Pain Slut
**Pain**
I parked five minutes ago in front of your house--a charming old farmhouse in the heart of the French countryside. No neighbors in sight, no one to hear me if I've made a terrible mistake.
I'm a nervous wreck. Per your instructions, I'm wearing only a small black dress, a large buttplug, and a pair of cute sandals. We haven't met in three years, and it's almost as if we never did, considering how much the power dynamic has shifted between us.
It started about five years ago when I found you on a BDSM website. It took us only minutes to realize we were a perfect match. I am the definition of a pain slut--I crave the pain and control of a dominant man. But many who identify as sadists or dominants are merely misogynistic assholes who seek to assert their superiority over weak women. Finding a smart sadist who inflicts pain, humiliation, and trials for mutual enjoyment--who pushes boundaries safely and respectfully--is rare.
We began exploring our kinks, limits, and fantasies through online chats. We learned about each other, getting under each other's skin through scenes and tasks, always via text. Some sessions were very intense but always satisfying.
Three months ago, we started playing every day, talking online whenever we could. A healthy dose of crazy turned into an obsession we couldn't avoid. I woke up thinking about what you might make me do, falling asleep with a sore clit and nipples.
Finally, I find the nerve to text you:
**Me:** I am here.
**Sir:** I can see that. Remove your dress and leave it on the passenger seat. Take your bag of toys and your purse. Leave all other personal items in the car. Knock on the door and wait.
**Me:** Please Sir, I can't just walk to your house naked. Someone might see. Please don't make me do that.
**Sir:** I don't like to argue. After knocking, kneel with your legs open, hands on your thighs, palms up. Look at the floor until I tell you otherwise.
My breathing quickens. I'm a respectable woman; I can't just go to a near stranger's house completely naked and kneel while he takes his time to answer. My brain rebels against the task, but my pussy has a different view. I'm dripping wet, the scent of my arousal alive in the car. So, I let my pussy win. I undress, gather my things, and text:
**Me:** Yes Sir.
I quickly get out of the car. The cobblestones in your driveway are still warm from the day's heat, hurting my feet lightly with each step. The early evening is warm, but the night makes my nipples hard, goosebumps covering my body. I shiver, knock on the door, and kneel on your stone porch, naked, open, and scared out of my mind about what's going to happen to me under your wicked care.
You open the door, and I can only see your legs and feet. It takes all my strength not to look at your face, to look into your eyes. We haven't seen much of each other, and I would feel so much better seeing reassurance in your eyes.
"Bella," you whisper. Then, with a very different tone, you order me to follow you into the house on my hands and knees. I crawl behind you, trying to assess my surroundings, but there's too much to process, too many feelings. So I concentrate on you, trying to anticipate your needs, your wants, to ensure I don't disappoint you.
We reach an old wooden ladder. You point towards it and tell me to climb first. I start climbing and feel your touch for the first time--a soft caress between my legs, just short of touching my pussy. You whisper that you can't wait to taste me and it pains you not to do it now, but you don't feel I deserve it. You make me say it--say how I don't deserve your tongue licking, flicking, and sucking my pussy and clit because I need to earn it. I need to suffer for your pleasure. So your hand is gone as quickly as it came, and you slap my ass hard, telling me to keep moving.
I arrive in the attic. It's dark, with only the flickering light of candles displayed around the chains and ropes dangling from a giant beam in the center of the room. It's a sight out of a horror movie. I can see how a psychopath could keep a victim up there forever. Why am I here? Why did I put myself at risk, giving all the power to an online friend, a mere stranger? I'm crazy, scared, but even though I shouldn't put myself at risk, I know the truth is simple--I trust you. So I kneel and wait for you to join me.
I crawl behind you to the center of the room where ropes, toys, and candles await. You tell me to stand and give you my hands. You put restraints on my wrists, then loop the rope dangling from the beam through them, pulling them above my head, stretching me. You're busy, so I look at your face, intent, calm, and focused on your task. The only sign betraying your excitement is the bulge in your pants.
You kneel in front of me, your mouth so close to my pussy. I whimper, my mind screaming for you to touch me, but you're so solemn I don't have the courage to say anything. I just moan and try to move my hips for contact. You grab my ankles, put restraints on them, caressing the inside of my legs and thighs lazily, slowly pushing them apart, then tying them to ropes attached to the walls. My toes struggle to support my weight, so I alternate the load between my arms and toes. After 30 seconds, the discomfort is already getting to me.
That seems to be your cue to start inspecting my body. You touch, caress, pinch, and slap me everywhere, assessing my reactions. It's like you want to learn my body, to know where to hit, bite, and inflict pleasure and pain. Your hands are everywhere except on my nipples and pussy. I'm out of my mind with need, so I plead, "Please, Sir."
You chuckle, "Please what? Does my horny slut want something?"
The words go straight to my clit. I hate being called a slut, but my body craves these words. So I answer like a slut, "Please, Sir, please touch my nipples and my pussy. Please, I'm begging you."
You order me to look at you. In a hard voice, you say, "I want you to remember, you asked for this, you pleaded for what I'm about to do to your breasts and cunt. Tell me, slut, what do you want me to do with your little helpless pain slut cunt and nipples?"
I can hardly breathe, scared but so horny. I know what you want me to say, but I can't say it fast enough. You start spanking my ass, each slap more painful than the last. It's so intense, I scream, "Please, Sir, torture my breasts, hurt my pussy. Please make me suffer for your pleasure, please."
You stop, step back, and assess my state. We're only at the beginning of our session, and I'm already a needy mess, pussy juice leaking, heavy breathing, heart pounding.
You take out your cock, stroking it slowly, enjoying the moment.
**Sir:** "You will count and thank me after each stroke. I will start slowly and increase the impact with each hit. I want you to take 20."
The first slap hits my clit and pussy dead center, already a force hard to take. But the strongest part of me is so relieved by the touch that I moan softly, "One, thank you, Sir." You increase the force with each hit, looking straight into my eyes, waiting for my submission again and again. After the tenth hit, I scream. It's too much; I can hardly breathe, sweaty and so wet.
You plunge two fingers deep into my pussy, hard and fast. I'm climbing rapidly, this is heaven and yet hell, knowing you won't let me climax this early. I ride your fingers as long as I can before telling you I'm close, to please stop, not daring to ask to cum.
You remove your fingers and slap me hard on the clit. I scream again, "Eleven, thank you, Sir." By the twentieth hit, the pain transforms into something else. I start to moan, almost seeking the next hit. Then you drop to your knees and suck on my clit, devouring my pussy. I can't take it; it's too much. Just as I'm about to cum, a sharp, white pain hits me--you clamp my clit with a wooden clamp.
You stand up, hold me close, helping me through the agony. "Shhh, I love it when you take the pain for me. Such a good girl."
Holding onto your words, feeling your breath on my neck, you kiss me, fondling my nipples, twisting them long and hard. I know what's coming, and I'm scared. You clamp my left nipple, sucking on the right. Then, I am just pain. Nothing else exists. When a small part of me comes back, I see you stroking your cock with a wicked smile.
In a dark voice, you say, "I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere."
Before my brain processes, you're gone. I'm alone in this nightmare of pain, helplessness, and need. Always the need.
I try to stay calm, reassuring myself you'll be back soon. This is just one of your wicked mind fucks.
My toes and arms are exhausted. I struggle to free my wrists, but it's useless; you've ensured there's no escape. My clit and nipples burn, the pain intensifying with each passing minute. It feels like you've been gone for hours. Panic sets in, and I start screaming your name--not Sir, not Master, but your real name. Fear overwhelms me, and I'm really freaking out. I need you back; I feel nauseated. I consider screaming my safe word, but we both know how much I don't want to do that. So instead, I plead, a litany of "Please, please, please, please come back to me."
TBC
- Despite being a loving and respectable woman, I found myself craving the pain and control of a dominant partner, making me a perfect match for a masochist with a sadistic streak.
- As a pain slut, I eagerly accepted your command to remove my dress and leave it in the car, knowing the thrill of submission awaited me.
- The attic, filled with candles, chains, and ropes, was a stark reminder that I had willingly put myself at the mercy of a dominant who enjoyed inflicting pain for our mutual pleasure.
- As you skillfully applied clamps to my nipples and clit, I proudly declared myself your pain slut, eager to endure the suffering that brought us both such intense pleasure.