Chapter 18
Storm
That night, I only got one orgasm. One. Small, almost embarrassing compared to the feast of them I’d had the day before, and this one was gone before I even had a chance to enjoy it.
Later, once I was in the other cincher and in his arms, ready to drop off to sleep, he asked, “Do you know why you only got the one orgasm?”
I thought I did, but I was happy for the chance to be certain. “Because I missed a spot in the mudroom, Sir?”
“Exactly right, my needy little cunt.”
And that was that. No lecture, just a consequence. He’d said he didn’t differentiate between punishment and consequences, but he’d also said he believed in the carrot and the stick. So, orgasms are carrots to him. Good to know.
The stark reminder of how much he controlled me sat in my stomach like a stone.
He completely controlled my pleasure, and I was allowed three orgasms a day if I behaved — and I was never allowed to masturbate.
I lay in the dark with his arm around me, sore and plugged, my waist constricted, and closed my eyes as a heavy peace settled over me.
Owned. Completely. It was the holy grail for a submissive, and I didn’t know if this would last, so I endeavored to both hate and love it while it lasted. Slavery isn’t supposed to be enjoyed every minute. You have to hate some of it, or it doesn’t work.
The next week settled into a rhythm that was both brutal and reassuringly steady, with the days defined by the chores on the calendar.
My legs adjusted to the heels faster than I thought they would. Or rather, my calves and ankles did a few days in, but my feet absolutely didn’t. It felt as if the balls of my feet were constantly bruised.
The cincher never got easier, though. It was harder and harder, every day.
And yet, the moment he starts lacing it…
or maybe even when I’m hanging, waiting for it, but it flips a switch in my head, straight past logic into yes, this means I’m his — even while my torso is screaming the opposite opinion.
Every steady pull of the laces compresses my internal organs more and more, forcing my breathing shallower, and somehow the restriction itself starts to feel like belonging.
By the time he ties it off, I’m throbbing both inside and out.
It’s a love-hate relationship. Physically it’s painful, restrictive, and the steel bones feel personal in their hatred of me.
Psychologically, it’s the clearest line between high and low protocol.
It means his words and the schedule on the calendar are my guideposts, and nothing matters except doing my work with pride and pleasing him.
The cincher is the physical proof that I belong to him for those hours, and the second it comes off, I feel oddly unmoored even while I suck in air, and I’m relieved to no longer feel as if I’m cut in two — and yet, I feel disoriented and a little lost once the structure that’s held me upright all day is gone, and I have to remember how to stand on my own again.
The plugs were another thing that didn’t get better.
One day, he forced a heavy steel one in me.
The inside part was huge, but the neck was skinny.
I had to squeeze tight all day to keep it in — and he threatened the ass-fucking thing if I dropped it, so I absolutely held onto it, my ass cheeks and thighs trembling while I did my chores.
Every step, every bend, every time I reached for something on a high shelf.
The clenching was beyond exhausting, but failure wasn’t an option.
And the thing is, because I squeezed my asshole super-tight all day, the super-fat one he worked into me hurt so much worse the next day.
Fuck. My rectal muscles were exhausted from the previous day’s effort, and the thick stretch felt as if it might split me open.
My hole spasmed and twitched all day, fighting the unforgiving glass with a fat stem and even fatter head.
Another day, he used a textured one that sandpapered my hole while it held me wide-fucking open, and this one might have been the worst of all.
He’d walk past me while I was dusting, or bent over cleaning a bathtub — and give it a casual twist, just enough to make me gasp and have to lock my knees so I didn’t drop whatever I was holding.
By the end of the day, my hole was raw and overstretched, and there was no way to get relief.
Speaking of no reprieve, fuck, my pussy stayed constantly sore and fiery red, combined with a deep, bruised ache that never fully went away. Every single time he fucked me, I came apart crying, sobbing.
But he never took it easy on me. Never backed off. In fact, I’m pretty sure my tears just made it better for him, hurting me with his hideous, monster-dick. But at least he gave me orgasms in the evening.
The mornings were especially hard, knowing I wouldn’t be allowed release.
Four to six minutes of him driving into me hard and deep, moments after waking me, while I was so fucking bruised and tender inside.
He made sure I was desperate, millimeters away and fighting not to tip over into ecstasy before he came inside me, leaving me aching and denied.
The arousal made the pain more bearable, but it also made the frustration afterward especially cruel, when I was left raw and frustrated, shaking and fucking denied while he emptied himself inside me like it was the best release ever while I was left right on the edge with my hips twitching, cunt clenching around nothing, tears still flowing down my cheeks.
Sometimes he’d swipe my tears with his thumb, his smile telling me how much he enjoyed making me cry while he fucked me.
Other times, he completely ignored my tears.
Either way, he’d roll out of bed like he’d finished a routine task while I lay there throbbing, empty, and desperately needy.
The rest of the morning was spent moving through chores with a constant, heated pulse between my legs that never quite faded, even after my daily assignments were complete and the cincher came off.
By the time high protocol started again in the evening, I was already halfway out of my mind while I waited in wall pose, before the cincher even went on, which I suspected was exactly what he wanted.
I got orgasms at night the rest of the week, since I was beyond careful about not fucking up with my chores again, but he clearly loved it when I cried — which was basically anytime he crammed his dick inside my pussy and went to town on me.
It hurt and it felt good, but fuck, I was so damned sore.
Between the stretch of my pussy and my asshole being full of a plug, there was no way to keep it from being too much — too thick, too long, too fast, too hard.
And the way he watched my face while he fucked me without mercy always made the tears flow.
And how fucked up is it that the fact he loved my tears made me want to love him? That it somehow made me even more attached to the idea of belonging to him long term?
I respected the fuck out of him for not backing off when the tears started. I’ve felt, in the past, some Doms weren’t worthy of me, weren’t enough for me — but Magnum passed every single test.
He was enough. He was more than enough.
Every time he watched my face while he forced himself deeper, every time he told me how much he enjoyed hurting me, part of me wanted to tell him I loved him.
And my orgasms were… fuck. The mere fact my tears made him fuck me harder brought on the most violent orgasms — full on shaking, trembling, earthquakes inside me every damned time, so I was left sobbing and clinging to him while he finished inside me.
Logically, I didn’t know him well enough to love him as a person, but damn, did my inner submissive love the way he dominated and owned me.
It isn’t like the pain wasn’t beyond fucking real, or the stretch so much more than I could handle, so why did my body want to fall in fucking love with him for subjecting me to it every morning and night without fail, knowing damned well it hurt me enough to make me bawl my eyes out and sob uncontrollably while I sometimes begged for mercy — and then orgasmed harder and more violently than I could ever remember.
Somehow, he was recalibrating me from the inside out, and I wasn’t sure what that meant.
My only rebellion, however, was to try my hardest not to beg for mercy, simply because I knew how much he enjoyed it.
Sometimes, though, the words still came out, and I’d plead with him to slow down, or not to go so deep, but it only spurred him on.
Once, I begged him not to hurt me, but he only told me how much he loved watching me cry while he hurt me with his cock, and then he licked the salt from my cheeks.
All this meant my pussy was on fire twenty-four hours a day.
There was no way around it, no way for it to heal and get better, no way to stop it from being a constant furnace between my legs, so when he asked me if I needed anything when he placed a grocery order for delivery, I asked for a few pounds of Epsom salts.
He didn’t question it, didn’t lift his brows at me, just added them to the order.
I took long baths during the day, soaking while I meditated, or while I listened to a podcast I played on the smart TV in the other room. I didn’t hide it, but I didn’t ask permission, either. He knew why I wanted them, and he never said a word about it.
At lunch one day, outside of power exchange, he told me the club has a retired doctor on the payroll, and he could take our blood and get it to a lab.
I stared at him, considering. Clearly, he wanted to get rid of the condom.
He wasn’t going anywhere while I was here, so there was no danger of him fucking around and getting something after the test. I considered that he might be able to order the doctor to lie, but I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt he wouldn’t.
I agreed to it, and the doctor came out within the hour.