Monica (Songs of Submission #7.5)(5)

“Pain is the point, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your ass is mine, whether I warn you or not. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

He yanked my hair again, pulling back until I faced him. “Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir.”

The first few strokes were murder. I felt torn apart, ripped from the inside. We’d done some gentle, well-lubricated anal in the past few months. But not like this. Not as a beating.

“You’ve been a bitch, goddess. That’s over. From now on, you step when I say walk. You eat when I feed you. You come when I allow it. If I so much as look at your knees, you get on them and open your f**king mouth.”

I grunted. He reached around me and put his palm to my throat. He pulled me back, and though I felt like I was falling, I trusted him and put weight on my aching legs, shifting back. He sat on the piano bench, and with my back to his front and his c**k in my ass, I sat into him.

“Spread your legs.” Not giving me a chance to even obey, he yanked my legs apart, squeezing my ass cheeks together, tightening me around his cock. I bit back a cry of pain. “All the way. I want your cunt out.”

I spread my knees, on tiptoes to the floor, fighting for balance. My elbows were still tied behind my back, and when it looked like I’d fall, he pulled me upright.

“Reach back,” he said. “Spread those gorgeous cheeks apart.”

I did, fighting the constraints of my knotted shirt, cursing the stinging skin on my ass as much as I blessed it.

“Now, come down, all the way. All the way. That’s it. Bury me in you.” He reached around and slipped his middle finger in my cunt, gathering wetness, and dragging it to my clit. “You’re not coming until I say. And you’re going to hold back by concentrating on one thing, and one thing only.”

“What, sir?” I groaned, the pleasure in my clit pushing against the pain behind it.

“Pleasing me. So. Fuck. And f**k hard. Go.”

I moved up his length, and back down, his shaft sliding against my anus, friction hot against the dry muscle.

“Faster.”

His c**k beat my insides, shredded me, while his fingers took my hole three at a time and the heel of his hand kept a constant pressure on my clit.

“Come on, goddess. I’m not pleased.”

I grabbed my cheeks wider, slammed down on him harder, knees aching, arms on fire, ass beyond pain. Yet the pleasure between my legs grew, pressing against the agony and winning.

“That’s good,” he growled. “Very good.”

“Thank you.” I gasped, relieved, relaxed now because he was content. I heard his breaths getting shorter. I was close, but I didn’t care. I wanted him to have what he wanted. I wanted him to be satisfied. I beat down on his cock, mindless of what I was doing to myself.

“I’m going to come,” he said.

“Thank you,” I squeaked, more tears streaming.

“Come with me.”

“Yes. Oh, yes.”

He grunted, but it was more than a grunt, and in the second before I lost myself in pleasure I noted how vocal he was. More than ever. He released, truly, fully, losing control, pulling my hair until I thought he’d tear it out. I was washed away in it, the pleasure of his hand on my clit, the torture in my ass as my orgasm clenched it around his c**k in an undulating rhythm. I came forever, lost in it, in him, his satisfaction, in the pain. I was gone, my identity washed away in complete submission to his pleasure and his will; without ambition or desire of my own, simply enslaved, caged, collared. Nothing. No one. Not a feeling of dissatisfaction in my belly, only humility and a feeling of complete, overwhelming gratitude.

“Goddess?” he whispered when I stopped twitching.

I tried to answer, but I was blubbering. I took a few breaths to calm down. “Yes, sir?”

“Are you okay?”

“Thank you.”

He untied me. I put my aching arms on my knees and he pushed me gently forward, his dick slipping out of my ass. I sucked in a breath.

He pulled me into his lap and kissed the tears running down my cheeks. I held him and wept fully. The emotional release poured out of me as he rubbed my back and kissed my face and neck. My awareness of the world around me, my body, the chair, the room, the building, the time of day, was brought about by the softness of his lips and the way he whispered my name, goddess, goddess, goddess.

“I haven’t been what you need,” he said softly.

“You couldn’t be. I understand.”

“That’s over now.”

“Thank you.”

He put his hands on my cheeks and brushed my lashes with his thumbs. I let my eyes flutter closed.

“You can’t leave me until I destroy you.”

“If you destroy me, I’ll never leave.”

“Regularly.” He took out a monogrammed hankie and held it up. “Blow.”

I blew my nose. He pinched and wiped for me, as if I were a child.

He kissed my lips, taking them against his, owning them with tenderness and confidence. I let his tongue into my mouth, its soothing warmth, exploring me as if for the first time. The tenderness with which he kissed me was in such contrast to the beating I’d just received, that I broke down in tears again. He held me and rocked me in the soundproof studio for what seemed like hours, saying sweet things in my ear. I felt so good, so calm, so loved.