Peppermint Ch. 01: Deborah in Pain
Little Mint Chapter 1.
So, how did we end up here? Neither of us had planned for this. It was actually you who began as the dominant one - had made a career out of it - and yet here you are on your knees with your wrists handcuffed behind your back, your buttocks resting on your heels, and your nipples caught between the pages of the leather-bound atlas lying on the low, object-cluttered table, a large iron kettlebell pressing the pages shut and keeping you in place. I can hear your steady breathing and know that while you're in pain, you're nowhere near your limit. The silence is uninterrupted, the sounds of the outside world distant and unimportant. There are cars outside, planes in the sky, but in this room, your whole world has shrunk. This room at the back of your house, with the patio doors closed, the clock on the mantel silent. I know how your heart will be thumping, steady. Your pulse, strong and regular, will be loud in your ears as you wait for me.
It almost feels like a shame to interrupt the scene, but I do so anyway. I inhale deeply, drinking in the warm afternoon air, feeling it fill my chest with an almost indecent enthusiasm. I slip through the patio door, making sure to close it carefully behind me. You don't move or speak or give any sign that you've noticed me; good. Everything's organised, the room spotless, and arranged how I'd wanted it. You're dressed according to instructions, your bra straps loose and hanging down, resting in the crooks of your elbows, your breast spilling out of the small cups to make it easier to trap you. Black hold-ups rise to mid-thigh and the leather slave collar I got you is around your neck. Again, good. You've arranged your hair, red as fireflames, to cascade down your back to the tops of your buttocks. Kohl darkens your lashes and eyelids until they become black nebulae.
"You are ready for me. You've done well. How long have you been waiting like this? Nod your head if it's been more than an hour." My voice sounds too loud, too harsh, for this setting, but I force myself to continue. "As instructed. Do you feel pain?" Another slow nod. "Are you uncomfortable?" This time, a careful, steady shake of your head. "You have your safe word; should you use it, the activities will stop. Understand?" In doing so, I'm tormenting myself, as I love the sound of your voice, but I have a role to play. You nod again, still facing forward. I move so I'm standing to the side of you and place the fingertips of my left hand on your shoulder. "Face me, Deborah," I tell you, and when you use your name, I hear that slight intake of breath, giving you away. You turn your head slowly, tilting your chin towards me. I see your dark grey eyes dilate slightly.
"Would you like more pressure?" I ask, moving to stand behind you. There's no hesitation in your answer, and you nod willingly. I lift another kettlebell from the rack to your left, lift it over your head, and place it roughly on the atlas. A whimper escapes you as the pain in your nipples increases, and your hands shake, rattling the cuffs. "Too much?" I ask, but you shake your head. I kneel behind you, grip your shoulders, and rock you slightly backward, pulling your nipples away from your chest. "Maintain the position," I command, and run my fingers over the soft skin of your breasts, noting how the puckered skin of your areolae contrasts with the sharp, compressed pages. Your skin is warm, the first sheen of stress sweat starting to form on it. I gently cup and then slap each breast in turn, first on the right, then the left. Two shorter inhales let me know you've noticed. I slap each breast a little harder, from above, and your breathing starts to quicken. I run my fingers through your beautiful hair from scalp to buttocks, then stand and walk around the table to look you in the eyes.
Footnotes
[1] Here's a link to the original article
[2] And here's the playlist
Time to start. Lean back far enough to free your nipples from the book. You hesitate slightly before collapsing back, releasing your aching nipples from the pages of the atlas, which snap together with a distinct click. A loud whimper of pain erupts as the blood rushes back in, igniting a burn that causes the whimpering to grow more intense. You squirm on the floor for a moment before I order you to stop and kneel once more, facing away from the table. You catch your breath with a few deep inhales and follow instructions. I approach you again, standing in front of you, and take your right nipple in the fingers of my left hand. "Look at me" I say, and you comply, staring into my eyes. I turn your nipple sharply, grinding it between my thumb and first two fingers.
Your whimpers become moans of genuine pain as your body tries to pull away. I tighten my grip and instruct you to stay still. Despite the effort, you manage to follow my directions. I observe your fearless expression and the glimmer of tears threatening. I release your nipple and watch it return to its normal size. "Nod if you want me to do the same to the other" I suggest, keeping my gaze on you. You nod once, still gazing into my eyes. I locate the other breast, gripping the nipple and pinching it, twisting it harshly. Your response intensifies, half a moan, half a sob, yet you maintain eye contact. "Good girl" I praise. "You're strong, and I like that." I direct you to stand, and you comply, raising yourself to your 1.6-meter height. I gently lift the straps of your bra over your shoulders and position your breasts back in the cups. A brief flicker of disappointment crosses your face, disappearing as I state, "We aren't finished yet, Deborah. We aren't finished yet."
I instruct you to turn around, and I produce the key to the handcuffs, which I release and place on the table. I scan your hair, the contour of your back, and the contours of your buttocks. I admire the slope of your hips, your silky thighs, and the delicacy of your feet. I admire my own good fortune for bringing me here. "Stand with your feet shoulder-width apart" I softly command. "Remove your bra and touch your nipples with your hands." Instruction carries out as expected. I approach, walking around until standing in front of you. You look up at me trustingly. I observe your fingertips stroking your nipples, increasing your pleasure. I allow five minutes to pass. Your nipples are standing erect when I say, "Stop."
"Are you wet, Deborah?" I inquire. You nod and pleadingly look at me. "Do you want to cum?" Another nod. "Use your right hand to touch your clit."
You swiftly reach down, gliding your fingers across your belly and between your legs, penetrating your wetness and reaching your clitoris immediately. I watch your body wince slightly as you caress yourself gently. Five minutes later, when I demand you stop, you sob once and look at me with a blend of anguish and desire. "Cross your arms across your stomach and stand with your feet together."
You follow instructions, feeling regretful. I sense your desire to climax and vow to delay it. "You can climax, Deborah, if you want to. However, that moment will signal the end of our activities. Do you want to end them now, with an orgasm?" You shake your head, barely able to contain your eagerness. However, you yearn to continue, to challenge me.
"Good." I state, "I would be... disappointed if you were to give in so quickly." A trace of a smile graces your lips before being overcome by your yearning gaze at the expensive Moroccan carpet beneath you. "Drop your arms to your sides. Do not attempt to touch yourself. Do you desire more pain, Deborah?"
You respond with a nod.
I instruct you to fetch your bra and present it to me. Upon receiving the bra, I tie your hands behind your back using it. I then remove the weighted objects from the table, placing them back onto their designated rack. I select a short black crop that you've chosen from its resting spot near the atlas.
"Remain in place, without moving. I'll strike you multiple times with this crop. If you wish me to halt, utilize the designated safe word. In the event you speak, I'll cease our interactions immediately. Do you comprehend?" Your confident head nod again. "Let's see how ardently you crave this, huh? Keep in mind, Deborah, this isn't retribution, and you've requested this from me."
With that, I give you a sturdy tap on the abdomen with the folded end of the crop, targeting slightly below your left breast. Absent a response, I deliver another blow beneath the right. When there's no response, I start hitting you more vigorously, alternating between left and right, increasing the intensity until you're visibly recoiling before each smack. I shift my attention upward to your ample bust, continuing to inflict blows. I can perceive your might and determination battling your instinct to flee the anguish, your bound hands reaching for nothing behind your back, your respiration becoming more labored and your legs quivering. The marks left by your own fist striking your left breast are now accompanied by a more delicate red patch on your right, the skin showing signs of inflammation.
"I'll strike you twice more, and then you shall kneel where you stand." I declare, maintaining a detached and imposing tone. You affirm understanding and fix your head up high, offering up your breasts for another beating. I swing the crop forcefully onto your right nipple, its stiff tip lashing hard against your erect areola. A strangled combination of a scream and sob escapes your lips, and your breath turns ragged as you tilt forward, allowing your hair to conceal your face. Displaying gentleness, I correct you for moving, adjusting your posture and smoothing your hair. "You remained still; good girl. The final blow awaits. Nod if you desire me to continue." You inhale deeply and nod in agreement, resuming your confident pose with your chest puffed out, your ragged respiration still evident. "I like your tenacity, Deborah. Shall I exert the same force or more for the second blow?" Before you can react, I make the choice for you, bringing the crop down with the maximum force attainable at that moment onto the tip of your left nipple. You shriek audibly, your first vocalization since my arrival, and lean forward once more, whimpering softly to yourself.
"Kneel." I command. With a single word, yet filled with power and menace. You drop to your knees in front of the table, resembling your initial position when I entered the room. Shaking slightly, sweat glistening on your shoulders. I crouch behind you, loosening the ties around your hands, undoing the straps that had been digging into your skin. "Put your bra back on. Despite your passion, there will be no more mistreatment of your breasts at this time." With a slight tremble in your hands, you comply, taking care not to touch the inflamed areas and your swollen nipples.
"Now that we've established your desire for this to continue, I will cease asking if you wish me to carry on; I'll merely discontinue if you inadvertently speak, climax, or if you invoke the safe word. You now have the choice to decide which area of your body I'll focus on next - your buttocks and legs, or your back and shoulders. Voice your selection, Deborah; choosing the first option will lead to me addressing my own desires as well, so be aware."
You lift your right arm, indicating that you want me to proceed with using your lower limbs as the focal point. However, before continuing, I grab the water jug from the mantelpiece and pour it into a glass. I place the glass near your mouth. You take a leisurely sip, relishing the cool liquid as it enters your mouth and travels down your parched throat, settling in your stomach. Although I enjoy our current activities, I don't wish to cause you irreversible harm or prevent you from fulfilling your responsibilities due to dehydration. Completing your drink, I tilt the glass backward until the last drops escape your lips, sliding down your chin and onto your chest, dampening your bra. I allow you to sit there in silence for a few moments; your body begins to relax, your pulse slows down, and the beads of sweat dry up. I admire your flawless body as we wait, with its perfect structure, impressive fitness, and the effortlessly feminine appearance.
You possess the skin of a woman younger than your 42 years, and your exquisite breasts rest high on your toned chest just below the depression of your collarbones. Your thighs and buttocks, soon to be the targets of my attention, are well-muscled in their silicone-lined stockings. As always, your hair, appearing like a blazing fire in the twilight, drapes your shoulders and slides along the bumps of your spine. I wonder to myself, how did I reach this point, commanding you, inflicting pain on you? Will you utter the safe word, or allow me the pure pleasure of exploiting you completely?
I force these ideas from my mind and concentrate on the task in front of me. "Stand up. Turn to face away from me and tie your hair in a bun," you do as instructed, employing a black elastic hair tie kept prepared on the table. "Lean down and grip your ankles with your hands, keeping your legs straight," you comply. Next, I smack your left buttock with a firm backhand slap, causing a grunt of breath to escape your lips. The slaps escalate in intensity, landing on both buttocks until you're panting from the intensity of the pain. I realize that my hand is starting to ache, so I walk away from you and select the thin leather belt from the table.
I chuckle to myself as I picture you arranging the items on the table before their usage to bring you agony and pleasure. There's a certain irony there, and for a brief moment, I feel malicious, but I remember that you prompted this; you urged me to act in this manner, asserting that it's what you desired despite your regular behaviors. So I seize the belt you selected from your wardrobe, stand behind you again, and state, "I think twenty lashes on each thigh will suffice..." and you let out a moan, either an expression of fear or anticipation, and I begin tallying the sounds the belt produces as it strikes your thighs. Some strikes find the tops of your stockings, some the fabric, and some the bare skin above them.
No matter, each lash is punctuated with a moan of discomfort. I count audibly "One... one... two... two... three... three..." up to the twentieth lash on each thigh. Upon completing, I can hear you gasping, and for a brief instant, I believe you're crying, but as I inspect, I realize your face is contorted in pre-orgasmic ecstasy instead. I smile internally, acknowledging your endurance, and advance, pressing the palm of my right hand against your abdomen and sliding a finger suddenly and deeply within your wetness. You moan loudly and grind against my finger. I linger for a few seconds, enjoying the scorching warmth and observing your quickening breath, until I pull you upright and place my finger on your mouth, compelling you to taste yourself. You voraciously suck on my finger, maintaining eye contact, until my digit departs from your lips, leaving a smudge of your dark lipstick on my knuckle. "Keep in mind, Deborah, the instant you climax signifies the end of this," I whisper softly, and you hesitantly lean forward slightly, inviting my finger to slip out of your depths. I raise you back upright and place my finger on your mouth, prompting you to savor your own taste. You fiercely consume it, meeting my gaze as you do so, until I remove the finger from your lips, leaving a trace of your dark lipstick on my knuckle.
"It seems you enjoy tasting yourself," I whisper. "Insert two fingers within yourself and then lick them clean." You obey eagerly, pushing your middle and ring fingers of your right hand between your lips and massaging yourself with a gentle firmness. You continue this for a few moments before withdrawing them and raising them to your mouth, gratefully sucking them and repeating the process a few more times, each time moaning contentedly as you stimulate yourself. "Do not allow yourself to climax. Do not touch yourself in any way other than what I've given you permission for. You will cease yourself before you orgasm, unless you've had enough and want us to stop - then continue and climax." You groan in disappointment, stopping your fingering. "Keep sucking your fingers, though. Get them all the way down your throat."
I watch as you deep throat your fingers, lips bulging under the pressure of your hand as you shove your fingers into your throat. You gag a couple times, and tears form at the corners of your eyes but you persist, noisily slurping at your digits as you fellate them. "Look me in the eye, Deborah." You do, and I know your resilience is still present despite your pain, humiliation, and arousal. You have more to give. I resolve to pull it out of you.
Preparing the list of tools I wanted you to lay out on the table, I had instructed you to prepare the largest dildo you owned. You had not disappointed; upon my initial inspection, I saw a transparent, colorless silicone shaft about 300mm long and approximately 80mm in diameter. There were no anatomical pretensions here; it was not designed to imitate. Knowing you as I do, this did not surprise me.
"Kneel again, and then suck your dildo. But show no pretend delight; you will push it as deep as you can take it." You sink down to your knees, slowing your breathing as I place the rubber cock in your right hand. "Your throat must be fully relaxed, Deborah. If you please me and take the whole length in your throat, I will reward you." Without hesitation, you begin to feed yourself the silicone shaft with both hands, resisting the urge to keep your tongue to the rear; I observe carefully as you push the shaft backwards and your tongue forwards, stretching your bottom jaw away from the top but allowing the head of the dildo space at the back of your mouth. You pause briefly and adjust your grip before steadily pushing the head of the dildo past your tonsils and into your throat, tilting your head back for better alignment. I watch the shaft slide between your lips, millimeter by millimeter. "Good. Hold it there."
The dildo is three-quarters of the way in and I can see its bulk stretching and expanding your throat below the jawline, pressing your skin against the slave collar. I take out my phone, select the camera app, and command you to look into the lens as I take a single photograph. Reviewing it, I can just make out the first smudging of your mascara as your eyes begin to water. Conscious that you have not taken a breath for some time, I say, "Take it the rest of the way in, Deborah. I will count to ten, and then you may remove it and breathe for a few moments." Your chest heaves slightly as you force the remainder of the rubber cock into your throat, and I see you begin to struggle for breath, saliva starting to leak from the corner of your mouth. Slowly, I count, watching the rising tide of your anxiety as you hold the dildo in your distended throat against your natural urge to remove it. I reach six and your body begins to shake in anticipation of breathing again, the skin of your upper torso, neck, and face reddening. By the time I reach eight, you're pleading with me to speed up. "Nine... ten" I say, and you wrench the obstruction from your throat, dragging a thick thread of saliva behind it. I turn away and listen as you gasp for air, your racking sobs loud in the stillness of the room. You continue to cough and retch for a few more seconds, bending low over your folded legs as you do so.
I look down at you curiously. You look back up, meet my gaze, and shake your head, resuming your upright kneeling position and waiting for my next instruction, the dildo held in your right hand and resting across your thigh. The sticky saliva coats your chin, and I order you to use your fingers to wipe it away and swallow it. You do so, scooping it up and pushing it between your lips, their lipstick now slightly smeared.
"You love the taste of yourself, so it's time for you to fuck yourself till you're close to an orgasm. At that moment, stop and take the toy deep into your throat again. Go as far as you've shown you can with it." You agree and shift your knees apart, using your right hand to slide the dildo between your legs. "Stroke your clit with your left hand. Push the toy in as far as you can take it."
You move quickly, sliding the toy deeper with each thrust. Meanwhile, your left hand strokes your clit. The noises you make start off quiet, but soon grow louder and you begin to pant. I tear the other cup of your bra away, revealing a red, swollen breast. I grab it roughly, pulling downwards and causing you to yelp. You try to get away, but I hold you still. Instead, you pull the toy out of you and replace your hand on your clit with it. You eagerly insert the toy deep into your throat, fighting back the urge to gag. You're panting and making wet, gurgling noises, which make your eyes water. Your mascara starts to run down your cheeks. I order you to fuck your throat roughly, and you obey instantly, coughing and choking with every thrust.
The redness on your face starts to spread, making its way up your neck and across your forehead. You turn your head to look at me, breathless and trying to free yourself. I tell you to hold the toy deep in your throat, but not to touch it. I gently push your hands onto your breasts and order you to pinch them. Soon, you're heaving with every breath, unable to speak. I tug the dildo from your jaw, causing you to heave again. You're close to the floor but you sit up, your hands still on your breasts. Trails of thick saliva drool from your mouth onto your chest and the floor. I watch you recover, but before you've caught your breath, you stand up again, shaking your head defiantly.
"You've done well so far." I tell you. "Use the towel to wipe your face." I hand you the towel. "Remove all the saliva, but no make-up." You carefully clean yourself before sitting up on your heels, showing me the scratches and marks on your body from our session. I make my way to the door and tell you to crawl to me, dragging your nipples on the carpet. You obey, your buttocks raised to keep your breasts on the floor. Once you reach me, I tell you to kneel. Then I tell you to start by unzipping my trousers, pulling my cock free and making you suck and fuck it while fingering yourself with the toy. If you come before me, then I'll finish on your face and take a picture of it.
I tell you that it's almost over and give you two options; suck my cock while you fuck yourself to orgasm, or end the session with the safe word. You smile slightly and shake your head.
"Okay, let's go with throat-fucking," I say. "Suck my cock as you fuck yourself however you want. Achieve orgasm. But if you come before me, I'll finish on your face and photograph you." I leave you and walk to the patio door, peeling off my trousers as I go.
I instruct you to crawl towards me, feeling the dildo drag against the carpet. You fight your way to me, feet hitting the floor hard. When you reach me, I tell you to kneel in front of me. As soon as you're there, I tell you to start. You use your fingers to undo the zipper of my trousers, my cock springing forth. I instruct you to take it in your mouth and fuck yourself with the dildo. If you come before me, then I'll ejaculate on your face and take a picture of it.
You start to rub your clit with your right hand and softly rub your left breast with the other as you lean forward and gently take the head of my dick into your mouth. I see your eyes glance up to meet mine and there's a quick pause before I pull your head toward my stomach and jam my dick down your already-widened throat. You moan promptly and I start to slowly fuck your mouth, feeling your throat muscles relax to make room for my flesh. Your hands move faster, your left one dropping your breast and joining the right at your pelvis, the fingers sliding inside you as you reach for your g-spot. You keep groaning through your nose as I push into your mouth and I feel the tip of your tongue at the base of my shaft; once again, you're resisting the impulse to pull your tongue back into your mouth, giving me more room there.
Every few thrusts, you pull back far enough to breathe past my dick but you never break contact with it. I can hear your arousal increasing as you continue to stimulate yourself and I run my fingers through your hair, knowing how much you like it. My own breathing is speeding up, and I begin to resist the urge to cum in your mouth. I sense you slow your attention on your clit and, determined that you'll climax first, tell you to carry on. With a whimper, you obey, and for the first time, I sense something inside you give way. Your eyes close softly and you focus on your own pleasure, giving up your inclination towards authority and control. I step back, withdrawing from your mouth and fumble in my pocket for my phone.
I start to record video just in time to see you fall forward, catching yourself and supporting your torso with your right arm as your left hand brings you to a massive orgasm. You scream soundlessly and a trickle of liquid glistens on your thighs as it makes its way to the carpet. You gradually sink down onto the floor, hunching your body over your fingers and coming over and over, screaming in desire as each wave washes over you. I instruct you to keep going, and your raspy voice falters as your screams become one long, low moan and then finally cease. I tap my phone's screen and stop recording, putting it back in my pocket carefully, because I know that it'll be necessary again soon.
I pull you upright into a kneeling position and look at you. This time, you're unable to look me in the eyes as you slump on your knees, wracked by aftershocks of orgasm. Sobs wrack your chest for a few moments, and your breath rattles in your battered throat. In a sudden flash of anticipation, I think that you're about to use the safeword, that I've pushed you too far. A murmur of worry begins to form but it instantly vanishes from my lips as I see you rise up into an upright kneeling position, clutch the pain in your breasts in either hand, and turn your face towards me, a smile forming on your lips. You move forward until you're touching my thighs, and you open your mouth greedily.
Astonished by your resilience and your devotion to our deal, I plunge my dick back into your mouth, clenching your beautiful hair in my fists and fucking your throat as hard as I can. I look down at you and see that your nipples are pinched almost white between your fingers, despite the abuse they've already been subjected to. You slump your nose into my stomach as I slam my dick as far into your throat as I can, causing streams of saliva to seep from the sides of your mouth and smearing the last of your lipstick against my stomach. You look up at me, and I can't hold it in any longer. I rip my dick from your mouth and shoot rope after rope of sperm over your face, gasping vulgarities as I do so. You remain upright, taking my load until I have no more to give. I watch as my semen covers your face and drips off the corner of your chin, pooling on your breasts and hands. I recall who's in charge, and I squeeze the last drops onto your face and stuff my dick back into my pants, fastening my zip meticulously, my pulse pounding in my ears.
I briefly pause, regaining my balance, and retrieve my phone from my pocket to capture the image of you lying naked, your skin red and covered in my semen. A thought crosses my mind. I hand you the phone and command you to take the pictures yourself, knowing that, due to your habit of issuing instructions, the humiliation of this task will be a rare experience for you. I watch as you position yourself to take pictures, clearly enjoying the shame of it. You lift your camera to your face and snap several images of the mess I've created on you. With your tongue, you search for the semen on your lips, making me hear the clicks of the shutter repeatedly. You lift your semen-covered, ravaged breasts and document them. You reach behind you and once more photograph the welts on your buttocks and thighs. Bringing the phone back in front of you, you capture the trails of pearly white come on your chest and abdomen. Finally, you pose for a full-body selfie, a small smirk of self-satisfaction on your semen-coated face.
I hold out my hand for the phone and you silently hand it to me. I store it away and guide you back to the table, where I place you, still on your knees, near the edge. I give you your bra and you put it on, and I pull down the cups, smearing semen on your nipples. I adjust the straps to match how they were when I first had entered the room and push you back down by the shoulders. I order you to open the atlas and you comply, aware that the torment is not yet finished. I watch you lean forward until your swollen nipples are on the sharp page edges. You gaze at me questioningly, and I pick up the kettlebell rack and set one on top of the closed covering of the large book. Despite your resilience, you let out a quiet whimper.
I return to the patio door and slightly open it. "I will be leaving now. In fifteen minutes, you may liberate yourself," I instruct. "You may, however, touch yourself as much as you like throughout this time, but you must not remove either of your nipples from the atlas, Deborah." I direct you to look at me, and I take a few more pictures of you, my semen drying on your skin. I exit the room, and into the warm afternoon air. The sounds of a suburban summer weekday afternoon envelop and fade as I close the door behind me, move up the path along the side of your home, get in my car, and drive off.
And that's how we arrived at this juncture.
Read also:
Source: www.nice-escort.de
