July 1, 2013


Posted in stories at 6:16 am by littlesubmissions

He pulled against the leash, enjoying the feeling of it tightening around his neck until she gave it a sharp jerk. There was the rush of force on his body, then it went slack, and he paused.

“Uh-uh. If we’re going to do this, you need to stop screwing around. You still want to do it?” Her voice was muffled, coming through the hood and from far away. He had to strain to hear, and partially parse her words from context. The hood held his mouth tightly shut, so he nodded vigorously.

“Then quit screwing around.” He heard it as “Theh qui scooing arnd.” Still, he nodded again in understanding.

She slowly pulled on the leash until it had the right amount of tension, a firm, steady pull, and started walking through the house again. Her giant monster feet house slippers navigated around, leading him on a circuit through the house. She chewed on her lip occasionally as she walked.

He shuffled along behind her on all fours, trying to map their movement against his mental image of the house, get used to timing his movements to coincide with changes in direction of the leash. He had to travel two regular steps and one short before changing direction to map the path she was taking. He had arrived at the figure after several bumps into door frames, furniture, and cabinets.

She kept an eye on him as he trailed along behind her. They had demolish proofed things as much as they could, but she still wasn’t sure he wouldn’t find some way to run into something and break it or hurt himself. She wasn’t sure this was even a kink she was into, but it was something they both felt interested in enough to try.

She mostly loved administering the savage beatings, of seeing how much he would suffer for her and how much pain he could take. Of how strong his will was, of how hard she could push him before rewarding him for taking the torture. Of turning his whimpers into moans. This was control… but a different kind.

He shuffled along on all fours, the denim of his jeans pressing against his knees. He could feel his shirt hanging loosely under him, and it annoyed him when it rode up around his arms. They walked a circuit around the house, and he tried to focus on what he was doing while he examined what he was feeling.

He enjoyed the pain play they usually engaged in, the freedom from thought, of having his existence turned from complex problems into “just take one more hit.” This was more mindful, he had to keep track of what he was doing, but there was an element of that same simplicity, that same surrendering of control. This time it was over his movements, rather than his nerve endings, muscle, and skin, but there was something there to work with.

He trailed along, she kept her space steady. There were more bumps and sudden stops, but with each of them thinking how to make it better for themselves, and each other. When they were done they’d pop some popcorn, flop down on the couch, and watch some television. They’d each think about it for a few days, then talk to each other.

He bounced off a door frame, and she stopped. He shuffled a few inches to his left, no, his other left, at her direction, and they started walking again. As long as they kept talking to each other, they’d make it around the corners.

Preview: He worked his jaw, trying to make intelligible sounds, but his speech had been turned into muffled grunts without and vowels.

Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited.

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