So Long, Mr. Nice Guy.

i stand, pinned to the wall by his hand at my throat. His voice hisses into my ear, almost a growl. The menace is there in every vowel, every consanant.

“no more Mr. Nice Guy, little slut. I’ve gone easy on you so far, but today, right now, your training begins in earnest. The number one rule is…Sir makes the rules, you obey them. Got it?”

i nod, my voice still caught in my throat under his hand. He is feeling that pulse beating there, thudding quickly, pulsing thickly into his palm. There is a fear here, and yet, there  is also trust. And fear. They are so intertwined, so commingled that i may never separate them. And i really don’t try. All my attention is focused on his voice.

My blindfold cuts away the sense i most rely on, those visual cues that let me know what to expect, let me know how to counteract, to correct, to react.  Taking this sense from me is one of His greatest delights, i know. To make me vulnerable, to make me completely, wholly dependent on Him. He will guide me where He wants me to be, physically, emotionally. On the bed, or on the wall, on my knees on the floor, in the tub…it is all under His jurisdiction now.

The first hard slap against my tit is surprising. Always before He has played gently with his little slut. Always before i knew i was being prodded along a path of lust and need. Today, it seems, i have arrived at His chosen destination: Pain.

He has stepped away from me, stepped up the pace, each tit being slapped…forehand and backhand. I feel the tingle and burn, and adjust to it. i think i am not a pain-slut, but my pussy is tingly and aware and wet.

Then….nothing. The tv is blatting, across the room, about femine hygene products, of all fucking things.  I strain to hear Him over the sound of  swelling music and chirpy girl voices. He moves like a shadow around the room. 


i open my mouth to scream, oh goddddd that hurrrtt, and as i open, a ball gag is put into my mouth, His hands quickly and capably securing it around my head. I struggle in my wrist cuffs, twitching my shoulders, but his body pins me to the wall, and my efforts are futile.

“Shhh, shh, little girl, I know you are frightened.” for an instant, He soothes me, His hand sluicing over my face, my hair, quickly, then gone. He knows i have feared the gag. Fear the choking, fear the loss of breath and the ability to communicate. This time i hear the faint whistle as He strikes my tit again. I don’t know what it is , a crop or a cane, since neither have touched my flesh before. All i know is the stingy pain of each stroke, of the smell of Him as he nears me to strike, then again the consuming pain of the stripe. I feel each welt, and know i am crying, powerless to do anything but take this.

And my cunt weeps tears of its own, that traitor, that turncoat. He points out calmly as he strikes me for what seems the thousandth time, that i’m leaking down my legs and making a mess of my fishnet stockings. That He can smell my arousal, that He knows my needy cunt is waiting for Him.

He kicks my feet apart, then further.  He braces the impliment of torture across my throat with a bit of pressure, not enough to block my breath, but enough so i know for certain that He could, if He chose to.

His other  hand spears into my pussy, three fingers buried deeply in one thrust into me. The moans from behind the gag are no longer from pain, unless it’s the pain of needing Him to continue, to never, ever stop. His thumb grazes my clit, and i jolt, then grind down on his hand, despite the hold on my throat. I am beyond caring about breath, beyond caring about the pain of my breasts. All of me is buried inside with his fingers. My center, my core, His fucking greedy slut.

He pulls away and i hear a noise but cannot identify until the first clamp is lodged securely on my swollen, beaten nipple. Ohgodohgodohgod…it hurts like hellfire. He’s never done this before, either, although it’s been a promise, pending.  My pussy, throbbing, demands his fingers return, begs for his cock, whines for his attention. He ignores her demands, and fastens the other clip to the free nipple. He tugs at the chain that conjoins my tits, pulls it hard enough to make me lean away, breaking contact with the wall.

He slaps on tit, hard across the clamped nipple.

“Get back on the fucking wall” he barks.

i tremble. The order was curt but the hurt was so difficult to bear. He pulls again. i stay on the wall.

“Good girl.”

Oh! How i live for these words, to be his good girl.

Even if he’s not Mr. Nice Guy anymore.

Even because he’s not Mr. Nice guy any more.