On Thursday afternoon, I got home as the temperature was dropping and a gray mist was permeating the sky. Affected by the gloomy pathos, I changed into pyjamas, put my hair up and curled up with my textbooks and a mug of steaming tea. I engrossed myself in the material, both out of necessity and as a distraction from my pining for Master, when my phone rang and I started. I stared at it for a few seconds before begrudgingly answering. I hate being disrupted when I’m in studying mode.
“Hey, I need to go to an earlier lab session, did you still want to trade labs for tomorrow? ”
My annoyance dissolved instantly, I slammed my book shut. “Yes!”
My Friday morning was suddenly free...but I wanted to trade that freedom with a different sort of captivity. Despite the warmth and comfort of my room, the idea of studying on my couch seemed ridiculous when I could be studying on a bus, moving a hundred kilometers in the direction of my dear Master. So when Master gave his permission to come over, I chucked my books into my bag, showered and groomed to make myself look presentable, and haphazardly threw some sweaters into my backpack before calling a cab.
Two weeks without seeing him is too long. When I stepped onto the bus, I sighed in relief. In a few hours, I would be back in his arms.
Unfortunately, my enthusiasm eroded as the bus crawled along the misty roads and my eyes grew tired from reading in the dim light. The nausea and malaise I had been experiencing earlier, unexpectedly turned into my period, and I grew fidgetty from the growing anxiety of seeing Master again. Despite going to bed every night with sighs in my chest from missing him, he still has the power to unnerve me. I was especially anxious because I was returning to him with transgressions against me. On my last visit, I had forgotten to bring my collar and forgotten to carry out Master’s parting instruction of bringing the butt plug back to school, so that I could prepare that hole for him. More than the punishments themselves, I was anxious that Master would be dissapointed in me.
So, when I got to Master’s place late on Thursday night, and he told me to put on my collar, I felt absolutely sick when I rummaged through my backpack and could not find the black leather band. I burst into tears when I told him.
When he reached out and took me by the shoulders, I tensed up and my stomach turned, but he only led me to the bathroom and told me to brush my teeth.
“It’s okay,” he said. I didn’t want to justify my failure, to make excuses for my carelessness. I didn’t have to. Master often speaks my thoughts before I can even gather the wits to verbalize them. “You were in a rush to see me. It’s okay.” He watched me as I brushed my teeth and forced the toothbrush into my throat to work on my gag reflex.
“I’m too soft with you sometimes,” he told me, before kissing the nape of my neck. Sometimes he is. But it’s sometimes exactly what he wants and sometimes exactly what I need.
As Master settled into bed, I put on my wrist and ankle cuffs and the black cotton dress that I’m allowed to wear in the house during the cold season. Then, he called me into bed and pulled me close to him so that we could kiss fervently, with our arms and legs intertwined. As he slowed down his deep kisses to pecks on my lips, he also wrapped his fingers around my naked throat-- filling the void where my collar should have been. “I’ll deal with you tomorrow.”
Then he turned away from me, and laid his head against the pillow. Assuming the position that we often take before sleeping, I curled my legs around his, and pressed my head into his back. The room was dark and silent. I closed my eyes and let my head grow heavy as it almost gave way to sleep.
Suddenly, I felt fingers pressing into my neck again. Master was above me, his eyes glinting. “Go get the butt plug.”
I fought the weight of fatigue that sat on my chest, and stumbled to the toy box in the dark to find it. My fingers searched through the familiar shapes, burrowing past rope, a flogger, clothespegs, a tube of lubricant. I paused on the plastic tube, wondering whether to bring that too. As if reading my mind, Master called out through the distance and the darkness: “No lube for you”. I dropped it, as if scared that even touching the plastic surface would get me into trouble. When my fingers finally hooked the flared base and pointing silicone phallus of the butt plug, I pulled it out from the box and brought it to Master.
Master ordered me into bed and tried to insert the plug. The pain seared as he tried to force it into my anus. Unfazed, Master ordered me to stand and turn on the light. He marched me to the table, where he pushed me down and covered my eyes with my hair, as he slathered the plug in lubricant. When he tried to insert it again, the butt plug glided inside me with far more ease, but I still groaned when he pressed his hand against the base and drove it deeper. My vagina was plugged with a tampon, my stomach was cramping, and now, my rectum was being tormented.
“You don’t deserve the lubricant,” he told me, “I expect to be thanked for it.” I thanked him and meant it. I have no doubt that had he really wanted to, he could have pried my anus apart and rammed the silicone into my tender insides. He chose not to. He overwhelms me with his mercy sometimes and it only makes me want to please him more, to prove myself to be a good slave to match his Mastery.
He took me into bed with my holes full. I tried to stay quiet but couldn’t help but growl when he played with the plug; pulling it out and twisting it, before screwing it in, harder and faster, in the opposite direction. He climbed on top of me and put his hands under my ass; driving the plug deeper into me. I started sobbing. He grabbed my breasts, which had become so tender throughout the course of the evening, and pressed into the nipples until I squirmed. He flicked them and with a tight pinch, tugged my breasts from side to side. He thrust his pelvis into mine, knowing that every dip pushed the plug deeper into me. Then he moved his mouth to my right breast and bit down on one of the nipples, while kneading and squeezing the other.
After awhile though, the clamp of his teeth turned into a soft gentle sucking, and his movement on me eased, so that his hard cock was just gently rubbing against my clit through the cotton of our undergarments.
“I love how I can be so soft with you,” he said, and kissed me deeply and ran his hands through my hair, “and then so rough” and his hands became fists, and the jerk of his arm yanked my head back. His other hand assailed my breasts. The cycle repeated and the tears continued before they even had time to stop.
“You are my girl,” he said, “there can be no doubt about that any more.” I wept harder at these words. All of the strong emotions—passion, joy, fear, anxiety, desire—becoming mixed into a cathartic slosh of fluid pouring from my eyes.
“Who owns this?” he asked, as he ran his hands along my curves.
“You do, Master,” I whispered, before burying my head under his chin and into his chest. The tears burned my eyes but he held me, as I wept. When I quieted down, he rolled off me and lay on his back.
“Suck my cock, slave,” he ordered.
I crawled under the blankets, pulled down his underwear, and began to use my mouth. I’m not very good with blowjobs and tried to funnel the rush of emotion into productive energy. But I was too sloppy and couldn’t get into a steady rhythm.
“Stop slurping,” Master said in exasperation as my lips smacked against his cock. “Stop making noises.” More tongue. Deeper. Faster. I tried to follow the instructions, but I couldn’t make him come. Finally, he pushed the blankets away to expose my wet, swollen face. He pulled his underwear up to cover his equally wet and swollen cock, and hooking his hands under my armpits, he dragged me up his body so that our eyes met.
I felt ashamed for not being able to pleasure him and looked away.
“You need practice, doll,” he said matter-of-factly. “You are okay, but you need to get a lot better.” He’s tried to teach me many times, and I still don’t get it. Although there’s exasperation in his voice when he’s yelling out instructions, I know it’s fuelled by the surge of testosterone; fuelled by the frustration of being teased but not relieved. He could have easily and justifiably been angry with me, but he composed himself and exercised his patience. He petted me and reassured me, even though I was the one who had failed him. When he patted the bed, I moved quietly to his side.
“Time to sleep now, we’ll deal with you tomorrow,” he said.
"Yes, Master," I said and I found his hand under the blankets and kissed it.
My stomach was cramping terribly, my butt aching, my head hurting and my eyes itchy, but I was happy that he had told me I was his girl, and handled me so tenderly, that I tried to forget about the pain. I tried to replace the uncomfortable stretching in my bum, with pleasant sensations: Master’s body heat warming my limbs, the feel of his skin brushed against mine, the sound of his heart. But even still, my brain could not block out the visceral pain. I tried to sleep, but I just couldn’t.
Finally, after much shifting throughout the night, Master lifted his head and saw me lying on my stomach, trying to alleviate the pressure in my ass. He touched my shoulders and saw that I was sobbing again.
“Relax Princess,” he said, and placed his hand between my rigid shoulder blades. I felt awful for keeping him up. “Go take the plug out and wash it. You will wear it all day tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Master,” I whimpered. So much grace. So much kindness. So much of what I needed at the moment, without my even having to say it. Without my even having to wish for it.
When I came back to bed, he kept his arm around me for a little while, before he turned his back and I turned mine and we finally drifted to sleep.