How are you feeling?
Nervous, if I’m honest.
Me too. Work has been really stressful. I’m trying to train this new hire and he’s just not getting it. But he’s a nice guy.
Yeah? My sister and her daughter have been staying with me this last week. I love my niece to death, but having to sleep in clothes because she keeps crawling into bed with me is driving me crazy.
I’m sure that’s the first time you’ve ever complained about a woman in your bed.
The small talk was comforting. After practically running here out of excitement, I needed some mundane conversation to calm me down. That, and I knew I wouldn’t be allowed to talk for the rest of the night. We were both nervous and excited. You could feel the energy in the room.
We continued to chat about work and whether he should stick to dating women for awhile or give men another try. I didn’t really think it was a good idea, especially after the last guy he dated, but I wasn’t going to judge.
I was going to make a rude statement about how sometimes everyone needs a little dick when the door opened and Master walked into the room. We both froze.
* * *
He was strapped to the cross, face buried in the leather padding, trying not to audibly sob. Red stripes in a variety of shades and sizes cover his back, arms, thighs, and calves. I couldn’t see it from behind but his nuts were in a vice, his cock is sounded, his nipples smashed. He had been doing so well; I knew he was nervous about impressing Master.
I was delightfully distracted. Being strapped to a table which is tilted back, I am almost upside down, my throat full of cock. My tits are Master’s handles. The Hitachi is pressed so hard into my groin that my clit has nearly wrapped around it. Firm, but not cruel, clamps stretch and pull at my labia. My feet and calves extend over the edge of the table, and, despite all the heavy face-fucking, I was still able to balance a rattan cane on my feet. I knew that if I dropped it I would have to switch places with the paintoy. Four months ago, when I was new, the boy dropped a riding crop. We have never switched back. As much as I liked him, I did not intend to ever go back onto that cross.
Tears streamed up and across my face as I struggled to breathe, struggled to focus. Abruptly Master pulled his cock out and smashed his open hands into my tits. I screamed and trembled, but I didn’t drop the cane. Wordless as ever, Master took the cane from my feet. I didn’t move them, regardless, knowing that I must be ready for any change in Master’s mood. Without Master to hold the table back, it slowly tilts to a position that allows the blood to flow back out of my head. My eyeballs throbbed, and I welcomed the moment of respite.
The cross also flips along its horizontal axis. Soon the boy is licking pussy juice from Master’s cock. I’m sure he noticed that there is no cum in the juices on Master’s cock. More than an hour into the session and master still hadn’t cum. That meant Master was frustrated. That meant it was only going to get worse.
After Master walked away both boy and I heard the click of Master opening the special cabinet where he keeps his special toys: a steel anal pear reserved for torturing fucktoys. A square, hollow aluminum tube, tightly twisted and corners carefully sharpened, reserved for paintoys. Both of us held our breath: a small chain on the pear rattled when removed from the cabinet, while the clasp holding the cane CLICKed when it was removed.
Both of us let out audible sobs. Mine was relief. His was with the intimate knowledge of agony.
My heart filled with sympathy for him as she heard Master say the only words he would say all night.
“Count backwards from five hundred.”
* * *
The boy lay shattered in the quiet room they were placed after scenes with Master. Dimly, I could hear the sounds of the party winding down in the hall below, cars starting as the other club members went back to their homes. Master would go home too; to his wife and house and 2.5 kids. But I would stay with other toy and tend his wounds until he was ready to leave the next day. I cleaned the small number of cuts where repeated strikes had opened the skin. Master was cruel, but careful. It showed.
I rolled the boy toy onto his back, gently, to look for cuts there. He was barely awake, but the pain of rolling onto his back was just enough to make him hard. Masochists are weird, I thought, as I checked his scrotum and glans for scrapes. I leaned in close, but found none.
Without thinking, I put a hand on his chest, on his nipple. Almost immediately his cock leaked thin white precum. The smell, his skin, so close. I was wet before I knew what was happening, suddenly and powerfully overwhelmed by the intimacy of the moment. Sluts are weird too, I guess. I opened my mouth and took him, soft and deep. I sucked him slowly, thinking he may simply fall back asleep, waiting for his dick to soften. Instead the barely conscious paintoy stiffened even harder and began thrusting. I matched pace and he came quickly. It wasn’t just pity; I was in awe of his strength. And there was guilt, because I would do whatever necessary to avoid being the paintoy again. And I knew that meant that he would remain there.
I pulled him out of my mouth and he rolled over. I covered him and turned out the light, wrapped up in my own blanket, and closed my eyes, thinking of cock, and sweat, and steel. And Master.