Well this is what I have thus far. Did some editing but haven't had a chance to write much more because I'm in Seattle and as exciting as hot writing is the end of the story will have to wait until my vacation is over. But this is the rest of what I started reading to you all at our last meeting. Enjoy.
Breathe in and out. Don’t panic. Okay, maybe counting is a better idea.
One one-thousand. Two one-thousand.
Just keep track of the minutes and time will go by faster.
Three one-thousand. Four one-thousand.
Count and breathe. There is plenty of air in here.
Five one-thousand. Six one-thousand.
Keep shifting weight between knees. He can’t leave me in here that long this time, can he? Oh, god, he wouldn’t dare.
Thirty one-thousand. Thirty-one one-thousand.
This is officially boring. My knees hurt. I really have to pee. No, I’m supposed to be thinking something important while I’m in here. Like about the true nature of my submission or something. Screw that, I’m going to piss in his closet, that will show him.
Fifty-eight one-thousand. Fifty-nine one-thousand. Sixty one-thousand.
Breathing and counting, I’ve no clue how long I knelt there, just that after the first several minutes I stopped counting or thinking so hard and focused on the darkness. Even behind the effective furry-lined blindfold I could sense the complete lack of light compared to the relative brightness of the bedroom before the closet doors were closed. The idea that there was a blacker place than behind the blindfold was disconcerting. I kept assuring myself that an ordinary closet has plenty of breathable air. That I wouldn’t run out anytime soon. That the vinyl cling tape around my mouth left me plenty of room for nose breathing.
I was surprised by the fact that my arms had not yet started falling asleep where they were secured behind me in am arm binder fashioned out of rope. Obviously he had known what he was doing back there—rope binding shoulder to chest harness, then elbows and wrists with perfect knots—to keep the blood flowing properly so I could stay in the darkness alone with my thoughts for as long as possible. This was vastly better than spending the time rapidly feeling first my fingers tingle and lose all sensation until both of my arms were entirely asleep. When at the last very urgent moment I would have to throw myself against the swing out doors and wildly make noises to somehow convey that my arms are seemingly ready to fall off and at that point deal with the consequences of “escaping.”
This was a scene that was played out nearly every time he bound my arms when we were first exploring rope. Thankfully we had moved past those days and into moments like this when I know all my limbs are safe and I have nothing but the evil things he might do next to worry about.
Thinking about other times I’ve escaped by whining about unpleasant pain, I wonder why I don’t try the same method now to get out of the mind numbing dullness of the closet. Just accidently brushing my hands against the door as I shift my weight, however, is met with a stern, “Hold still!” from the other side of the door. My body goes cold and I don’t dare move again knowing without seeing that he is out there making “the face.” The one that means business. Head tilted down to glare over the rim of his glasses with stony impassible eyes and a firmly set jaw.
My behind begins to hurt all over again thinking about that look and the paddle. The evil broad faced one with symmetrical holes bored into it to cut down on air resistance. The one that hits my skin with a frightening crack. My face shoved into the carpet, ass in the air, arms sharply tied behind me. Hoping not to earn any more smacks if I can just hold still. Nothing pleasurable about the noise, the biting pain. But the worst of it is the look of disappointment in his usually kind eyes before the blindfold goes on, and before the gag of tape over my mouth to make sure my sarcasm—amusing in life, aggravating during play—doesn’t get me into anymore trouble. Immediately after my bum is paddled to a sore bright red I’m placed in the darkness to think about what not to do ever again.
But the smartassery comes so easy and as soon as I’m alone the running comedy routine starts in my head anew. Apparently I’m not very good at this redemption thing because even with all my hopes of behaving, being a good girl, and never incurring the wrath of the mean paddle ever again, my mind never quite focuses on reverence or apology. Instead discomfort, boredom and fears of claustrophobia take center stage.
After seeming ages I vaguely hear footsteps getting closer and suddenly the closet doesn’t seem so bad anymore. Scarier is the not knowing what comes next, leaving the safety of the darkness to learn what is in store for me care of his devious mind.
As the doors squeal open I try impossibly to make myself as small as possible. Maybe he’ll forget I’m in here and just change his shirt. Think invisible thoughts. I know I couldn’t possibly be more visible as he leans down to grab the hefty securing knot of the ropes on my arms to haul my body off the floor. My legs don’t quite work properly after al the kneeling and I can hear the frustration in his slightly labored breathing as he does the majority of the work dragging my weight across the room where he guides me back to my knees somewhere in the vicinity of the bed.
I sense him moving around behind me, probably walking around to kill time and make me wonder what will happen for just that much longer. My heart barrels in my chest, so noisy I can’t hear where he is the room anymore, forcing me to jump when he tenderly touches my shoulders from behind. He kneads them, bringing more blood to my constricted hands. The kind touches more painful and unexpected given my words earlier in the evening. I would gladly take more of the paddle to apologize for breaking the no-bratty-attitude clause of our relationship but every stroke of his soft hands across my sore arms compounds the guilt. How can he still be kind when I keep forgetting the simplest things? When I can’t even use the closet time properly to think about not repeating the mistake? I know he can tell just by looking at me that I was in the closet being insolwnt rather than industrious. Some things never change.
Soon he moves in front of me to sit on the bed, his lap level with my face. I tilt my head wishing I could see his expression. One knee on either side of my head, he leans in to kiss the part of my hair as he unbuckles the blindfold, whispering a reminder to keep my eyes closed for a moment. In a hurry to see his face however I open my eyes a bit too soon and squint into the light, blinking until I can see more than blurs of color to finally recognize him in front of me. He gives me a small friendly smile as if to ask “Well what now?” And I wish I knew.
He strokes my hair and face so gently it is painful, as if he’s the one who needs to apologize. I wish my mouth were free so I could smile back, instead I make almost animalistic purring noises to convey my gratitude. The petting morphs into his hand gradually bringing my head into his lap and I awkwardly nuzzle my face against the heat of his crotch enjoying the knowledge that he is growing harder in his pants. After several frustrating minutes he pulls me away from him and shakes his head tsking and I know the torture hasn’t even begun.
All I want is to be released from the rope and the gag so I can show him I understand my error by using my mouth for something worthwhile. If I could just get the tape off my face I could put my mouth around his cock and we could move on to the pleasant part of the evening and forget about all my earlier silliness which is of course exactly what he isn’t going to allow to happen. First he has to tease me to the point of near madness, then we’ll be even again.
Being practically unable to move without his help I’m left to totter on my knees in front of him as he grins and stands adjusting his erection to a more comfortable position. That this elicits a longing sigh from me only makes him grin further while he walks behind me to reach around and grab my nipples. No amount of moaning or rocking back and forth on my knees to get away can manage to convince him to stop but instead gives him an excuse to squeeze and twist harder. Just ten it felt as if I can’t take another second of the pain he take hold of the arm binding and dangles me over the floor for an cruelly long moment before adding carpet burn to the pain on my nipples by releasing me an inch from the floor to fall on my chest.
Squirming without the use of my arms I feel him walk into the space between my legs until he is able to use his ankles to hold my thighs open, reaching up to grab the rope harness with one arm. With the other he roughly gropes between my legs. Feeling how wet his attention to my breasts has made me, he pulls me a bit further off the floor so they can dangle, nipples brushing against the Berber carpet. Me squealing, him laughing at the situation while forcing two fingers into me. He fucks me violently, knowing very well that doing so causes my nipples to graze the carpet in a more intense rhythm. Just as the pleasure of his fingers was beginning to outweigh the pain of my chest he very abruptly stops, dropping me back to the floor. Damn him.
Still holding my thighs open he reaches somewhere outside of my line of sight for a stingy instrument to hit my wet lower lips with. I don’t recognize the sensation—a crop perhaps—but am thankful that at least it isn’t the horrible paddle making a reappearance. After a handful of slaps I am no longer willing to hold still and take the pain but my attempt to wiggle away is met with much harder strokes of the crop against my labia. I give myself a pep talk to convince my body to hold relatively still. When the spanking becomes too much to hear and my fight or flight response kicks in he is forced to gently step on my behind to help keep me still. He slaps my inner thighs to remind me to keep them open and I growl in frustration.
“Oh poor baby,” he coos continuing without missing a beat. “You like it and you know it, look how wet you are, whore.” The final sharp hit of the crop and the word hit me at the same time, not knowing which one hurts more coming from him. And yet the warm feeling of arousal is unabated by it. Apparently I am a whore and loving it.
He tosses the crop away and kneels beside me to begin the task of untying my arms. As each loop of rope comes lose and he pulls them free of my arms I feel the relief of my muscles able to move and the ache of them being motionless for so long. Rather than allowing me to enjoy regaining the freedom of my arms he instead uses the same rope he has just removed to tie them in a different position.
Still laying face down on the floor he straddles my prone body to keep me still as he pulls my wrists above my head and ties them together. Then they are pulled behind me, forcing my elbows bent at an almost painful angle to be tied off at the nape of my neck to the rope harness still looped around my chest. He watches me gracelessly attempt to raise my chest off of the floor with my elbows with him half sitting on my back laughing at the struggle. Glad I can be so amusing, now get off you’re heavy.
Done with my arms he turns his attention to securing my legs by wrapping rope around my ankles and then my thighs to create a sort of frog tie. With my feet tied tight up against my behind my legs are forced awkwardly into the air. This leg binding severely complicates my attempt to protect my sore nipples from the floor. Thusly distracted by this dilemma I don’t notice until too late that he has heaved my dead weight from the floor up on to the edge of the bed.
I hear the tell tale release of a zipper behind me while I’m busy groaning under the effort of taking the weight off my chest which I soon realize is impossible with my legs dangling off the bed. Having no control over my legs also makes it impossible to keep him from between them. Using this to his devious advantage he takes an ankle in each hand and spreads my thighs. Even with the pain of the crop fresh on my cunt I’m dripping wet, making it even easier for him to glide inside me.
He pushes in as far as possible with a grunt and then pulls out until we’re barely still making contact for several long torturous moments. Holding my ankles tight he then begins to buck wildly against me, his bare skin slapping rhythmically against mine. I can’t decide which sensation to focus on for any length of time—the joy of his cock finally inside me or the gnawing pain of him purposely causing as much friction as possible on my just spanked bits. Soon the pain becomes so intense it registers as pleasure and I feel myself begin to tighten in readiness for release wondering if he’ll notice or allow it.
I should know better than to think he would let me off so easily but am still shocked when he stops mid stroke just as I am about to cross over to orgasm. Moaning in total frustration he flips me over. The sadistic grin on his face only further aggravates me which I try to convey with pleading narrowed eyes. This only amuses him more and I glace down to notice he is stroking himself only millimeters from my cunt, totally exposed between my straining thighs. With legs trapped under me and elbows straight in the air I can’t move far enough to force him to make contact with my clit.
My frustration is at a frenzy just as he come, ejaculating messily all over the front of me, marking his territory. Rubbing the remnants of his ejaculate off the head of his penis against my labia for one torturous moment he says. “I’ll be right back, you stay here.” I’m left to squirm hopelessly feeling his fluid dry on my breasts and belly a sticky mess.
