The List 13: Its Stomach is for Having Degrading Words Written On

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From part 12: She grinned down at him, and licked her lips with exaggerated sensuality. “Now, about your stomach.”

She hopped up long enough to get the keys and a magic marker, then squatted down to undo the cuffs. She let out a soft, happy sigh as the cuffs opened and his hands slid down to his sides. She tossed them under the bed where neither of them would step on them, and stood up. Her foot nudged his side. “Roll over, that stomach isn’t being put to very good use.”

He sighed back and rolled over, stretching his arms and putting his hands behind his head. He grinned up at her, and she lightly kicked his leg. “I wouldn’t be so happy if I were you. There are… consequences to the writing this time.”

He frowned. “Consequences? What kind of consequences?”

“Yep.” She grinned and licked her lips. “We can write anything you want, but I get to make it happen until the writing fades away.”

His frown deepened. “So if you write cum dumpster, wait, that’s not cool.”

“I know.” She sat down beside him, and pulled the lid off the marker. She gave him an innocent look, and let the tip of the marker hover above his stomach. “So what do you want me to write? You want to be a cum dumpster for a few days?”

“Give me a second here.” He tried to think, to remember how long it took the magic marker to fade away to illegibility. Could he scrub it off sooner? She moved the pen in a circle over his stomach, and started making ticking noises. Signs she was getting bored, and might start making decisions for him. He thought quickly, and decided to chose something safe. “Please write boot-licker, ma’am.”

She snorted and rolled her eyes, but started writing down the side of his stomach. The pen stopped, and she looked back at him. “Well?”

He licked his lips, still trying to work through all the implications, trying to think of the usual words, but consider what it would mean if they became reality. “Cunt-licker?”

She sighed, and started writing the words just above the others. “Someone is playing it safe. My advice would be to make it interesting, or we can start over and maybe by the time we get to your stomach you’ll have some good words for me.”

He flinched, the pain in his feet and legs, the raw, hairless skin on his testicles reminding him how the day had gone so far. “Piss slut, ma’am.”

Her head nodded slightly. “Better.” He could feel her pressing down on the marker harder, going over the letters twice, making them darker, making them last longer. “I do enjoy peeing on you, and I imagine I could find some friends willing to piss all over you, or at least collect a few jars. I mean, a slut should really want all the piss he could get in his filthy mouth, shouldn’t he?”

He felt his cock twitch, and wondered if she was bluffing, but knew that asking or arguing would only push her further. “Yes, ma’am.”

She dotted the i with a little heart, and looked poked him between two ribs with the end of the pen. “Come on, I’ve got lots of space left, and you’ve only got three words.”

His jaw worked, but no words came out. All the possible consequences of the words written on his body coming true, of being unable to stop them for days, until the writing faded, overwhelmed him. His thoughts retreated, and all he could think of was the conflicting humiliation and desire of being treated like a sex toy, a cum dumpster, a fuck pig, a hole.

She started to get up. “We started with caning the feet, didn’t we? Why don’t I just get the cane.”

“Hole ma’am, hole.” He blurted out the word, trying not to think of the consequences, and she slowly sat back down.

“All right, if you want to be a hole, we’ll make you a hole.” She shifted her weight slightly and wrote the word just above his navel, the felt tip tickling as it moved across his skin. “Next?”

“Ugh.” He groaned, and forced the word out. “Slave, ma’am.”

“Oh, I like that one.” He could feel her making large, block letters on his stomach. The tip of the pen moved back and forth, making the letters darker and bolder, making sure they would last longer. “I have a lot of chores that need doing, and the perfect little burlap bag for you to wear while you do them. And of course I’ll be punishing you harshly for any mistakes or delays in getting them done.”

She hummed happily as she pushed the marker down hard into his skin, making him, making sure the word would last as long as possible. She looked her work over critically, then darkened in a curve of the s and smiled at him. “I think we have room for one more word, and some of these aren’t even degrading. I mean does licking my cunt really degrade you? It’s probably more degrading to me, wouldn’t you say?”

His head jerked, his brain desperate to stay safe in warm fantasy where consequences could be ignored, and he gasped out the words. “Yes ma’am.”

“So what do we think the final word should be?”

He whimpered, caught between his desires and his fears. Finally, he forced the words out. “Cum dumpster ma’am.”

Her nose wrinkled, and she tilted her head. “Oh really? You’re sure?”

“Yes ma’am.” He whimpered.

She thought for a second, then decided to drive him down a little further, force him to participate in the obscene ritual. “Say please.”

He exhaled and then inhaled, trying not to think about the words. “Please make me a cum dumpster, ma’am.”

She smiled and patted his head gently. “Since you asked so nicely, I’ll do that for you. On your side, so I can write legibly.”

He rolled over, and she leaned one arm against him and carefully began to write. “Such a nice cum dumpster. I suppose that will mean regular milkings, with you licking your cum off the floor.” He shivered, and she waited for him to stop before she continued. “Or maybe we’ll save it up, and just before the letters fade, you can drink it all down for me. How long do you think it’ll take for the letters to disappear? How much of your cum do you think I can squeeze out of your balls in that amount of time?”

His cock twitched. She smiled at the sight, put the lid back on the marker, and licked her lips. “You stay there, and let that get nice and dry.”

She let her eyes roam over the words written on his body, and felt a warm sensation run through her body. This had been foreplay, and the anticipation was delicious. But hitting his chest, punching him, listening to his little gasps and moans as she injured his flesh with her hands, that was immediate gratification. And she wanted him well rested, so it would last awhile.

Preview: A chest is for being punched, aye, isn’t it?

Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited.

The List 2: Caning

This story starts here:

The First Part of The List

He was waiting for her in the bedroom, naked, sitting on the bed with his feet outstretched. She nodded in approval at the towel under his ass, and the cane in his hands.

“You don’t like the cane much do you?”

He shook his head. “No ma’am.”

She shrugged. “No point in warmup then. I think I’ll do one foot, then the other. That way it can last a little longer.”

He grimaced and she slammed the cane into the sole of his left foot, watching the meat and skin distort with the force of the blow. His leg jerked, the force traveling up his body in a spasm. He exhaled sharply, forcing the air out of his lungs, trying to breathe through the searing flash of pain that erupted in his foot.

She felt a sudden warmth travel through her, and her eyes slid half closed as she watched the pain travel through him. “Do you want to count them, or should I?” She pitched her voice several octaves higher, and tilted her head to the side. “Because I’m such a silly billy sadist, I might make a mistake.”

“One!” He breathed in and clenched his fists. “One ma’am.”

She nodded. “Smart boy.” Then she hit him again.

His body jerked and his breath rushed out of him, more pain erupting in his foot and traveling along every nerve ending in his body to his brain. Somewhere in his chocking pain he croaked out, “Two, ma’am.”

She pushed him as hard as she could, her own excitement building, barely letting him recover before hitting him again. The cane whipped through the air, the sound a charming prelude to his sounds of torture. The meaty slap as it hit his flesh, the shock that coursed back through the cane and down her arm to some place deep inside her, the sound of him counting out the strokes.

“Three, ma’am.”

The cane slashed through the air, and his body jerked again. “Four ma’am!” The pain started to pile up faster than he could deal with it. “Five ma’am!” He wasn’t trying to breathe through the pain anymore, just to breathe. “Six ma’am!” His body jerked further and harder with each stroke, and her breaths got faster. “Seven, ma’am!” His hands were balled into fists, holding tight to the towel, and she could feel her fingers itching to play with her cunt. “Eight, ma’am!” His eyes were clamped shut, trying to block out the pain, and she licked her lips at the sight of his contorted face. “Nine, ma’am.” He was holding his leg down with his hands now, forcing it to stay flat on the bed, and her thighs were trembling at the sight of how hard it was for him to submit to this torture for her. “Ten, ma’am, fuck!” The last blow bounced off his foot, ten angry red lines across the bottom of his left foot. She loved the contrast, the sight of the horizontal streaks on his skin. She wanted to run her tongue across them, to taste and feel the broken skin and popped blood vessels.

She exhaled sharply, and smiled at him. “Good boy. I’m very proud of you.” She watched him rock back and forth slightly, looked at his still clamped shut eyes and his posture. He needed a break. For that matter, she needed to get herself a little more under control as well. “Go get the black marker from the dresser.”

He nodded and slid off the end of the bed. She watched him hobble over to the dresser, favoring one foot, hopping slightly each time it hit the floor. She slid the cane through her hands, itching to make his other foot match, to restore symmetry to him. He hobbled back, wincing with each step, and held out the marker. She shook her head. “Oh no, that’s for you. I want you to write what your foot is for on your foot, the top I think, and then we’ll start on the right.”

He nodded then sat back on the bed and pulled his foot up to himself, sitting half cross-legged. He pulled the lid off the marker, and awkwardly scrawled “For caning” on the top of his foot in blocky, jagged letters. His hands still trembled slightly in pain, and her fingers twitched in pleasure. He put the lid back on the marker, and set it down on the bed, then looked up at her expectantly.

She grinned back, and stepped to the side, lining up her body to start working over his right foot. The cane smacked into him, and he started counting again. It happened faster this time, both of them were closer to the edge, more eager to get there. The initial doubts and hesitations, the uncertainties about whether they were in the mood for this sort of thing, if they’d be able to connect, if there were too many other things going on had disappeared.

She inflicted pain on him, and it reflected back onto her as pleasure. He saw her pleasure, and it made him want more pain. His hands still held his leg down, his body jerked and spasmed and complained regardless of what his mind wanted. Nerve endings frayed and fired, and he began to sweat. She swallowed hard, almost drooling at the sight of him suffering, and forced herself to set a deliberate pace and not just hit him as hard and quick as she could. To let the pleasure build rather then gorge herself on it all at once and swallow it as fast she could, let it run down her chin and splash on her tits.

“Ten, ma’am!” He counted out the last stroke, and her breathing was as hard and fast as his. She waited for his eyes to flutter open, and pointed at the marker. “Write it down.” She tried to think of a way to make it funny, to add a joke or a comment, but all she could think of was the wonderful feelings bouncing around her body and mind.

His hand shook as he scrawled out the big, block letters on his other foot. She nodded when he was done, and thought about the list. “Next is crawling, I believe.” She chuckled then, and smiled. “Maybe you’re smarter than I thought.” One eyebrow bounced up. “Or maybe not.”

Preview: The List 3: Crawling

Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited.


Sometimes she didn’t know what she wanted. There were just too many choices. Like his body was a menu with infinite options, written in a foreign language she couldn’t decipher. There were just pictures that gave her a general idea, but didn’t tell her how anything would taste. She had so many choices, but she could only experience a few, or one. And the hunger wouldn’t go away until she figured out what she craved, and consumed it.

Ink always aided the discovery.

She would strip him naked. It would be a rough, businesslike, curt removal of his clothes. They were in the way. She would put his hands on his head, make him hold his arms out of her way. She couldn’t write anywhere that wasn’t covered by a short sleeved shirt anyway, so his arms weren’t needed. Once he was naked, arms locked on top of his head, she would get out the ink pen and start writing.

She started where she wanted to start, scribbling ideas, suggestions, thoughts, notes to herself on his body. “Cane” written across his ass. “Zipper” across the soft skin of his stomach. “Single-tail” across his back. “Candle wax” across his chest. When she had a dozen or so ideas, or just couldn’t think of anymore, she would start erasing them. She would spit on her hand, and scrub away the ink. Sometimes she would punch him, distorting the flesh and warping the words, seeing how they looked before and after.

Seeing if they became clearer when he was gasping and in pain.

She would circle him, looking over her words, adding and subtracting options until there were only a few left. Until they formed a sentence in her head.

She would pause, put the pen down, and look him over carefully. “Read.”

She would close her eyes and he would read the words, twisting his neck to see them all and angling his body to see his back in the hall mirror. She would correct the order, the inflection, how loudly or softly he said each word. And when he got them all correct see would see if his words described what she wanted.

If they did, that was the scene.

If they didn’t she would tell him to stop, and pick the pen up again.

More ink.

It would tell her eventually.

Preview: “Oh my, you are one hell of an optimist.”

Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited.