Slave Girl Emily Ch. 08

While I was preoccupied with the hook in my ass, Master spanked me - not hard, but I didn't expect it and twitched, and the hook pulled and hurt a bit more. Okay, the game would be to try to hold still as Master spanked. He hit a little harder, blows a few seconds apart, one cheek and then the other, till the spanking and the hook, the stinging and the pressure, were working in harmony, making a new kind of pain together. It was strangely exciting, this collaboration of hand and hook.

Then Master got a paddle from his cabinet and paddled me - a hotter, sharper sting - and I twitched more violently, and the hook in my ass was a stab of pain. I didn't want him to stop, but still cried, "No, Master!"

He didn't reply, and I felt him own my body and my pain as he paddled me slowly and rhythmically, intensity building, till the room was disappearing, and each slap of the paddle filled my mind with pleasure even as my body burned.

He stopped and came to me with a jar of cream, which he smoothed over my raw ass. I sighed for the gentleness of his hands. He sat in his chair and watched me awhile. I knew he was admiring what he'd made of me: my red bottom, my absurd posture, and the obscene hook in my ass. I felt warm and happy, sensing his pleasure at the sight of my tortured body.

"Are you ready for your punishment now, Emily?" he said.

I whimpered. I'd thought my punishment was done. But I said, "Yes, Master" and waited for his pleasure. He went to his cabinet again and came back with a cane. It was thin, tan, and flexible, an absurd parody of a walking stick. But I knew there was nothing absurd about it. I'd heard about it, though I'd never experienced it, and I was terrified.

"No, Master, please," I begged.

"'No' is not your safeword, Famula," he said, and gave my bottom a light tap. Even though it wasn't a hard blow, I could tell the cane was dangerous. The pain was sharper than with the hand or a paddle. He hit me again, a little harder, and I could have sworn the cane was on fire and leaving burn marks on my bottom. The caning went on and on, harder and sharper. With every slashing blow, I thought the next would push me past endurance, and I cried "Please, Master!" in terror. He ignored my pleas and struck harder, and somehow I endured.

My body was winding up, heart pounding, pussy flooding, and yet somehow the pain was getting farther away, time and space distorted, my head and ass in different countries, the nerves connecting them sluggish, meandering rivers, in no hurry to deliver their messages - and when the signals finally reached their destination, my brain said, Who cares? My mind was growing dark, my world was shrinking to what was right in front of me - a stretch of floor, a chair leg. I sighed, "Oh, Master," and closed my eyes in bliss. I wanted him to go on forever.

But he couldn't, of course. It would have been psychopathic to go on. He untied me and extracted the hook from my ass. He sat cross legged on the floor and folded me in his arms, petting my stomach, neck, and cheeks. I closed my eyes and rested in his lap. I couldn't remember ever feeling as euphoric as I did at that moment, as my mind slowly reconnected with my sore body and sore ass.

"Master," I said, "can I ask a favor?" My words seemed wispy, like the fading memory of a dream.

"You can ask, Famula." His voice was so deep and warm.

"Fuck me?"

He did fuck me, right there under the hook, amid the discarded ropes, and then he put more cream on me, held me again, and murmured words of love to me. I looked into his strong, handsome face and adored him.

Afterwards I ran to the bedroom and craned to look at my bottom in the full-length mirror. It was bright red all over and striped with thin red welts. I hugged myself and went to make dinner. A few days later, when I told Kevin about my experience, he sighed with envy and said he'd rarely gotten into subspace.

With Frederick, there hadn't been much difference between play and punishment - except for the one time he'd exiled me from his bedroom. With my new Master, there was a world of difference. Play usually involved role-playing - we both loved puppy-play, but we tried other things, too, policeman, doctor, professor (which Master, of course, did very well), and more. It was sometimes rough, like the time he spanked my pussy with the newspaper, but never really painful. Punishment, on the other hand, involved pain or humiliation: the cane, the cat, a tongue-lashing delivered in level, rational tones, or my having to confess my sins on my knees.

I loved the play - it was light-hearted and imaginative - but I craved the punishments. Both Andrew and Frederick had understood this about me, and they'd delivered spankings, whippings, and humiliations as part of our play. But I had a difficult time getting it across to this Master.

The day after my caning I worked up the nerve to suggest that he paddle or cane me while we were playing. He did, too, but it wasn't the same somehow: he couldn't make it hurt properly unless he had it firmly in mind that it was punishment.

One night, as an experiment, I turned his knife around the wrong way while setting the table, so the sharper edge was facing right instead of left. He pointed this out to me, and I said, "Yes, Master."

The next night I did the same thing, and when he pointed it out to me, I said, "Yes, Master" again.

On the third night, he said, "Are you deliberately ignoring my instructions, Emily?"

"No, Master," I said.

"Then why have you gotten the table setting wrong three nights in a row?"

"I don't know, Master."

"Do you think you can get it right tomorrow?"

"I don't know, Master."

He breathed out through his nose - a little gesture of exasperation - and said, "You'd better come with me, Famula."

I followed him to the dungeon, excited and hot with shame, and stood still while he stripped me, tied my arms together in front of me, and lashed them to me with ropes around my waist and ass. He laid me on the floor, tied my ankles and legs together, and then carefully, even gently, hoisted me till I was hanging upside down from the hook in the ceiling. He flogged my upper back with a cat, and then with the cane. Again I entered subspace and was still there when he came in my mouth, holding my head in his hands. I discovered that it was possible to swallow Master's cum while hanging head down.

He cradled me while I returned to myself. By then dinner was ruined and I had to start over. It was nearly bedtime when I finished the dishes. He sat on the living room sofa and read while I sat on the floor at his feet, knees up, arms around my legs. I was clothed, and my cotton T shirt irritated my sore back. I was frustrated and needy.

He set his book down abruptly and said, "Why, Emily?"

I said, "I like it when you punish me, Master." I wanted him to do it all again, right then.

"But is it punishment if you like it?"

"Yes, Master."

"How so?"

"I feel shame when you punish me."

"And you don't like shame?"

"I do like shame."

He picked up his book, stared at it blankly for a minute, and then set it down again. He said, "You shouldn't try to manipulate me. It's not a good way to treat anyone, let alone your Master."

"Yes, Master." A knot formed in my stomach, and my pussy leaked a little.

He picked up his book again.

"Master?" I said.

"Yes, Emily?"

"Would you kiss me?"

"Not now, Emily." He looked at his book and ignored me.

His disapproval was a cudgel battering my heart. I was tearing up, and my body was hot and jittery. A kiss - or a slap, or a whipping - seemed the most important thing in the world. I touched his knee and said, "Master, I really need you."

"Stop it, Emily."

I took my T shirt off - I wasn't wearing a bra. "Please, Master." I squirmed out of my pants and clung to his legs, weeping. "I'll do anything you want. No limits."

He stood up and shook me off. "It's time for bed, Emily. Go upstairs, do your bathroom things, and wait for me."

I gathered my clothing and went upstairs. In the bathroom I cleaned off my makeup, brushed my teeth, and peed. Then I waited on my pallet, still naked. After a few minutes he came in carrying a large, flat, black metal thing - a folding pet cage. He set it up and said, "Into the cage, Emily."

I backed into it as I had done with the other cage. This one was a little bigger; its floor was cold sheet metal. He closed the door and locked it with a padlock. He said, "You can masturbate in the cage, Emily."

"Will you watch, Master?"

"No," he said. He went to the bathroom and closed the door.

I had wanted the humiliation of his watching, but now the shame of his not wanting to watch was a hundred times more powerful. I could lie on my back in this cage if I drew my legs up. I did that and masturbated with one hand while I massaged my anus with my other. I felt miserable and abandoned, thinking how low I'd fallen, stimulating myself in a pet cage while my Master, who cared nothing for me, peed and flossed his teeth in the next room. I came hard, and then curled up tight on the floor of my cage and cried. I was still crying when Master draped a heavy wool blanket over my cage. After that, I had no sense of time, but I know I slept until Master pulled the blanket off and the morning light woke me.

He helped me out of the cage and embraced me while I was still sleepy and blinking. He kissed me, and I thought a fuzzy, alarmed thought and murmured "Brush teeth."

"No, Emily," he said, and led me to his bed, where he lay me on my back, spread my legs, and went down on me. It felt like a gift - as if he were doing it entirely for me, and his own pleasure was incidental. How could he be so generous, when I'd been so selfish and vile? His tongue felt good in me; I sighed and moved my hips, and when something moved inside me, he felt it too and came up to me and gave me the orgasm I'd craved - the best kind, the gift from Master. When I'd come he fucked me hard till he came inside me, then rolled away from me and said, "You've almost made our breakfast late. Run and fix it: you don't want to be punished for lateness."

I found fresh clothing and pulled it on, then ran down to the kitchen, humming a bright tune. But when I got there, a fog rolled into my head and I couldn't concentrate. I looked for eggs in the cabinets, opened six drawers to find utensils whose locations I knew perfectly well, and stood dreaming at the stove while the bacon curled into ashes. It was a good hour before breakfast was ready.

After breakfast, Master lashed me to the cross and hung a large wand vibrator from a rope belt he'd fashioned: it buzzed against my clit, torturing me with pleasure. He let me writhe for what seemed a long time, then spoke to me earnestly.

"We have to find a solution to this problem," he said, tugging at his forelock. "You're out of control, Emily, deliberately fucking up every day."

"Yes, Master," I said. I really wanted to do better and please Master. I wriggled, trying to get away from the vibrator, but couldn't do it. My brain was turning into oatmeal. Then a beautiful idea burst through the mush. "Master," I said, "may I sleep in the cage again tonight?"