Sometimes he does these things he threatens, and sometimes he just enjoys my suffering caused by my own imagination. I have learned never to anticipate anything from him, even when he says he is going to do something right then and there, let alone an hour, day, or week in advance. Once, and only once, when he told me he was going to do something and didn’t, I whimpered “But Sir, you promised.” Lesson learned. I won’t do that again. It is a Dom’s prerogative to change his mind and do whatever he damn well pleases whenever he damn well pleases.
Last week he said I was going to get one hundred lashes from his favorite belt. It’s scary sometimes how much he really enjoys using that belt. I imagined, as I always do, what it would be like. I wondered if it would be something I could handle without using my safeword. I worried about it. It made me wet. Then, I set the thought aside. Like the other mindfucks, it probably wouldn’t happen, and if it did it’s not like there would be a lot I could do about it.
I went to see him Sunday. The trip to his house is short, but I always enjoy it. We talk. There won’t be much conversation once we arrive. Sunday we talked about the story I had written for class, among other things. And then we were there.
He can always get me past the point of controlling my own orgasms within a few minutes, if he chooses to do so. (Then he can decide if I deserve punishment for cuming without permission or not.) He can send me soaring in “slut heaven” now with only a few words in that hypnotic voice, a touch, and maybe a little pain, if he chooses to do so. He chose to do both Sunday before we even made it through the foyer. Of course I would have been a bad submissive if I had complained about the euphoric high and endless orgasms, so I didn’t.
Quite a while later, I was blindfolded and led into the bedroom. I was floating in my happy place and he pulled me toward the bed, but I was stopped something I recognized. It was his spanking horse. He cuffed my wrists behind my back, pulled them up, and hooked them to a chain from the ceiling. He chuckled, and it gave me the shivers. “Time for your hundred lashes. Write about this.”
Oh shit! I had completely forgotten about this. Those eight words instantly had me fighting to pull my head out of the clouds and back to reality. He knew they would, and enjoyed my struggle. It would have been much easier for me to float through what was about to come and enjoy the pain, but that’s not the way he wanted it. Now not only was I supposed to remember so I could later write, I was going to have to count and remember multiples of fives. All require a brain, and mine was not functioning. I had left it somewhere in the living room. My first thought when I could think again was that I would be feeling the lashes as pure pain, and could not allow them to become pleasure.
On his birthday I was not able to count past 30 before my mind ran away and my body switched to pleasure mode. And I knew he was going to be torturing me to intentionally make me lose count. There was absolutely no way I was going to be able to do this and I told him that. “You can do it.” His gentle voice sounded so sure of it. It gave me a little courage. “Are you ready?”
I took a deep breath. “Yes, Sir.” I was pretty sure I was lying. Ow-god-damn-it-mother-fucker-son-of-a-bitch! He was not playing nice. “One, Sir.” I counted each out loud, remembering to thank him after each five. It was hard to talk through the pain, but he waited patiently. My body was wrenching. I made it past ten. By eleven I was losing count. “I can’t.” I was almost in tears, but I don’t know if it was from the pain or failing Him.
“Yes, you can.” His voice had a harder edge to it now. I straightened my body back up. I sucked in a breath and blew it out hard. I focused, and counted. I began to get into a groove, but that only meant the torture would soon begin. Sure enough he stopped and pulled my head up by my hair. “Keeping count, slut?” This voice was pure evil. “Twenty-two Sir,” I moaned. I could not lose my number. He stuck his fingers in my cunt. It was dripping wet. Twenty-two, twenty-two. I kept repeating the number in my mind. He decided to be nice, for the moment.
My knees buckled upon impact. “Twenty-three, Sir.” I straightened up. Maybe I could make it. Breathe and count, breathe and count. Fingers on my clit. Fingers that know exactly how to control me. Oh no! What is my number? Oh, yeah. Twenty-eight. God that feels good but I have to ignore it. He is talking to me. Twenty-eight. He is telling me to cum. “Twenty-eight, Sir!” I screamed at him. Oh-god-please-stop-doing-that! Hey, wait. Why did you stop? “Twenty-Nine, Sir.” I screamed just to scream. “Thirty, Sir. Thank you Sir.”
I was shaking, but I felt strong. I could do this. I would not lose count. Breathe and count. Hand in my hair, voice in my ear, cock in my ass. Cuming hard, screaming. The next blow was the hardest yet. There was silence. Then it sunk in. I was supposed to say a number. “No!” I growled in pure frustration. Shit!
He laughed and said “Thirty-seven.”
“Thirty-seven, Sir.” The count continued. The torture continued. The orgasms continued. His amusement continued. No matter how hard I fought, he not only owned my body, he owned my mind. “Forty-eight, Sir.” Almost half way there, but I don’t think I am going to make it. Fingers everywhere. Cock everywhere. Pain everywhere. And always that voice. Breathe and count. When did he unhook my arms? Breathe and count. The blows were coming even harder now and faster. I kept counting.
Then came a blow that dropped me to my knees. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t think. There was silence. He waited. Finally I managed to whimper “Forty-eight, Sir.” He chuckled (you probably caught it, too), helped me to my feet, and struck me again. “Forty-nine, Sir.” Almost half way there. I kept counting. Each strike rendered me speechless for a moment, and now I was cuming almost instantly whenever he wished. Whenever the next blow following pleasure would come, I would moan, groan, cry, or giggle. But I had no number in my mind. I don’t think I even knew I was supposed to. He would give me my number and I would count up from there. When he still hesitated, I added “Thank you Sir.” I did manage to remember some of my fives. I made it through the sixties. I never realized how far it is from the sixties to one hundred. I made it through the seventies. I just might actually do this.
In the eighties, I knew I wasn’t going to make it. I was screaming and trying to get away. I couldn’t take any more. He even had to pin me down to give me pleasure. But I was still “there” and still feeling the pain, all of it. Even if I could not remember a number for more than 30 seconds, I could still count. In the nineties, I was amazed. Did I actually just do this? “Ninety-seven, Sir.” Almost done. Damn it, why is he fucking with me now? So close. Ninety-seven, ninety-seven. Cock in me. Hands on me. Fingers in me. Nipples twisted and tortured. No! I am not giving up! “NINETY-SEVEN, SIR!” He stopped. I had defied him. I was fighting him. This was going to hurt. It hurt. I barely managed to say “Ninety-eight, Sir” from the floor. I stood up, with His support. I should have been on the floor with the next one, but I wasn’t. “Ninety-nine, Sir.” I said with strength. I only had one more! Then there was a pause. A very long pause. Which would it be next? Would he prolong this, or end it now? And which did I want? “One Hundred, Sir. Thank you Sir.”
Finally it was over. Or so I thought. “Don’t move.” he said. I almost laughed out loud. I couldn’t have moved if I tried. Then the stabbing pains started. I knew what it was. I did not move. He was using a Wartenberg wheel on top of my welts. He rolled the tiny little needles all over. My legs regained their strength from the pain, but I still did not move. He moved in to my inner thighs, untouched by the belt, unaccustomed to the pain, and despite myself I moved all over the place. He laughed, and I did too. Then he put some sort of liquid on my wounds. It felt cool and soothing to me. I thought it was aloe vera. I found out later it was rubbing alcohol, but that sting was nothing now.
He pulled me up onto the bed for my reward. With his cock in my mouth, I happily allowed myself to relax. Time to fly again. But I kept waiting for the next blow. I kept wondering what my number was. I had to keep reminding myself that I was already finished. No matter how much I was enjoying his cock, the nagging anticipation was still there. I could not fly. I stopped, and looked up at him. “Sir?” I asked. He looked at me. “May I please have more pain?”
He smiled in a way I had never seen. “Perhaps.” he said. I accepted his answer and continued to massage his cock with my throat. A few minutes later, the first blow on my welted and pincushioned ass caused me to pull back and inhale sharply, just for a second, and then I went back to what I was doing. This time I didn’t have to count, I didn’t have to think. I started cuming with his cock down my throat and his crop on my ass. Cuming over and over. I finally had to stop sucking him because I could no longer focus enough to guarantee I wouldn’t bite down. I thought he would stop as well.
He didn’t. I laid there with my head on his thigh, holding on to his legs while he gave me what I had asked for. Lots of it. I laid there screaming both from the pain and pleasure. My orgasms became just one long drawn out full body experience controlled only by his crop. I had no other stimulation, and I didn’t need any. I needed the pain.
There was more to the evening, but honestly I don’t remember one bit of it. Well, one bit. I do remember Him saying “That is the hardest I have ever beat anyone in my life.” I remember that because of the feeling of pride that I felt when he said it.
I responded “Thank you, Sir.”