Chapter 12
Storm
Over the next two days, it’s possible I thought about what was coming way more than I should’ve, and I was a wreck by the time Tuesday morning came. I’d structured my day so I only had a few hours of work that morning, to give myself plenty of time for the enemas.
The cramps from the soap tore through me in sharp, vicious waves that hurt infinitely worse this time, likely because my nerves were a fucking mess before I even started.
I tried hard to lean into the routine and structure of it: fixing his dinner, standing on the X and staring at the mattress he was about to violently fuck my asshole on while he held me so I couldn’t escape.
And then, eventually, having to hang from the bar for a different waist cincher. It wasn’t as tall as the regular one, but it felt as if this just let him lace it even tighter, and tighter, and tighter still.
As before, the plug he forced into me was massive, and it took him a long time to work it in — all the while, his voice ordering me to relax and accept it.
And I tried to obey, but it split me open so wide.
The stretch was brutal, the burn unbearable, and I was begging and pleading with broken sounds and phrases before it was even halfway in. And I know this because he told me so.
“It’s barely halfway in your tight little asshole, cunt. If you’d relax and accept that it’s coming, and stop fighting me, maybe it’d go in easier.”
“Not fighting you, Master! I’m trying to relax.”
“Stop trying and do it, little fuckslave.”
When it was finally in, he set me up to work leather conditioner into the items I didn’t get to the last time he made me do it. The whole time I worked, I kept glancing at the wedge, remembering how it would keep my clit isolated, so nothing touched it. Not even my pussy lips.
When he finally returned, he made me retrieve the olive oil, work it onto his cock, and then came the piece of paper.
I hadn’t considered that I’d have to give up my safeword all over again, and the act of doing so was kind of like the final shock to my nervous system. I said the words to him, and mostly got them out, though the last half-dozen words were more of a whisper.
I voluntarily relinquish my safeword for one hour while you reinforce and remind me of my place as your slave, Sir.
A slight nod of approval, and then, “Assume the position, slave.”
I intended to walk to the mattress, but my feet refused. Or, maybe it isn’t so much that they refused, but if they moved at all, there was a chance I’d go running from the room.
So I stood frozen, heart slamming against my ribs while the memory of the first maintenance session crashed over me — how bad the stretch had burned and hurt, the way the rough part of his cock had scoured my entire hole raw, the way he’d held me down and kept going no matter how hard I fought or begged.
Last time, I’d only known it would hurt. This time I knew exactly how much pain there’d be, but I honestly think memory of the terror and panic I’d felt is what froze me in place.
“I can’t seem to walk there, Master,” I managed. “Please help me.”
He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t even look annoyed.
“I’ll count to ten. Whatever number I’m on once you’re perfectly in place is how many cane strokes you’ll receive. If you haven’t started moving when I hit ten, I’ll put you there myself, and you’ll get a dozen cuts of a cane you aren’t going to like even a tiny bit.”
New terror cut through the old, and I was moving the instant my brain processed his words, thinking that would avoid the countdown, but then he said, “One” when I was halfway there, and I ran the final steps, so he only made it to three before I managed to drape my hips over the small wedge.
He adjusted me carefully, so my hips were angled just right and my clit hung free in the open air, touching nothing.
He held my wrists over the small of my back in one large hand, and then I heard the cane whistling through the air.
White fire exploded across my ass in a vicious line of agony, and my screams echoed back to me — then the secondary pain ignited, and if there’d been anything in my bladder, I’d have lost it.
The next strike landed just below the first, and I thrashed with everything I had, desperate to twist away, but his hand pinned my wrists and torso to the mattress.
I couldn’t move. Couldn’t do anything but take it while the new line of fire layered over the first and the whole area throbbed in bright, nauseating waves.
The third cut across the tops of my thighs and completely stole my breath, so my mouth opened but no sounds came out.
The pain didn’t bloom into heat and dissipate, it burned into my very soul, into the individual cells.
Three searing brands that pulsed with my heartbeat, and every tiny shift felt like fresh damage to skin, nerves, and muscle.
Before I’d even come close to recovering, he climbed onto the bed and his weight settled over me.
His legs surrounded mine, pinning my thighs together so I couldn’t open or shift.
The position left me completely trapped — flat, controlled, unable to do more than tremble.
He gripped the base of the plug and yanked it free.
The sudden emptiness made my hole clench and spasm around nothing, raw and gaping for a split second before the blunt, oversized head of his cock touched my hole and then pressed inside.
Just the head, but the stretch was brutal because those tissues were already tender and swollen from being stretched around the plug.
Also, his weight made the lines from the cane burn with a new intensity, and a series of sobs tore out of me.
I was held open by only that thick flare of him, legs locked together, his body heavy on top of mine, and the terrifying knowledge that he could slam the rest of the way in at any second sat like a boulder in my stomach.
“Hush and listen to me, slave.”
He gave me a second to go quiet, and said, “Explain to me why maintenance is important, little fuckslave.”
I forced the words out between shaky breaths. “It’s a scheduled reminder of our positions. Owner and slave. Given at proper intervals, it avoids the need for punishment, Sir.”
He didn’t move and didn’t speak, so I tried again.
“It keeps the structure solid, Master,” I added. “For both of us.”
“Why is it important for you, personally, little slave cunt?”
I closed my eyes and grasped for the right answer.
Not just any response, but the truth, because anything less wouldn’t fly.
“It’s a reminder of why I obey without question, Master.
It’s your promise to me that you’ll enforce the rules.
As my owner, how often maintenance happens is entirely up to you.
Slaves don’t get to decide that kind of thing, or everything falls apart, Sir. ”
“There we are.”
But he didn’t move. He just kept talking.
“You have a choice, slave. Either thank me for providing the structure we both need, or ask me to fuck your asshole and remind you exactly who we are to each other.”
I knew better than to take too long deciding, but both options felt as if they had equal weight.
I immediately thought about the conversation on the bike — ritual and boredom.
I leaned into that to start, but then added a little of the second option, and ended up with, “Thank you, Master, for providing the structure of maintenance, and for giving both of us a reminder of the power you have over me in our agreed-upon arrangement. Sir.”
“Excellent, slave.”
He drove into me before the second word was completely out, and the thick, abrasive length of him forced me impossibly wide with the first thrust. There was no gradual stretch, no moment to brace, and each plunge after sent him deeper.
He was vicious, intent on fucking me as wide open as possible, his girth forcing my hole to stretch and spread around him, and raw screams tore from my chest.
Every impact jarred through my entire body, and the cane marks lit up as if they were fresh brands.
He fucked me relentlessly, driving into me hard, each plunge a little deeper than the one before.
The rough, textured shaft may as well have been sandpaper, and it scraped me raw while his giant cock forced that tight ring of muscle to keep stretching, more and more and more, taking up space inside me that my body didn’t have to give.
I screamed into the mattress. I begged and pleaded for him to slow down, to give me even a second, but he gave me nothing.
His weight kept me pinned. His legs locked mine together so tightly I couldn’t open or twist away. Every time his hips met my ass, the cane welts flared white-hot, reminding me I’d made this worse than it had to be by not obeying.
There was no way for me to change the angle or alter the intensity. No way to escape.
The panic took hold, and my hands scrabbled at the sheets. I tried to buck him off, to fight, to do anything that might create even a fraction of space, but the bastard just tightened his grip, pressed me flatter, and kept the same merciless rhythm.
The stretch never eased, and the burn only layered deeper. Devastation rose in thick waves until I was sobbing continuously, voice wrecked, breath coming in short, desperate hitches that the cincher made even harder.
Time stopped meaning anything.
There was only the next thrust, the next scrape of his textured cock, the next jolt of pain when he forced himself deep, yanked out, and then drove back in to do it all over again.
My pleas dissolved into broken, formless sounds. The fight drained out of my limbs in increments until I could only tremble, shake, and accept his dominance over not just my asshole, but my entire being.
Before the hour was up, I lay limp over the wedge, completely open, completely used, and I wept. The violence of it hadn’t lessened, but I was far past exhausted and unable to resist. There was only full surrender, encompassing body, mind, soul, and the last scraps of my will.
Or maybe I was only exhausted past the point of struggle. I’m not sure there’s a whole lot of difference.
When he finally finished and pulled out, moving wasn’t an option. I wanted to roll off the wedge and curl onto my side, but I couldn’t manage even that. My hole throbbed in deep, raw pulses. The cane marks still burned. Even breathing took effort.
He cleaned me with a warm cloth, his hands slow and gentle.
Next came the salve, and he soothed me with his voice while his too-thick fingers worked the ointment on the outside and then the inside, spreading me open so he could get it inside me.
More broken sounds came out of me, and he’d say differing variations of, “I know it hurts. Breathe through it and give it time to work, little slavegirl.”
Eventually, he lifted me and carried me to the bedroom, where the vicious cincher came off and my nighttime one went on, softer and without bones, but still firm enough to remind me I was owned and secure.
Then came the smallest stainless plug, and I cried and yelped while it went in, but it gave the exhausted, sore, overstretched anal muscles something to squeeze around, and somehow, the familiar weight grounded me.
I’d been hurting before the plug went in, and within thirty seconds of him seating the plug all the way inside me, I felt more discomfort than pain.
Whether the salve kicked in at the same time, or squeezing those muscles made things better, I have no idea.
The cane marks still hurt like fuck, but my anal ring was better.
And then my wonderful Master stretched out behind me and pulled me against the front of his body, spooning himself behind me with a heavy arm around my middle.
He kissed under my ear, then the top of my head, and just held me. There was no order to hush, or to stop crying. He held me close while the sobs worked their way out of me, slowed, and eventually stopped.
I could still feel the heat of my asshole, the extreme discomfort of it being stretched beyond reason and scraped raw, but the cane marks hurt exponentially worse. I wondered if he’d put something in the salve to deaden the pain, but decided not to ask.
Instead, I focused on the steady beat of his heart against my back, and the quiet certainty that he’d taken me down to nothing, and he’d made me tell him why before he even started — to remind us who we are to each other. Owner and owned. Master and slave.
I fell asleep still hurting, completely owned, and I know it’s fucked up, but completely steady again.