He leaned against the wrought iron fence, a snifter of brandy in one hand. The amber liquid glowed as the last shafts of sun speared through the trees that ringed the property. Sunset was a heady of time of day, the end of work, the start of play. He rested one hand on the fence, relaxed, watching her.

Her mouth was full of spit, which she was trying valiantly to swallow. She hated when it leaked around the bright red ball and oozed down over her. There was no beauty in it, which perplexed her. Didn’t guys want their women to be all pretty for them? Where was the appeal in messing her the hell up this way?

“You’re scowling.”

Her eyes met his. Though she dreamed of being submissive, there was that glowing nugget of ‘fuck you’ inside her. She was just not going to be a doormat. She could be obedient and still be herself. She could challenge him sometimes; she was willing to risk the punishment of being sassy. But though she was submissive, she was never going to be totally wimpy either. She knew he could read the glare in her eyes as he watched her carefully. He enjoyed making her pissy, it was part of the appeal for him, right up there with spit drool all over her, and cumming on her tits, and any of the other things he did to her.

She enjoyed that he would only let her go so far over the line. That he’d reel her back in, that he’d not put up with brattiness (and she didn’t attempt to go there, really), but that he could deal with everything else as long as she was, in the end, obedient. She’d opened her mouth for the ball gag, despite knowing that he’d keep it in long enough for the drool river.

That had been pretty freaking obedient of her.

She sat back on her haunches, feeling the first line of spit dribbling out of her stretched lips. It would only be a moment before the long silvery strand attached itself to her tit. So yes. She was scowling, despite the freaking gag.

“Come here, slut.”

The glare intensified. She knew he didn’t mean walk. She wanted to balk. Wanted to shake her head no, hell no. She slipped down to all fours. The motion pulled the string on the ass hook, wedging it deeper up her butt. There was some discomfort, but more than that was a pleasure that came from the large ball rubbing up inside of her. Every wiggle of her ass on the long crawl to where he stood smirking would turn her on and hurt her too.

He was just that fucking devious.

She took the first crawling ‘step’, wincing and pausing. Dropping her head pulled the rope too tight in her ass and she arched her back to relieve the stress. Her hands moved, her knees moved, and she whined. Her knees and palms hurt as she crawled over the long trail of rice he’d sprinkled along the floor. Her ass throbbed, her pussy swelled with need.

She needed him to fuck her.

He needed to witness how badly she wanted that, by creating a pain-filled obstacle course. If she really, really wanted to be used, she’d continue on her journey despite the rice. As she got closer to him, one painful foot at a time, she noted that he’d mixed dried split peas and lentils into the debris on the floor.

Had her mouth been free, she would have given him an earful! How fucking cruel he was! Sure, he was a sadist. Sure he was her Dom. But geezus.

Her cunt weeped.

He made her hurt herself to prove that she wanted him to hurt her more. And fuck her. Dear gods she needed him to fuck her.

He’d finished his brandy, set the snifter aside. Now his hands held the long whip. As she made it through the doorway and out onto the decking, his gaze sharpened. A quick flick had the tail dancing through the air, snapping on her back. Whipping her head, arching, moaning with the shock of pain, brought other pain. The beast in her butthole. The rice and dried beans under her sore palms and knees, on the tops of her feet and between her toes. And now the dancing fire of the whip lacing across her back and bottom. The single line of drool had become a steady stream which her hand or knee occasionally landed in.

She couldn’t think about spit when her back and sides were being caressed with the kiss of the whip. It carried a sting like no other. He was criss-crossing up her back, until the she was close enough for the tip to curl along her side and lick across her left tit. She reared up then, whimpering and whinnying behind the gag.

“Oh, did that one hurt a lot, slut?”

Tears and snot joined the spit. She nodded, then winced when the action tugged the hook in her bum.

“Come to me, slut,” he said again, his voice like warm honey. She could see the outline of his cock under the thin cotton of his loungers. She could see that his own nipples were hard. Her mouth watered in anticipation of tasting both.

She crawled onward.

Closer now, he could, did, moved around her. He’d switched to the paddle. In another incarnation, the paddle was actually the pizza peel. The bastard had no compunctions about using it on her ass, then calmly washing it off and using it to pull pizza from the oven.

Weird Doms!

He reached under her, smacking her swinging tits with the long barbecue spatula. The sound of her moans, the slap of things on her body, the crunch of the dry stuff beneath her merged into a steady tunnel of sensation. She hurt, she lusted, she wanted to make it to the fence.

Only a few more crawling steps to go. She collapsed her arms, ass in the air, forehead resting on the back of her hands as her legs quivered. He hadn’t given permission to wipe the rice off of her knees yet.

The spatula struck between her inner thighs.

“Wider. No, wider.”

Stinging slap of the metal on her tender inner thighs directed just how wide he wanted her spread. He pressed against the metal hook protruding from her anus and she whined loudly as he laughed. His fingers reached into the folds between her legs, slipping easily inside her hot cunt.

“You’re so fucking wet. You little pain whore!”

His free hand slapped her ass, her hips, her thighs. The other hand was busy fucking her hole, pinching her clit, tugging and pushing the ball in and out of her puckered rectum.

“You don’t know whether to shit or go blind, do you slut?”

The quote was an oldie, but it sure described her predicament. She wanted him to torment her, to fuck her, to play with her. She wanted to lay on a bed and be fucked in that wild way he had.

It wasn’t about what she wanted.

Her skin quivered as he continued to slap, probe, and poke at her. At long last, hours? Days? Weeks? He stepped away, grabbing her hair.

“Get up, slut,” and he tugged her to her feet.

“Clean yourself up,” he ordered, flicking his finger across one spit-covered nipple. “You’re a fucking mess!”

She would have glared at him, but she was too turned on now to even protest. His fingers pinched the slippery wet nub, as he leaned close.

“You like it when I hurt you. You want more, don’t you?”

She closed her eyes, breathed through the pain in her tender nipple.

And nodded.







2 thoughts on “Wet

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