From the center of a dimly lit room, I see a masked woman, dressed in black, strolling around me as if checking out a product.
Candles scattered out in circles illuminate us, as well as part of the gloomy atmosphere full of whispers and unknown voices that break out in the surrounding darkness, and then blend in with the tinkling of a chain that the woman holds, which is attached to the leash around my neck.
“What is this odd place?” — I wonder, but find no answers, in a way that has me hypnotized with the woman that keeps on strolling around me.
— Slave! — she suddenly screams.
Her eyes are like blazing fire, and her voice, like it's loaded with storms ready to crash on me.
I consider asking: “Who are you?” or “What am I doing here?”, but oddly enough my lips don’t seem to correspond with my own will, on the contrary; soon they part in a submissive: “Yes, mistress!” that makes me feel an intense fright.
As for the woman, as she walks, with slow steps, her dominating posture is even more highlighted by the military boots that affirm her imposing silhouette, and the feline gaze as if waiting for the right moment to snap the prey.
Suddenly she stops in front of me.
— When I was younger, — she says — my parents discovered that I had sadistic tendencies. And then they started to beat me up every single day, just to see if I would stop it. And guess what?
I feel the hairs on my body stand on end. Then she moves closer to my face — I can smell her fresh minty breath — and places her hands gently on my shoulders.
— Kneel down, — she orders.
As I lower my body, with fear, I hear whispers and unfamiliar voices buzzing around me. Candlelight dances in the darkness as I hear the chains jingle in the hands of the woman who pulls me, demanding attention.
— The guilty pleasure of indulging in disasters is part of human nature, slave, — she says this to me as she turns to draw a whip.
— Lick my boots, — she orders.
I try to resist, but soon my face is in the dust, literally. However, I feel the in-between of my legs moisten when a feeling of extreme humiliation permeates my soul, agitates it, to soon after rest in an obscure place that until moments before I did not imagine to exist inside me.
— Enough! — she says, already pulling the toe of her boot away from my greedy tongue.
When I turn around, the woman aims the handle of the whip between my lips. Her gaze is charged with malice. Her tongue wanders back and forth.
— Swallow, slave!
Despite resisting at first — I end up obeying, that is, snapping at the handle of the whip completely. Then I press the hardened leather between my tongue and the roof of my mouth, while inflicting on it a pleasurable torture in the back and forth tasting that leaves trails of moans in the woman's speech.
— How about we invent our own sin, slave? — She suddenly says satisfied, as she smooths my hair gently.
Hearing it, the hairs on my body stand on end for the second time. The in-between of my legs is much wetter than before.
Still kneeling — and with my mouth full — I stare into the woman's eyes as if offering my total submission to her. And because of that gesture, she devilishly soon understands that — as far as I'm concerned — her hidden longings inherent in her own wanton soul would all be fulfilled while I'm at her feet.
As for me, I subconsciously know that I will obey her like a bitch. Yes, like a bitch in heat. And I won't even be ashamed to say such nonsense. On the contrary, I will shout to the four winds that I am hers, that I will give myself body and soul to her, without limitations, without modesty, without fear of repentance, even if all this costs my sanity.
Soon words and phrases that were previously considered to be heavy, obscene or rude, are then all stolen from their labels of vulgarity and start to gain more and more corpulence in the woman's speech.
— You will bleed to death, slave. — She says sternly — At least for about four minutes . . .
Then he laughs sarcastically, and forces the whip handle deeper and deeper into my throat.
I nearly vomit. Then she removes the handle from my mouth, but not without first offering me the perverse smile she once had.
In my mouth; the taste of leather permeates my lips. My eyes burn. I think about running away for the second time, but this is sheer idiocy, after all, I'm still caught in his chain.
— Now get up, slave, — she orders, and then, as I take my time, I immediately feel when the whip cracks loudly in the softness of my buttocks: “Plaft!”.
I start to cry. So my tears smear my makeup, highlighting the redness in my eyes even more.
But that doesn't even make a difference, on the contrary, it encourages her to continue on with me, dominating me, possessing me, humiliating me. Then he forces me to all fours, lifts my skirt, and then runs the cord — gently — over the wetter swells of my panties.
— Quiet, slave! — she yells when I turn to look at her.
For I can't stand it, so I grind; I squirm; sometimes and another I swerve forward in fleeting escapes loaded with provocation, but when I feel cornered, I throw myself back already all burned, thirsty, regretful for the lost seconds, failing to act in complicity with your so generous hand.
As she pulls away from me, I bow my head and — instinctively — turn to her sex, intending to reciprocate.
Then she pushes my head hard and says with the same contemptuous look:
— For me there is nothing more indigestible than your freedom as a woman...
Vielen Dank für das Lesen!
Wir können Inkspired kostenlos behalten, indem wir unseren Besuchern Werbung anzeigen. Bitte unterstützen Sie uns, indem Sie den AdBlocker auf die Whitelist setzen oder deaktivieren.
Laden Sie danach die Website neu, um Inkspired weiterhin normal zu verwenden.