We hadn't seen each other in months and the sexual
frustration was palpable as we rushed through the airport in search of the exit
for hotel shuttles. We undressed each other with our eyes and held a lengthy,
silent conversation that said we each had plans for how the night would unfold;
I was quite certain that our thoughts ran in similar tracks.
He'd gotten into the city before I did so he checked us into
the hotel already, anticipating our mutual desperation. Thankfully, he'd had
the foresight to reserve a room at the hotel nearest the airport, so ours was
the first shuttle stop once we'd left the airport. Hopping off the shuttle, we
tipped the driver and grabbed my bags, then rushed inside. We had the elevator
to ourselves and took advantage of the opportunity to get each other pre-heated
on the way up to the 8th floor. To be honest, I'm not sure if it would have
mattered if we'd had to share the elevator with others, that's how badly we
needed each other.
Racing down the hallway, he hurriedly unlocked the door on
which he'd already hung the "Do Not Disturb" sign (I loved this man
and his ability to think ahead!), then slammed it shut behind us. Not bothering
to lock the door beyond its self-locking deadbolt, he pushed me toward the bed,
face down. Without a word, he lifted my skirt and ripped off my panties. In the
next second, I heard him unzip his pants, rip open a condom package and roll it
on his massively hard cock. Less than a minute from opening the door and he was
sinking his thick cock into my drenched pussy. Fully sheathed within my moist
heat, he paused for just a moment to enjoy the sensation and emitted a loud
growl of pleasure. And then he was moving.
This was no gentle lovemaking. It was a hard, desperate, and
almost brutal fucking; in other words, just what I needed. I was just as horny
as he was and for every thrust he gave me, I responded in kind. He slammed his
cock deep and hard into my pussy, battering my cervix with every thrust and
letting me feel his balls slapping against my engorged clitoris. I squeeze
Master's cock tightly, keeping him buried deep within me as we ride each other,
use each other's bodies for our mutual pleasure.
Normally, my Master is a man of extreme self-control who can
fuck for a good hour before needing to release, and he'll get me off at least
six or seven times before even thinking about his own orgasm. Not tonight
though. I was so sure that I had plenty of time to let that first orgasm build
into something of epic proportions that I wasn't even close to it when I could
feel him tensing behind me. When he stiffened like that, I knew it meant that
his orgasm was imminent. He thrust faster and harder, using my soaked pussy
like it was little more than a living masturbation sleeve.
With a loud grunt, followed by an even louder scream of
triumph, Steve thrust his final thrust and released a heavy load of cum into
his condom. Pulling out of me, he tore off the condom, flipped me over, and
placed his still-hard cock at my lips. "Clean it," he ordered gently.
He was my Master, but his orders were usually worded gently because that's the
kind of man he is.
"But I ..." I began, starting to complain that I
hadn't reached orgasm yet. "You think I don't know when my slut does and
doesn't cum?" he asked me, and his tone was no longer gentle. "Clean
my cock like a good slut and then we'll talk."
Obediently, I cleaned his cock while my pussy and clit
ached. Was he upset with me? He's never treated me like this before. I spent a
couple minutes carefully cleaning his cock with my tongue, encouraged by the
fact that it was only semi-flaccid. Eventually, he pulled back and tucked his
cock back into his trousers, then zipped himself up and sat down on the bed
next to me.
Turning toward me, he took my hands in his, looked in my
eyes and asked me very quietly: "Who owns you?"
Eyes widening, I looked at him with surprise. We hadn't had
this conversation in a long time and I couldn't understand why he'd be bringing
it up now. I must have done something to upset him, but I had no idea what it
was. "Y-you do, Master."
"That's right," he responded. "I do."
His left hand still held mine, but his right hand reached for my wet pussy and
grabbed it. "And whose is this?" he asked.
"Y-yours, Master," I answered nervously.
"Good girl," he said. "So far you're two for
two. Let's see if you can make it three for three," he said, and suddenly
I knew what was wrong. Or at least part of what was wrong. "You don't have
many rules, slut, but I do expect the ones I give you to be followed. What are
the rules for MY pussy?"
Lowering my head slightly, because I was too ashamed to look
into his eyes, I answer: "Your pussy must always be shaved and must never
be covered." The problem is, it had been a couple months since we'd seen
each other and since his rules only apply when we're together ... well, I
forgot.
"Good girl," he said again, a bit condescendingly.
"You do know the rules, yet you chose to disregard them. That is why you
will not have the opportunity to cum until tomorrow, when you will have had a
chance to earn it. A slut is only entitled to what her Master allows her,"
he reminded me. I nodded my head and murmured an apology.
"I'm sorry, Master," I said quietly, afraid that I
would begin crying at any minute. I was ashamed at having forgotten, and always
hated to disappoint him. He released my other hand and patted my thigh in
acceptance of my apology.
"I know you are, slut," he said, and both his
words and tone were gentle again. "But it doesn't obviate your
punishment." I knew that without his saying it, but hearing it made my
head drop even further. "Go stand in the corner while I take my shower.
We'll deal with your punishment after I've showered and then we'll start this
trip with a clean slate. Deal?" I didn't really have a choice, but I
nodded my head as if it weren't a rhetorical question.
"Thank you, Master," I said simply, then moved to
the corner he'd indicated. I'd been sent to the corner enough times to know
what he expected of me, and I would make sure I didn't fail him again tonight.
I stood in the corner with my legs spread wide, the toes of
each foot touching separate walls. My shoulders were straight and my head was
held high with my nose buried into the corner. My hands were crossed behind my
back and holding my skirt up at my waist, leaving my ass bare.
"A little wider please, dear," he said, referring
to the spread of my legs. I spread my legs wider and this forced my nose deeper
into the corner. "And thrust out your hips a bit better. Mmm. Yes, just
like that, my lovely slut," he said, coming closer and running a hand down
my back. He rubbed his hands over my ass cheeks, tugged at the plug that was
nestled between them to make sure it was secure, then slid a finger down toward
my pussy. With my hips thrust out like this, he could see not only my ass but
my pussy. With my legs spread wide, I could feel the cool air rushing over my
clit and labia and I knew however long he spent in the shower, it would seem
like much longer.
"Good girl," he cooed, rubbing his thumb over my
clitoris. He stroked it fast and hard, the way I love the most, and only
stopped when he knew I was seconds from orgasm. "Tut," he said,
clicking his tongue. "None of that until tomorrow. Now hold your pose and
I'll be right back out." This was going to be the longest I'd ever stood
in the corner.
Normally, Master showers fast, but not tonight. When he
returned for me after about 15 minutes, my libido had cooled, as he'd known it
would. He led me from the corner toward the straight back chair at the desk. I
mentally groaned, but didn't complain. I'm short, so chairs like this pose a
problem for me. Standing behind the chair, Master tells me to bend over it and
make myself comfortable. It's not possible to be comfortable, of course,
because in order to bend over it I'm forced to stand on my tiptoes the entire
time. My large breasts heave over the top of the back and my legs arch from how
I have to stand. I grab hold of the sides of the chair, near its seat, and
spread my legs the way I know Master wants.
"Are you comfortable, slut?" he asks me.
My head hangs low but there is nowhere for it to rest.
"Yes, Master," I tell him, letting him hear the contrition that's
already seeped into me, as if hoping that will encourage him to be lenient even
though we both know it won't; besides, there's a secret part of me that would
be disappointed if he was.
"There will be no wiggling once I start. If you wiggle,
I'll add more strokes. Do you understand, little girl?" He says the same
thing every time. I haven't been a little girl in a very long time but it's how
he refers to me at punishment time.
"Yes, Master," I answer. "I understand."
Next he'll tell me what my punishment is to be, even though I already know it.
"It will be 20 strokes for each infraction. For each
stroke you don't count, you will receive another. Do you understand?"
Twenty strokes! I mentally screamed. I must have hesitated too long before
responding because he prodded me. "Yes, little one. I reminded you last
time that if I had to punish you again for the same thing, I'd be adding an
extra five to the total." I'd forgotten that too.
"Y-yes, Master," I say quietly. "Twenty
strokes for wearing panties, another twenty for not shaving, and I must count
them. I understand."
He held his leather belt in his right hand and gently rubbed
my ass with his left for a good minute, calming me. He waited until he could
tell that I was mentally prepared before he started. My Master was a kind and
gentle man most of the time, but he knew how to wield a belt. When the leather
first cracked against my tender skin, I wanted to flail and holler; instead, I
cried out a solid "One, sir!" The next four strokes came very fast
and hard, leaving me no time to think about anything other than counting out
their numbers, and making sure they were loud enough that he could hear me.
But to be effective, a good punishment must be memorable.
After the fifth stroke, Master paused to rub my ass, soothing out the sting a
little bit. You'd think he was doing me a kindness, soothing away the sting,
but really that made it worse when he picked up the belt again. He wasn't
gentle, but he knew what he was doing; moreover, he knew how much I could
withstand. I kept counting, not missing so much as a stroke, but by the time he
got to the first set of twenty, my voice was a higher pitch than usual, which
meant that I was nearly in tears. I knew that my ass was bright red and welted,
and that I would bear bruises from this beating for at least a week. Still, I
gripped that chair tightly and continued to count. As we moved past twenty, I
remembered to begin breathing deeply. Somewhere around stroke twenty-five, the
burning of my ass had become a warm glow that settled around me like a
comforting friend. When the last stroke fell, I realized that I'd been crying
through at least the last fifteen strokes.
Master dropped his belt to the floor, helped me stand, then
led me by the hand over to the bed. He pulled me into his arms and cradled me,
stroking my hair and back, dropping tender kisses on my head, and telling me
what a brave, good girl I'd been. I continued to sob for many minutes,
releasing all of the stress I'd been feeling for the past few months, until I
finally ran out of tears. I gave a quiet hiccough, then turned my head up to
look at my Master with blood-shot eyes and tear-streaked cheeks. I knew my face
was blotchy, because it always is after a long cry, but he never seemed to
mind. I gave him a tremulous smile and then thanked him. He never insisted on a
show of gratitude after a punishment, but I always felt compelled to give it.
"Feel better now, baby?" he asked me tenderly, his
voice full of love.
I gave a quick nod of my head, widened my smile, and
answered, just as lovingly. "Mmm. Yes, Master."
Our vacation was off to a fabulous start.
Punishing Melody
by Selenite
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