January 22, 2014

The Humor in the Situation

Posted in stories tagged , , , , , , at 11:13 am by littlesubmissions

She stomped around him in a half-circle, turning back and forth, examining him from every angle. His arms were tense, locked and holding him out from the wall. His legs spread wide, the thighs pulled tight as the muscles stretched to keep him in the unnatural position. His head was down as he watched her boots move from one side to the other.

She dragged the end of the flogger up his thigh, and held it just under his cock. He raised up on his toes, then sighed and lowered himself reluctantly, bracing himself against the wall. She pushed his cock from side to side with the leather end, and licked her lips. Her voice was a low, sultry whisper. “Tonight, your safeword is… I want to watch Antiques Roadshow with you.”

He groaned, and turned his head to look at her with a frown. “What if Antiques Roadshow isn’t on, oh Mistress of Mistresses?”

She put her free hand on her chest and thrust it towards him. Another deep throated whisper, Jessica Rabbit after a quart of whiskey and carton of cigarettes. “Oh my, then I guess you’re off the hook. My poor feminine brain couldn’t have possibly DVR-ed six hours worth last week.” She threw in an exaggerated flounce that ended in a pout and mauled her breasts with one hand while she tapped her temple with the crop. “Machines are hard, and I’m just a girl.”

He shook his head. “We’ve talked about the DVR co-topping before, it’s not cool.” Then finally nodded. “But I guess for tonight, although I’m not sure I can imagine a torture worse than that show.”

She laughed and shook her hands to limber them up. “Challenge accepted.” She stepped to one side and lined the crop up with his ass cheeks, then pulled it back. “Knock knock?”

He paused for a second, then slowly, softly asked, “Who’s there?”

“Please beat my ass with the crop.”

He closed his eyes so she couldn’t see them roll upward, and shifted his hips slightly. “Please beat my ass with the crop who?”

The leather slapped into his ass with a whack, leaving a small square of red skin behind that quickly faded. “Please beat my ass with the crop ma’am.”

Silence. She waited, while he breathed and waited for another stroke. Finally, she tapped the end of the crop against her leg. “You didn’t laugh. Wasn’t it funny? Maybe I told it wrong.”

He gave a weak, “Heh heh, very funny ma’am. I was laughing on the inside before.”

“And now you’re humoring me. Wait a minute, I did tell it wrong.” She walked over to the drawer and came back with the heavy wooden paddle. “Knock knock?”

He grimaced and took a deep breath. “Who’s there?”

“Please beat my ass with the heavy wooden paddle.”

A heartbeat before he replied as he closed his eyes and exhaled. “Please beat my ass with the heavy wooden paddle who?”

“Please beat my ass with the heavy wooden paddle ma’am.” It crashed into him, hard, on the last word and he jerked his hips, clenching his jaw and trying to figure out how to ask for warmup.

“You’re still not laughing. Guess I’m still not telling it right.”

He made laughing noises that he hoped sounded sincere as she walked back across the room, and came back with the single-tail.

She carefully judged the distance, and let the whip uncoil. “Knock knock.”

He took a few deep breaths, and fixed his gaze forward. “Who’s there?”

“Please single tail me.”

“Please single tail me who?”

“Please.” A crack and a splat punctuated each word, the leather end uncoiling towards him and hitting him across the shoulder blades. “Single.” Crack-splat. “Tail.” Crack-splat. “Me.” Crack-splat. “Ma’am.” She kept going this time, throwing the whip at him, leaving little scarlet traces of pain on his body.

He tried to breathe in time with her strokes, in as she aimed and threw, out as the pain seared across his flesh. He wondered how long it would go on, and considered his safeword then rejected it. His eyes rolled up into his head and he tried to think of something funny.

The pain built as his mind replayed scenes from The Three Stooges and The Marx Brothers, trying to build up a genuine laugh. Each one disappeared in a flash as the whip hit his body, flickering to another that also disappeared. He kept trying to laugh, and failing, as pain and her presence disrupted his thoughts.

Finally, his thoughts tripped over themselves and into a drive across town with her. A woman on the right running from her apartment building, arms pumping and legs flailing for no apparent reason. Her breasts heaving, looking for all the world like she was desperately chasing them down the sidewalk with the intensity of an Olympic sprinter. Something so totally unexpected that it had jolted both of them into sudden, hysterical, paralyzing laughter.

A snort escaped his lips, and he slumped a little as he started helplessly laughing. She paused, her eyes narrowed, then grinned and nodded. He couldn’t stop laughing, and she eventually chuckled along with him then put the whip down and walked over to hug him from behind. “Come on jerkface, I guess I can watch Roadshow tomorrow while you’re out.”

Preview: “Are you sure you’re qualified to do this?”

Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited.

Want to support the author (who is me)? Buy a compilation of some of my favorite stories on this blog for your e-reader at Smashwords or Amazon.

September 18, 2013

The Smile

Posted in stories tagged , , , , , at 5:24 am by littlesubmissions

The rope cut into his neck, choking off his breath every time he tried to move away from her. His knees burned from where the carpet ground into them and sweat poured down his face, soaking into the blindfold wrapped around his eyes.

He didn’t know exactly where the next hit would land. She circled him, pulling on the rope to keep him upright, using it to twist his body into position and hurt him wherever she wanted. It was the thin, flexible rod that left the intense, awful stinging sensation and bright lines across his body that ached more after the impact.

Those bright lines criss-crossed his body, tracing sore muscles and broken skin. The tops of his shoulders were layered heavily, and the space between his shoulder blades. His chest had a series of short, sharp lines where she had only hit him with the tip. The front and backs of his legs were a fractal image of broken shapes made by the rod slapping against his skin.

Clothespins littered the floor around them, the small red marks still visible on his skin. She had put them on delicately, one at a time, placing them carefully as the small jaws pinched and crushed the meat of his body. Then she had savagely ripped them off.

His arms were trapped behind his back, rope biting into his skin, chafing and irritating. It immobilized his arms, kept him from defending himself, and gave him something to push against. The muscles in his shoulders strained when his brain screamed at his body to do something, anything, to deal with the pain.

The plug in his ass was fully inflated. It pushed against him from the inside, the hose and bulb dangling outside of him and snaking across the floor like a tether. She would push lightly on it with her foot as she passed by, the hiss of escaping air and slight movement not letting him forget it was lodged in his ass.

His thighs trembled, the Ben Gay on his groin a throbbing sledgehammer. She had rubbed it carefully on his left ball, then grinning, fondled his right ball. The mix of pleasure and pain had sent him into gasping sobs, but now the pleasure was gone and there was only pain. He sobbed and prayed he wouldn’t vomit, and wondered when it would end.

She never told him, but she was waiting for the smile. That was when it would end. The dopamine and endorphin induced grin he got when he finally let go of everything and the pain turned into euphoria. That was what would get her off. That was when she would stop.

And not before.

Preview: It’s our next needley installment of the Choose Your Own Adventure… erm, adventure! It looks like Navaux’s cock has a date with the needle, but might there not be more? Check back Friday and find out.

Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited.

August 26, 2013

Assymetry

Posted in stories tagged , , , , , at 5:33 am by littlesubmissions

Author’s note: Had a heckuva time with the ending on this one. What do you think?

*thwap* *thwap* *thwap*

She pulled the rubber band back and let it snap into the meaty flesh on the back of his left shoulder, over and over. Blood vessels were pulled to the surface and popped, the skin turned red and irritated. “There we go…” She set the rubber band aside, and picked up a flogger.

She started to hit the same spot with it, lightly at first, then harder and faster. She listened to his breathing, could tell he was deliberately keeping it slow and controlled. Her head tilted a little so she could see the spot she was striking more clearly, and she murmured. “Symmetry really makes this whole thing easier, doesn’t it? I mean, knowing that I’ll do the same thing to the other shoulder makes it easier to process the pain. So I won’t be doing that tonight. I’ll be working exclusively on the left side of your body.”

She heard his breathing quicken slightly, then slow down again to a forced, measured pace and smiled. She switched the flogger for a heavier wooden rod, and started to hit the same spot, watching the flesh bruise and discolor. “Hmmm, this will leave a nice mark.”

She mussed his hair, and sighed contentedly.

“Now, for something a little different…” She went into the kitchen, and came back with a glass of ice water. “Left arm, straight out.” She put the glass in his hand, and kept grinning with hazy eyes. “If that drops below shoulder level, you’ll chug it. Dump it on me, and I swear to God I will kick your ass so hard you won’t sit down for a week.”

He nodded, the muscles in his shoulder tensing. “Yes ma’am.”

She knelt down beside him, and started putting clothespins on his body, occasionally looking up to see the where the glass of water was. She ran the pins down his left side, the tender skin his arm usually covered. When his arm started to tremble she kept a closer eye on it, and when it dipped she cleared her throat.

He brought the water to his lips and started to gulp it down, two clear rivulets running down his chin. When he finished and there was only ice clinking in the glass, she stood up and took it from him.

She walked back into the kitchen and came back with the glass full again. He flinched when he saw the gallon pitcher of water in her other hand. She put the pitcher down, and handed him the glass again, and picked up her clothes pins and started to run them further down his body.

By the time she ran out of pins his arm was trembling and dropped again. He shuddered but brought the glass to his lips and chugged it again. He exhaled sharply as she took the glass and let his arm drop, bouncing it off the clothespins and wincing as their jaws twisted his skin.

She poured slowly, wanting to give him a brief rest, and prolong the torture. When the glass was finally full she handed it back to him, and he braced his feet and brought his arm back up. His body started to tilt to the right, holding the glass higher, and she tsked at him. “Posture. Stand up straight pet.”

He moaned but shifted his body until he was standing straight again, and forced his arm up higher.

She grinned and went back to work on his body. “Some people like to put a whole bunch of clothespins on a person, but I’ve always preferred to use fewer. That way I can take them off one spot…” She pulled a clothespin off the top of the disjointed row. “And put them back on another spot.” She put it an inch below the bottom of the line, and started moving more clothespins down his body, letting the rush of blood where they had been clamped mix with the new pressure as she relocated them.

She could feel his shoulder trembling all the way down his body. The clothespins vibrated as he tried to force his arm to remain rigid, but it slowly dropped again. She watched him, purring, smiling at the sight of him unable to raise the glass high enough to drink from it, and feeling her cunt twitch as he had to shift it to his other hand to pour it down his throat.

He finished the glass, and handed it back to her, breathing hard. “Ma’am?”

She poured more water in the glass, and turned her head to look at him. “Yes pet?”

“I really need to piss, ma’am.”

“Of course you do, you’ve been drinking all this water. But why should I let you?”

“Ugggg…” He tried to keep the moan of despair from escaping, and failed. “I don’t know ma’am, but I don’t know how much longer I can hold it.”

“Hm…” She let him linger on the edge for a little longer, trying to keep his arm away from the clothespins on his body, letting them crush his nerves a little longer and the pressure in his bladder increase. “Tell you what, you have two options: You can piss in the glass, and when your arm drops drink that instead. We’ll switch to the right side and you can use that arm. You’ll have to beg me for the privilege of having your right side tortured, but knowing you’ll be drinking a glass of your own piss will make for a pretty good case.”

His nose crinkled, and she felt a warm flush in her chest. She’d never figured out why he liked drinking her piss, but hated his own so much. Just another cute, kind of gross eccentricity in their relationship.

“Or, you can piss in the toilet, and I’ll keep torturing your left side. I think we’ll start over with the flogger on that left shoulder.”

He hiss through his teeth, and nodded. “I’d like to piss in the toilet, ma’am.”

She took a slow sip of water. “Okay then, off you go. But don’t knock any of my clothespins off or they’ll go on your cock.”

He moved off quickly towards the bathroom, and she took a sip of water. She smiled at him as he shuffled back into the room, and turned to face away from her.

*thwap* *thwap* *thwap*

She pulled the rubber band back and let it snap into the meaty flesh on the back of his left shoulder, over and over. Already irritated skin and blood vessels were damaged, distorted, and broken down further. “There we go…” She set the rubber band aside, and picked up a flogger.

She started to hit the same spot with it, lightly at first, then harder and faster. She listened to his breathing, could tell he was having trouble keeping it slow and controlled. Her head tilted a little so she could see the spot she was striking more clearly, and she murmured. Her fingers itched to torture the unmarked flesh on his right side, to create her own symmetry, but she could wait.

At least as long as he could.

Until he begged for it.

Then she would show him how horrible symmetry could be.

Preview: His body jerked then fell back against the ropes.

Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited.