward as well as leaving a swath of redness across my chest as well as the welts and bruises I already sported.

After my next orgasm it was a classic European school cane, complete with rounded end that curved. This one was absolute agony. It was easy to aim, left heavy red welts on my skin, and actually cut my ass on one stroke so that Mistress Sara actually stopped and doctored me immediately. After patching up the little cut with some Neosporin and a band aid, she picked up the cane and delivered the final two strokes to my ass, well away from the damaged spot. Then Mistress Sara turned to my breast and delivered a series of strokes to my already hurting and damaged mounds that almost made me pass out. When she was done all I could think of was the red haze that filled my vision.

Lying on my breasts was almost as bad as having them whipped and when I looked at Mistress Sara and shook my head when she made to let me down, she understood and kept me bound, bent in half. It was better to feel the strain in my spine than one ounce of pressure on my tits. With a sad but content smile, Mistress Sara sat down next to the bench and ran her fingers over my arms and shoulders, rubbing me, caressing me. She stayed away from my ass, my feet, and my breasts.

“Just fifteen minutes left, Breanne. Just don’t cum again, all right?” she whispered. Then I felt her loosening the rope that bound my waist and legs together. I couldn’t help parting my legs a bit as my knees came off the bench and my legs were held up by the rope connecting my ankles to the steel limb above. Mistress Sara slipped her hand under one knee, her finger moving upward toward my pussy and she caught the G Spot Vibrator as the pressures inside me forced it out. I sighed in relief. The overstuffing of my pussy had been one of the reasons I had experienced so many orgasms. But then, I felt it slide in again, Mistress Sara’s hand forcing it back into place.

My clit stung and my entire sex felt as if someone had scoured it with hot water and a bristle brush. I gasped as the vibrator went back in, only to feel it slide back out. Mistress Sara repeated this a few times as my pussy began quivering, shaking mildly as the newer sensation of thrusting was added to my torments. In seconds the fire, which had been smothered by the brutal caning roared to life and I began humping the bench, grinding my clit into the still humming clitoral stimulator, even as Mistress Sara fucked me by hand.

She kept saying “don’t cum, Breanne, don’t cum” and counting down the clock I couldn’t see. But with every word encouraging me to hold fast, her hand pumped the vibrator in and out of my pussy with increasing speed and efficiency. She wanted me to cum. I could tell, and she was doing everything in her physical power to make me explode one final time before my four hour limit was up. I bit down on the rubber ball gag, shook my head, and tried to think of disgusting things.

And then her other hand found the remote to the vibrating anal beads. Slowly, while still rapidly thrusting in and out with the vibrator, she began changing the vibration speed in my ass. I clenched, unable to help the reactions as the alteration of the stimulation impeded my ability to keep my orgasm at bay. Soon it was impossible and with three minutes left of my time, I shook through another orgasm that rattled me to the very foundation and left me blinking in a daze.

Mistress Sara pulled the G spot vibrator out of me, turned it off, and set it on the floor. She got to her feet and went back to the coffee table, where she selected one more cane. This one was incredibly thin, and I recognized it as a branch of wisteria, trimmed of the little buds that usually grow along the length of the vine. She stepped up to my knees, lifted her arm, and brought the branch down upon my feet, aiming perfectly for the delicate arches, already marred, red and blue, welted from the other beatings. I screamed and shook as the thin strand of material laced my feet with burning fire. The next stroke was only slightly to the left of the first one and both feet stung as if I had been dancing on the tentacles of a jellyfish. My head hung in defeat as I could no longer handle the sting and my mistress continued to strike my feet until I had received all ten strokes.



Then she moved to my ass.

I had slipped into a sort of mental shutdown, a dark hole where my body was slowly disconnecting from my body. I hung, my arms leaden, my shoulders aching, but no where near as badly as my breasts, my ass, and my burning feet. It felt as if someone had slapped a hot towel to my heels, an uncomfortably hot towel, which was then spread to my ass. Each stroke of the whippy cane drew a line of fire across my buttocks which then spread like liquid over each globe until I was clenching my bottom and thrusting downward and basically thrashing all over the place. The release of the rope had made it even easier to move and soon I had even managed to lift myself off the bench by my ankles and arms, dangling like a strung up piece of tenderized meat from the overhead limb. Thank God it was rated to handle a hundred pounds of weight. Mistress Sara didn’t miss a beat, merely moving the cane so that it continued to hammer into her target: my rear end.

“Breanne?” Sara asked me softly. I blinked. She was kneeling in front of me, one hand on my cheek. “Breanne?” It took me a moment to focus on her. My ass felt like someone had poured lighter fluid on it and it was now merrily roasting. When had the beating stopped?

“I have to cane your breasts now, sweetie. This is going to hurt, but it will be quick, I promise you.” She leaned forward and kissed me softly. I looked at her, eyes begging.

I’m a nympho humiliation pain slut. Being hurt, in a sexual manner, turns me on. But I admit, at that moment, I didn’t want her to do it. I shook my head, telling her as clearly as I could, despite the gag in my mouth, that I didn’t want her to hit me. I desperately wanted her to stop. She looked at me, ignored my wordless pleas, the muffled cries of “Please NO!”, pulled her arm back, and swung the wisteria branch at my breasts like Anna Kournikova hammering a tennis ball from one corner of the court to the other. The branch caught me almost perfectly just under my nipples but on the areola and as the pain exploded through me my eyes widened, rolled up into my skull and my entire body stiffened. Suddenly, my feet and ass didn’t hurt any more.

But by God my tits did. I’ve endured pain, lots of it, but let me tell you that NOTHING, not the stupid spiked dildo I used to have, not candles, not alligator clamps, not even six hours of riding the wooden horse came CLOSE to the immediate burning agony that slashed at me. The second stroke followed before I could even drag in a sobbing breath and I almost broke myself in half as I pulled hard on my bonds, swinging like hammock from my ankles and arms as Mistress Sara continued.

My antics made it impossible for her to aim, so some strokes fell high upon my chest, while one actually landed underneath my breasts, scoring a line across my stomach. The rest however landed upon the soft, swollen, mounds of bruised and welted flesh that had been the target of so many whippings. She waited for me to calm down and stop moving before she delivered the last stroke, a vicious swing that ended abruptly as the wisteria snapped across my bosom, right on my nipples.

I hung there. I was drenched in perspiration, my skin slick. I ached and burned and hurt EVERYWHERE, but mostly on my tits and my ass. My feet felt like they had been encased in hot lead and left to cook or wither and die. And so when Mistress Sara put down her whip and began freeing me, all I knew was that I wanted to curl up and die. She turned off the vibrators as well, pulling the anal beads out of my ass. That was agony as well, since it forced me to move the muscles. I barely knew it when she pulled the rubber ball gag out of my mouth. Later, before I left, she showed me the teeth marks I had put in it. She released my arms, but instead of letting me fall, she helped me up, supporting most of my weight in her arms as I tried to stand. There was no way I could walk. Even the barest amount of weight on my beaten soles was enough to drop me. She tried to turn off the clitoral butterfly, but I started to topple over and we compromised by her pushing it away from my clit so that it buzzed against my pussy. I started to sob, my body finally reacting to the beating and release. My breasts throbbed and burned and I looked down to see the crisscross patterns of the final whipping, the skin welted, bruised, and reddened all the way across. My nipples seemed even worse off, sporting dark purple blotches and there was one line of abraded flesh right across one areola that seemed as if I had been dragged along an asphalt road.

Mistress Sara helped me to her bed. I lay on my side. I couldn’t handle any other position. My body shook and trembled and then Mistress Sara managed to turn off the butterfly and extract the vibroballs, leaving me empty. I started to sob, quietly but hard, and Mistress Sara climbed up onto the bed next to me and gently laid one arm across me, touching only my stomach, holding me as I curled into a fetal position and cried.

And cried.

I’m not sure how long it was, but eventually the pain in my ass receded enough for me to lay on my back, looking up into Mistress Sara’s eyes. Her fingers caressed my temples, stroking my head, my cheeks, my shoulders, never coming close to my chest. At some point when I had relaxed enough and the burning was only a bed of coals, she got up off the bed and grabbed some sort of cream in a jar. It was blue and she told me to put my hands behind my head. I did, but then immediately left the position as she took a large daub of blue gel and made as if she were going to put it on my breast.

I didn’t say anything and she gave me a patient look. “It will make you feel better, and I will go lightly. I promise. With a tremor of fear I leaned back and let her touch me.

It did hurt, but the cream did what she said it would. Shortly I found the pain diminished even as she worked the gel into my skin. She didn’t squeeze or anything, just slow circles. It was only when she did the tips, still pointed upward despite the whipping that I hissed and hurt enough to ask her to stop. She did and then smoothed more gel over my upper arms. I was asked to flip over and I did, only feeling a deep ache from my breasts. Whatever Mistress Sara had rubbed into my breasts made them feel much much better. I winced and hissed as her fingers began working that same lotion into my rear end, first going lightly, and then as it began to work, kneading it in a little deeper. It was blessed relief. At some point she stood while I lay in a half conscious stupor, both awake and asleep, and stripped out of her black leather pants and top. When she climbed back onto the bed she began working my legs and then finally got to my feet.

I'm not terribly ticklish down there, in fact, I love having my feet rubbed. Just not after they've received a caning. But in this particular case Sara was gentle and her finger were magic. She smoothed the blue cream across the soles of my feet in light circles and I felt the pain begin to fade, washing away. It was exquisite. It was incredible. I fell asleep.

I woke up as Sara turned me over, but only for a moment. I didn't really rouse until I felt her tongue on my clit, sucking it, licking it, driving her own tongue into my body. I felt myself reawaken, and not mentally, but sexually. I groaned as her mouth did things to me and I felt myself ripening, wanting. I lifted my head and looked down at her past my red and bruised breasts.

"Please? Mistress Sara? I want you!" I said with heat, holding out a hand.

She lifted her face from my sex, her chin wet. Then she smiled. Slowly she crawled up my body and kissed me wetly on the mouth. I tasted myself their on her lips. And then her mouth was on my breasts, nibbling on my abused nipples even as her fingers were teasing my clit. My back arched and my hands found her sides, stroking her, caressing her. My eyelids fluttered as pleasure, mixed with just a tad bit of pain, rushed through me and I began to lift myself toward her. Her mouth left my breasts and she knelt by my side, her lips moving down my stomach. I grabbed for her, pulling her body toward me as her lips once more found my sex. She lifted one leg in response to my demands, straddling me, moving her own dripping slit near me. I wrapped my arms around her thighs, pulling her close and my mouth opened, my tongue darting against her little nub. She stiffened slightly and then bit down on my clit. I followed her and moments later we were trembling in each others embrace, moving with rhythms no man could ever understand. Touching, tasting, caressing, holding, loving, and cumming.

Together.

I wouldn't call her a slave. I don't whip her when she does something wrong. Just when she does something good.