"Ooh, that one's fading nicely," I think to myself, as I turn my neck to examine the last big bruise on my ass. Strangely, it had become a ritual of sorts: toweling off after a shower, and taking a few minutes standing in front of my full-length mirror to touch the marks Sir leaves on my willing body. I run my fingers over the bruise, shuddering in delight at the memory of begging Sir to let me cum while he flogged me mercilessly.
I lose myself in the memories, as my hands explore the curves of my ass further. I pinch the underside, that "sweet spot", and slip my hands between my cheeks, spreading them open. I stand in front of the mirror, brazenly exposing my swollen pussy lips and puckered butthole. It looks impossibly small and I make a mental note to thank Sir for his patience with stretching my ass for his massive cock before each assfucking.
Seeing myself so exposed, I can't help but tap my butthole with one finger, pressing more and more into it with each tap. My eyes close, and just as I'm about to lose myself to my fantasies, I hear Sir's voice in my head: "Remember, my pet, no cumming without permission."
A mixture of disappointment and arousal washes over me, only furthering my need to be used by Him. I almost finish getting dressed, before I remember that Sir instructed me to keep a butt plug in throughout dinner. I find the smallest one, lube it up and start teasing my ass with it. I focus on relaxing my hole, and it slides in without too much trouble. The sensation is so exquisite, the glinting gem at the base of the plug winking obscenely in the mirror, that it's all I can do to not fuck my ass right then and there.
I straighten my back, pinching my nipples and dipping my fingers in my pussy. It's beyond wet -- the slick juices slowly drip down my thighs, and I feel a flush of shame and excitement come over me. I know that Sir prefers I not wear any panties on dinner dates, and I mentally kick myself for allowing myself to get so embarrassingly wet.
"I've picked out your outfit for tonight. No panties, only thigh high stockings."
The text notification snaps me back to reality and I scramble to finish getting ready. The outfit that Sir picked out consisted of a surprisingly prim and proper Wednesday Addams inspired black dress with a white collar, beautiful lacy thigh highs and black heels. I look around for a bra, and as I pick up my phone to ask Sir if he picked one out, my phone pings:
"No bra, slut. I sure hope you don't think you can get away with just the small butt plug, wear a medium."
My knees nearly give out. My pussy throbs. How am I supposed to make it through dinner without cumming?
I wiggle my butt plug and it comes out with an audible pop, sending jolts of pleasure to my increasingly desperate clit. The bigger plug is nowhere near as forgiving -- I need to focus on my breathing to get it all in on the first try. I slowly fuck my ass with it, going deeper with each thrust. I lightly graze my nipples with my nails and push the butt plug in all the way, leaving me breathless, fighting the beginnings of a powerful orgasm.
The butt plug stretches my hole, filling me so completely. I sit on the bed, struggling to find a comfortable positions while I put on the thigh highs and the dress. It's longer than I thought, hitting me just above the knees, and I wonder if Sir knew that a shorter dress would only expose the pussy juice running down my thighs. My nipples poke out proudly, and I fight the urge to cover them with my hands.
*ping*
My heart flutters, I know it's Him.
"Be ready to leave in 10 minutes, I'll be home soon."
A sense of peace and calm washes over me, just like it does every time He comes home, and just as I settle into the couch, waiting for my Sir, my eyes open wide. I read and reread the next text, unsure if He's joking or not:
"Five bright marks from either the belt or the crop on each thigh, my pet. Now. Kneel by the door when you're done."
My heart jumps into my throat; I have never used anything on myself before. Seeing Sir in action is beyond arousing, but terrifying, too -- his cool concentration, his soothing voice, telling me what a good girl I am for Him. Could I do it myself, though?
I scramble to the toy cabinet, then pull out the leather belt and the riding crop. The belt feels long, unwieldy, even awkward in my hands, and I gingerly put it back. Sir makes it seem so effortless, how does he do it? I shudder, remembering the way He makes the belt sing in the air, the crack of leather against my ass and thighs, the flash of stinging pain followed by a delicious warmth. I check the time and curse to myself; daydreaming just cost me a few minutes, so I quickly grab the riding crop and flip up the skirt of my dress.
I clumsily hit my upper thigh with the crop, the familiar sting grounding me, quieting my racing thoughts. I look down and whimper in frustration -- the faint pink splotch that I hoped was good enough fades as quickly as it appears. I take a deep breath, raise my hand higher, and bring the crop down on my thigh with a deafening crack. The pain is exquisite, my eyes glued to the small rectangular mark left behind, praying for it not to fade.
Emboldened by my apparent success, I rain down the blows on my thighs, barely remembering to keep count. The tendrils of pain turn into hot pleasure, snaking their way around my thighs and directly into my increasingly wet pussy. I smugly look at the time -- five minutes left, Sir will be pleased -- then down at my thighs. I gasp in disbelief: half of the crop marks are fading, clearly mocking me.
Determined to be a good toy for Him, I decide to give it one more go. I close my eyes and breathe in. I imagine Sir beside me, telling me what a good girl I am for obeying Him, for trusting Him so implicitly and for giving myself over to Him to play with. I picture Him adjusting my grip on the crop, trailing his hand across my tits, pinching, slapping, twisting my nipples until I gasp, all the while He kisses me gently, murmuring His praise. He knows I don't just want this, I need this. I imagine Him grabbing a fistful of my hair in one hand, the other casually playing with my nipples. I hear his calm voice in my head:
"Look at me while you whip yourself. I want to see those big beautiful eyes, my pet."
I dip the tip of the crop between the folds of my pussy, and it comes out glistening with my juices. I kiss it instinctively, and imagine Sir nodding approvingly. In my mind's eye, I look at Him, feeling strangely bashful, embarrassed even. I imagine His grip on my hair tighten as he ensures I can't look away, and before I can chicken out, I slam the crop on my thigh with real force.
The pain in blinding, and imagining looking into Sir's eyes brings me to the very edge of an indescribable orgasm. I brush my swollen clit with my fingertips, a moan escaping my lips, and bring the crop down again.
My cunt gushes.
Again.
My heart feels like a hummingbird trying to escape.
Again.
"Thank you, Sir, thank you, Sir, thank you Sir," I whisper to myself.
Again.
My fingers tap the butt plug, then twist it, pulling it out just a little. I feel the juices from my hungry cunt flood my ass, lubricating the plug even more.
Again.
I lose count, my only desire to serve Him, to be consumed by the dance of pleasure and pain.
Again.
I bite my lip, steadying my shaky breathing and look down at my thighs. I count eleven red marks on my pale skin, and I am filled with pride.
I pull my dress back down, adjust my thigh high stockings and kneel by door, as Sir instructed. I become painfully aware of my slippery cunt, the red-hot marks on my thighs, my hard nipples poking through my dress, and my flushed face.
"I must look like such a slut," I think, and smile.
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