From her place on the floor, kneeling, head bowed, Marianne heard the front door open and then shut with a sharp click. She couldn’t help but think that even the sound of the door shutting sounded ominous. It had been a long time since she had been in trouble, and Master was particularly displeased with her this time. She heard the sound of his shoes on the hardwood floor of the hallway, heard him pause in the doorway. She wanted to look up at him, to gauge his temperament, but she remained on her knees, eyes to the floor.
She heard him cross the room, finally stopping in front of her, the gleam of his well-polished shoes a testament to her good behavior in other areas of her submission. I can polish a shoe like a pro! she thought. But she couldn’t keep her hands away from herself day in and day out. Sometimes she just…slipped. “Just a little orgasm,” she would think. “It’ll be okay.” Sometimes she even imagined that she might not tell him…it was no big deal, right? It couldn’t matter that much. But she always did. And it always mattered.
“I want you to tell me again what you thought of this morning while you masturbated, Marianne,” he said abruptly. No ‘hello,’ no small talk. “I want you to describe your fantasy, in detail.”
Marianne’s mind instantly rebelled. She hated when he made her tell him the nasty things in her head. It had been bad enough that morning when she’d had to tell him over the phone on the way to work. She’d hope that would be enough “punishment,” knowing how embarrassed it made her to tell him.
She should have known better. She had realized just how displeased he was with her when he’d called on his way home from work that evening and told her to be waiting for him, naked and kneeling, in the back room – the room he used for punishment. That evening Marianne had looked around at the various straps and paddles that lined the walls and felt her legs begin to shake. She loved it when they played – when he used those same implements on her for pleasure (even if that “pleasure” was from pain); hated it when he punished her with them. But she knew that she deserved this punishment. Rules were rules, and she had blatantly disobeyed.
She took a shaky breath, prepared to say what he wanted to hear. “I –”
“No,” he interrupted, “wait.”
Marianne almost looked up at him then, confused, but she felt his hand on the back of her neck. “I didn’t tell you you could look at me yet, did I?” His voice was a low, menacing growl that he only reserved for Marianne’s worst behavior.
“No,” Marianne squeaked.
“Then keep your head down, girl.” It was a term he only used during punishment, and it made her shiver. She kept her head bowed, eyes downcast. Above her, she felt him move, and then, suddenly she was blinded as he wrapped a cloth over her eyes. She felt the tug as he tied it at the back of her head, securing it in place. As she started to lift her head in surprise, he pushed her back down, then further, so that she lay over her knees, face close to the floor. “Don’t move,” he said.
She felt him move away from her.
She was completely blind.
She felt completely alone.
Her heart pounded in her ears. Her breath came short as she waited, wondering what he was going to do.
She heard —
She wasn’t sure what she heard. Rustling. Movement. Cloth sliding against cloth? She desperately wanted to sit up, to strain to see through the heavy cloth over her eyes, to see what he was doing. Not knowing made it all that much worse. Her heart thundered so loudly she wondered if he could hear it.
“Please –” she began, her voice muffled by her position.
She felt his hand come down on the back of her neck again and jumped at the touch. “The time for that word is over, girl,” he said. “You know the rules. You could have asked permission. You chose not to.”
She wanted to make excuses, but there were none. The rules were simple: no orgasm without permission. Period. She stayed silent, waiting.
After a moment she felt the pressure of his hand ease, and then he pulled her back into a kneeling position.
Abruptly, he slapped hard at the inside of her thighs. She yelped and opened them wide.
“That’s better,” he said. She felt her face burn in embarrassment. Even after all this time, she still felt embarrassed exposing herself to him. She pondered a moment as she sat there blindly, legs splayed, sex open. Vulnerable. She didn’t like it. But then she realized that not being able to see him meant she would not have to meet his eyes while she told her fantasy.
She breathed a silent sigh of relief.
“Play with yourself,” he commanded.
Her head jerked towards the sound of his voice. “Wha– what?”
“Touch yourself. While you tell me what you were thinking about this morning. You know, while you were being a disobedient slut who couldn’t control herself enough to follow one simple rule.”
Marianne swallowed. Being embarrassed about masturbating, about wanting to masturbate, was why she was in this predicament in the first place. That was why she hated to ask permission, especially when so often he not only made her ask, but made her beg to be allowed to do it. He knew how it made her feel and he knew that that very embarrassment, that shame, made her wildly excited. And so they played this push/pull game, with her enormous sexual appetite being held in check by her refusal and shame in asking him for what she wanted; him waiting for her to capitulate, to come to him, finally, unable to help herself.
Slowly, hesitantly, ears and face hot, she licked her fingers and began to rub her clit in small, hesitant, circles.
“The story,” he said again. “I want to hear what it was that turned you on so much, slut.”
“Please, sir –” Her voice cracked as she tried to plead her way out of it. Wasn’t this humiliation enough? “I– I can’t –”
She heard sudden movement and felt him beside her, felt his hand grip her face. “You can and you will,” he growled.
To add insult to injury, she felt a betraying throb between her legs at his voice; felt her cunt growing wet. It did not go unobserved by him, either. She heard him chuckle. “I smell a slut in heat,” he said. “You can’t even be punished without your cunt getting wet, can you, Marianne? You must be the most insatiable slut I know. Aren’t you, girl.”
When she remained silent, he slapped his hand back and forth rapidly between her thighs again. Her thighs burned, tears came to her eyes. “Well?” he said, “Aren’t you? Answer the question, Marianne,” all while continuing to slap her thighs.
“I — yes, yes!” she cried, whimpering, trying desperately not to close her legs against the assault, because that would have meant worse things.. “I am!”
“You are what?” Slap slap slap…!
“An insatiable slut!” And to prove it, seemingly all on its own, she realized her hand was furiously rubbing her clit, and was soaked in her juices.
He stopped slapping her abruptly. She moaned and collapsed, and yet she rubbed harder, feeling herself climbing to orgasm even while her mind registered that the pain was over.
“You aren’t trying to make yourself come, are you? His voice was conversational, as if he was merely asking out of curiosity —
“No!” she cried, snatching her hand away from her pussy, panting, thighs on fire, cunt on fire, too.
“I didn’t tell you to stop. I just told you not to come.”
She heard a whine come from her throat. ” I know but, I can’t — !”
“The story, slut. I want to hear it.”
She took a shuddering breath. He would have it one way or the other. What was the use in resisting?
“I…I was in a room,” she said. “A hotel room, maybe. I was…on my knees, like this. I was….I was touching myself. Like — like I’m doing now.”
“Were you alone?” he asked. And then, when she hesitated, her hand stopping its movement again, she felt his hand clamp down over hers, as he forced her to keep touching herself. “Don’t stop rubbing yourself. You didn’t stop this morning, did you?”
“No,” she whispered, answering both questions. She started rubbing again, large circles, feeling her excitement rising again, betraying her. “There were…there were men there,” she breathed.
“Oh?” he said. “And what were they doing, you little slut?”
“They…” She swallowed. Why was he making her do this? Stupid question, her mind answered.
“They were watching,” she said. “They were standing around me…” She swallowed. Saying the words, she could see the scene, felt the excitement she had felt this morning flooding her. She heard her own breath, panting in her ears. He didn’t have to encourage her now, she wanted what she was doing, she felt the orgasm rising inside of her again, who cared if he was watching, she couldn’t see him anyway! She felt the tightening in her stomach, heat flooding her–
“Don’t you dare come,” he snapped, his voice cracking like a whip, snapping her back to the room. To her reality.
She jumped and took a shuddering breath, stopped the movement of her fingers, ashamed that she had been so swept away. Her breathing was ragged, her face bowed.
“Look at you,” he continued. She felt him pacing around her. Felt his eyes on her. “So dirty, kneeling on the floor with your legs open, a slut, a self-serving whore. Tell me what those men were doing, girl, what you wanted those men to do. You didn’t finish the story this morning, did you?”
Marianne’s face burned as she thought about the end of her fantasy this morning. As she thought about the men, their cocks in their fists, pumping up and down as they watched her. She forced her excitement down and tried to slow her breathing. As she did, she realized she could hear something else. Someone else? In the room.
“Don’t stop, girl, keep rubbing your pussy, just like you did this morning when you were all alone. Just like you did without permission, slut. I’m giving you permission now. But don’t you dare come.”
She began again. She was already so excited, filled with a mixture of embarrassment and chagrin and heat, that she was panting and on the edge in no time.
“Tell me how the story ended, Marianne,” he said again.
“They…I…was there, on my knees, and they were around me, and I was being made to fuck myself –”
She moaned, in shame and in excitement.
“…In front of them. And they…”
“They were jacking off, shooting their sperm and semen all over, all over me!”
“Like this?” he asked, whipping the blindfold from her face. She was stunned to see several men standing around her, cocks in the hands, pumping them hard. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t heard them.
She gasped and moaned, and rubbed harder. She was so close —
“Marianne,” his voice said, sharp and commanding. “You WILL NOT COME.”
“No,” she whimpered, “please. Please!”
And then the men were doing what she had fantasized, jerking in their orgasms, squirting, cum and jism all over her…
“No,” he said, “not for you. You don’t deserve it.”