February 2014
SHE STOOD outside in the rain. She had rung the bell more than once before, but that was a long time ago, and it didn’t get him to answer the door any faster and before she had finally gotten to come in on that cold miserable evening, he had her take off all her clothes right there on the front stoop. He took them from her, including her shoes, and she stood and shivered for what felt like an hour before he opened the door a second time and scowled at her and derided her for not kneeling on the iron grate and he left her out there some more as the chilled metal pressed painful creases into her knees and the wind blew while she continued to wait and be cold and wet. The only grace on that night was it was dark and cars were not whizzing past or slowing down to honk at the naked girl on her knees waiting to be let in as though she were a dog even though, once she got in, she was severely corrected with an electric shock collar like a bad little mutt who barked too much and had maybe peed in the house.
She had to earn her way back up to the dignity of being able to stand to wait for him with her clothes on, through subsequent visits as she endured the assorted embarrassments of having to play with herself in various and sundry ways facing toward the street as the kids walked by on their way home from school in the afternoons, all of whom stopped and stared and insulted her, which was a different kind of awful from having to jill off facing the door in the mornings when the little old ladies were out walking their precious little pooches, leaving her to kid herself about whoever might be looking and maybe they will just have to wonder just what it was she was doing to get her back to twist around this way or that way, or to get her buttocks to shimmy they way they did when she came. More than once she heard footsteps slowing down behind her then speeding back up with huffings and general mutterings about what a terrible thing that horrible woman was doing, right there, on the street where children could see and not one word of sympathy or compassion as they obviously didn’t understand that she was doing something that she had to do that wasn’t exactly her idea. At least, then, too, there was the more-than-casual blessing of miraculously not being put into the position of having to explain to some valiant savior-hero-type who happened by under the auspices that gosh, something must be wrong and golly, ma’am, what’s going on here and they would end up taking time out from their busy whatever way on their over-scheduled whatever days to try take care of a naked girl they just so happened to be passing and redeem her from goodness gracious whatever was happening here, nothing, now see here now, you just come along now, missy, with offers of clothes, maybe dinner and drinks, and wouldn’t you like to fuck me now for saving you, and she would be put into the horrifying uncomfortable position of having to explain that no, everything was fine, really, and that she’ll be alright, really, now go away, no, I mean it, go the fuck away, yeah, really, which would have prompted the kinds of derogatory remarks she got at the bars when she turned down the offers of drinks and dinners and maybe a little fucking except they would have been much worse here on the front step where she was already naked and engaged in a sexual act they could plainly see and the explanations she could have come up with couldn’t possibly have covered for her refusal here, now, could it, because at the meat markets there would have at least been other prey for the slobs to foist themselves off on to, unlike here. No, that was one bullet she had somehow managed to dodge all those weeks that she had been as good as gold out here in the chill and even moreso once she got inside where it was warm and she could be utterly obedient to his slightest whim, hyper-attentive to his every motion and nuance, in order please to get the virtue of clothes back when he made the call to her to come over and she would appear on his doorstep and cool her jets outside until he answered the bell to let her in and do…whatever. He hadn’t seemed to have thought about sending her home without any clothes. It was probably only a matter of time.
When the door would eventually creak open she would greet him amicably with a slight engaging smile out of, of course, respect and the understanding that he wanted her to at least appear to be happy to see him when she came over, and she would risk only a quick glance up to his face in a fleeting attempt to determine what she could of his usually transparent scrutable mood as she bustled passed him into the foyer, where he would offer to take her coat so he could hang it up in the closet, as he was such a gentleman. She would wiggle out of it and he would shake it off and once again comment so predictably when this time of year rolled around on how much like a drowned rat she looked, and she would dredge up a small laugh and have to work at keeping her hands at her sides and simply letting herself drip. He had, in recent days gone by, been very insistent about what her hands could and could not do, and she was currently under stricture as to what she could and could not touch on herself which made getting dressed and undressed a challenge any more and makeup and showers were special tribulations to accomplish, and she didn’t want to take any chances and settled for blinking the water away as it dripped off her hair onto her face. He would then "tsk-tsk" at her and make some disparaging remark about how unacceptable it was that she was getting his parquet wet with rainwater, and she would apologize and he would snap at her to take off her clothes. She would work as fast as she could get her near-frozen fingers to fly at unbuttoning her blouse, careful not to touch her skin and she would twist her shoulders around to get her bra off which he would have to help her with as though they were an old married couple, and she would shimmy her hips, mindful to not apply pressure with her hands to the cloth so near where she had been so specifically expressly forbidden to touch under any circumstances to get both her slacks and her panties down as she kicked off her shoes in one fell swoop. He sighed when she was done and she went back to shivering and micro-adjusting her stance to keep her thighs from touching and her lips parted as had been dictated in some dirty novel once. He would tell her to put her clothes in the dryer and she would gather them up with a purpose and run down the stairs into the basement and have to stop to fold the load that was in it before she could put her own clothes in on a low setting for what she hoped would be long enough to get them dry but not shrink. Her collar was waiting for her there and she put it on. She assured herself twice that the end-buzzer was not set to disturb them, and stopped to empty the litter box on her way out, in a vain effort to avert some nastiness he had on other days beset her with when his mood had turned especially foul over some ridiculous refusal of hers that he didn’t feel was proper by folding her up into a leather armbinder, ankle hobbles and a blindfold with the order to clean the cat’s toilet with her lips, and to be sure to get it all, and she could spit what she got out into a small trash bag with an accompanying small sermon about how she should thank whatever slut-god she believed in that she did not have to do something considerably worse, and it only took four hours of continuous whipping to get her to concede on both points. The first time. She ran back up the stairs, taking two at a time only to find the foyer empty which came with the meaning that she had taken too long and would have to answer for it while something else unpleasant was happening, and if that came about she would have to add to her confessions her attempt to foil something she didn’t like with the understanding that that would probably lead directly to it. She descended to her hands and knees and crawled off toward the front living room and waited near but not quite in the doorway, in case he had guests he didn’t want to embarrass with a naked girl crawling about. Which was altogether different from the times he had guests that he wanted to embarrass the naked crawling girl with.
The archway would be approached as closely as she would dare without explicit order or permission—it always struck her as odd when she would come over and he would never see her except to let her in, and she would sometimes simply sit while he read god-knows-what, she would wait there in the hall until after he went to bed and she was never sure if she should just be there when he woke up the next morning or not and she would inevitably ultimately decide to leave sometime during the silences of the night, interpreting his lack of attention to mean that she was not really wanted after all; her own schedules prohibited her from staying over most of the time—and she leaned back onto her haunches and spread her knees as far apart as the abductor muscles in her inner thighs would allow for, lifting her hands up behind her head to the one place she could them on herself without a specific order or penalty, spreading her fingers in her hair to keep them from touching each other as that was prohibited, with her elbows spread as far back as she could pull them without the assistance of the rope he so often used to keep them out of the way with, her breasts lifted as high as she could get them and her eyes would close and her lips would part all in compliance with what that French author-whore thought was sexy and meaningful in a mad attempt to impress and titillate a lover with a story that had to be published anonymously and the identity of the author-mistress had to remain a secret until the man and his wife were dead to avoid the scandal that befell their children anyway, and she would wait and do what she could to settle herself down. She would listen to the cackle of the fire in the next room, and the clinking of the glassware as another drink got poured, and eventually she would hear her name and her next well-rehearsed predefined actions would be set into motion.
She would crawl into the room, dragging her nipples along on the carpet, bearing in mind the oft-repeated instructions to be mindful that the point of her doing this was two-fold: physical, in that she should be conscious of the sensation of the stretches of her flesh that had the power to arouse her being grated along the rough fibers of the carpeting, which at times had been enough to bring her to orgasm alone when he would have her crawl around the room that way until she couldn’t stop herself which he would then discipline her for—for not having permission—and humiliatory, with the debasing actions at hand echoing her station and her rank with a reminder that there were still further depths she could still be ground back down towards again that she could try, just try to earn her way back out of. She could be having to drag her tongue, or her anus, or her clitoris as she waddled in to his immature eighth grade locker room jeers along with those of his friends whom she would be expected to fuck and to suck off and to let them do whatever they could think of to her, and they could think of hell of a lot as they remarked how she slobbered a line of drool on his rug or wiped her shit on his carpet or left a trail of cuntwater on his floor because that was just what useless slug-sluts did, and was she even worth lowering themselves to fuck, guys, and they would argue about maybe taking pictures or better yet movies of her doing the most humiliating things they could think of that week and posting them to the internet and send her mother or her boss a link, hey, they could make her fart, no, they could do her up in clown makeup and make her fuck bums off the street, hang on, how much piss did they think she could swallow before she threw up, they should find out, they should do it all, listen, they were making it too easy on the little bitch, they should make her bleed, and she would force her owner’s incessant admonitions to replay through her mind that she should be a grateful little whore for whatever mercies she could discern he was presenting her with by not making it fucking worse at all fucking times, as if that helped.
Her trip across the parlor would on some days get so far that she could reach him, and kneel before him and lick the very bottoms of his shoes or suckle on his invariably stinky gym socks or put his feet all the way into her mouth or even into her pussy, or it would not as he would make some kind of noise that she was expected to interpret as an order to halt, and he would chastise her for being so stupid as to stop when he so obviously wanted the attentions of her tongue on his toes as should be simplicity itself for her to divine especially by now after all this time and he would ask her what was wrong with her and did she need some inspiration and then he would take some fresh hell out on her, or he would not and would instead let her confess and then wait and stew about what he was going to tell her to do next, and this particular evening, it was the last of these habitual alternatives. It was, at least, just him here tonight: a small boon. She repositioned herself into her slavegirl kneel and still hadn’t warmed up yet and so she shivered and yearned to be closer to the fire while she ran through the rather long and detailed list of her faults and insufficiencies and sins as loud as her collar would let her—retelling it all and reordering the account over and over when some other memory of yet another trivial failure she had been guilty of since she had been here last bubbled up and she re-efforted herself toward getting them into the order of importance she guessed he would want them in—that he chanted his response to as to whether or not that was everything with his usual well-rehearsed blasé manner, implying that he was getting bored with her again, complete with the intimations and threats that she had better find a way to become more entertaining, or he would take the reins and find exciting new ways to distract himself, which had its own sense of irony to it, at least recently.
Usually he would then take suggestions as to what kind of reprimand she had earned since the last time she was here and for the longest time she would suggest something simple like a spanking and he would roll his eyes and she would correct herself with something she considered to be considerably worse which he would then redirect her toward whatever foolishness he had planned, until, of late, she simply started with the suggestion of whatever increasingly dull ordeal he had actually performed on her last time, which he would have to point out that they had just done that, and what else do you have. They would come around and go around that a few times; it was part of the game. Last time had been bondage: he had tied her up to where she couldn’t even wiggle and hoisted her off the floor and just let her hang there while he watched. All he did was gape and stare which did nothing for her self-image issues; he didn’t even fuck her, instead he fucking masturbated, right there in front of her. She only completely hated it. His efforts to use her in the ways he had been gravitating toward of late to find his own solace and peace and sublime sense of power had pushed her off to places she tried desperately hard not to think of, especially when he so less and less frequently bade her to break the rule and put her hands onto herself all the way on to orgasm while he was doing whatever less and less inventive idea he had to her—certainly not torturing her or humiliating her or anything cool at all; they were practically vanilla any more—reminding her with her own litanies of her utter uselessness that she came to him; it was not the other way around. She shook before him for two reasons: because she was cold and because she was genuinely afraid that what little he had cooked up for her today would diminish him even further in her eyes, and the silence that ensued after she had finished her admittance of shortcomings went on for what felt like an hour, an interminable hour in which he stared hard at her the entire time, and her self-consciousness had a lot to say to her about what else she could possibly be doing wrong in all this, in the whole damn thing.
He spoke at last and instead of the usual cat-and-mouse game of how-shall-I-then-chastise-thee, bitch, he tendered her to come up and sit in his lap and that hadn’t happened for such a long time that she was surprisingly clumsy in her efforts to leave the floor and slide herself into his arms. He took her collar off and put one hand around her back pulling her in close and tight, tipping her head down onto his shoulder, and the other nestled between her legs and she didn’t do anything to thwart him; that had always proved unprofitable regardless of the place and position she found herself in. This was almost nice, peaceful, plain. He made the expected remarks about how she wasn’t wet where she was supposed to be and she apologized, that it was no reflection on him, and how now, at the first apparent opportunity to speak freely in general terms in so many weeks, she couldn’t stop carrying on about how she so very often thought of him and subsequently had to go change her panties at work or at restaurants, and she toted no less than four pairs with her every day in her purse for the eventualities that she would need them and she had been thinking of upping it to six, and she blamed her inexplicable lack of arousal today on the weather. He asked her if something was bothering her and she shuddered once before she replied that she had been so tired of late and she worried all the time that she wasn’t doing enough to fill his orders when she wasn’t here, and how she was saddened to report that she had been failing him altogether too often on the number of times a day he wanted her to keep her mind on fucking and think about what it takes to make her come and to try to do it without touching herself and to especially readjust her thinking to the kinds of sex he liked and not the kind she liked, and he stopped her right there and asked her what the difference was, never mind that she didn’t get any of this into her bid for absolution earlier.
She swallowed and began to whimper and plead with him not to make her talk about that, that he was enough, and how he should please remember that she was submissive and had no use for herself and the only thing she wanted was to be of use to him, to be his toy, and how she watched every minute of porn he had sent her, over and over and was working hard on making all the right connections to force herself to like it, no matter what it was, and that she could adjust, she just needed a little more time to accept what he wanted to be all she should want, too.
He asked her again what she understood that difference to be and how it was different from her own desires and she tried to change the subject, to how she would be happy to fuck any way he wanted, how she would fuck anyone he wanted, that she was good for that, to fuck, to fuck, to relentlessly fuck. She stuttered as she implored him to please let her just suck his cock and please, that was all she wanted to do, and how he tasted so good, and even though it may have once been true, she did not point out how it wasn’t that way any longer. He tasted terrible to her any more, which had its own perverse satisfactions for her, as that was what she believed she deserved, to suck a cock she no longer loved, and to perform degrading and disgusting and oh-so-often painful actions for a man she no longer loved, to let him at least derive what little satisfaction he could from her however he chose to do so, and to ignore her and her little needs, too. It was the least she could hope for.
She expressed how she longed to maintain her faith toward the idea that maybe someday he could once again break her as he used to, he could grind her down into a whatever-the-hell-she-was when she definitely broke down and not only acquiesced because that was what she wanted to do, but because she had given in because she had been forced to with all the nasty implications that he would have to make her do something she truly didn’t want to do, that he would push her out beyond herself which was the only peace she could find through all the endless noise in her head.
But she kept to herself how she had quietly observed him no longer making the efforts he used to and of the losses she felt when a relationship such as this wound its inevitable way down to the whimpering end which were rearing their ugly little heads to her when she was alone at home at night and she was tempted to rub one out without permission after having watched so many relentless hours of porn she truly didn’t care for for no other reason than to at least try to make some desperate effort toward the connections she was expected to make.
Although they were not officially there yet, she had seen the signs that all this wasn’t going to be able to continue on much longer. She wanted this to end the right way, with her current lover declaring her to be of no earthly use or interest and to carry on for a moment or two about what a miserable failure she was before throwing her out maybe even naked so she could at least have something to pray about for the next guy, to work on and improve herself, so she could get out and suffer through being alone for a while while she worked on changing her mind about this perversion or that immoral debauched kink in order to make herself ready for when her own criminal needs and urges would once again overwhelm her and drive her back into the clubs, trolling for the next someone to give herself to. She dreaded the possibility that the proverbial next moron would be like that previous bastard she had fallen in with by the ugliest of happenstances who simply would not let her go and dragged it all out to where obviously she and even he was bored with his unimaginative recyclings of the same old thing: cocksucking, cocksucking, endless cocksucking, that was all he had her do, that incompetent lazy-ass son-of-a-bitch wasn’t worth her time—although her skills at getting a penis to ejaculate in her mouth were exemplary any more, so she did have to give him that much credit—and she at last screamed that she had had it with him and his response was to scowl and to order her to put her fucking mouth right back down there where it fucking belonged and the bum didn’t even try get up off his couch to stop her when she finally stomped away, spitting at him, never to return. She never wanted an affair to have to end like that, ever again, ever. It took years, not to get past the fact that he was the worst, but that she was. In some ways, even that was better than whatever the fuck this had become. This had become the nothing she felt when she was alone and lonely and holed up in her eremitic apartment, an anchoress walled up in her cell, and this, this she despised to the very well of her soul.
The man whose lap she was curled up into had little interest in her pasts which was a first: everyone wanted to know all about how she got to be this way, a masochist, huh, and they claimed they were interested in the whys and the how-comes so they could gosh, make it better for her and play into her gee-willickers needs more thoroughly but that was never the truth, they had only wanted to know so they could gossip or attempt their clumsy hands at psychoanalysis in a vain attempt to fix her or even worse, find some special stupid simple little something that would I’ll-be-darned enslave her even more unimaginably further to them without any effort on their part and it was their petty selfishnesses and trite little superior pities which got her to invariably run and break it off and pull up stakes yet again when all they had to do was make it hard on her. That was all she really wanted which, granted, was a challenge any more as there was so very little she wouldn’t do and she could see that her current boyfriend, her current dominant had no imagination left and he was done with her and that was fine as she was due for a rest from the slavery and maybe this time she could stay away long enough to get her interests along some other lines she had pursued in some other pasts renewed and who knows, maybe she could even write again. She hoped that it was today, that it was over and he was conclusively finished with her, and he would throw her out as though she were nothing but garbage so she could recluse herself into her solitudinal apartment and suffer the kinds of losses even she understood she had already subjected him to when they had their falling out over reasons that had no more depth or meaning or validity any more, and she changed from offering things to him and settled for simply deferring, not saying anything she didn’t have to, to just going along with whatever he wanted and she began to withdraw her enthusiasms and hold something back, a little more each time until she got her shell reestablished and she would retreat into it while he dripped wax on her or rubbed nettles on her, into a place he couldn’t touch her where she could watch herself scream as he whipped her, but it somehow wasn’t her screaming. The trusts they had worked so hard and so long on had been broken because they were both stupid and selfish and greedy and immature and neither of them had a good explanation as to what happened. She had to be insane for what she actually wanted and she wished things could be another way but it would not be any kind of improvement if she were to tell him—she needed him to just know through mystical means what she needed and if he couldn’t do that, he should just let her go so she could try to find someone who could—and she was prepared for this to be the end; she had been for some time.
He called her on the lie about the flavor of his dick as he had been to the gym that day as he had on so many others that she came over, without bothering to shower afterwards, and she defied him and begged him to let her prove how she felt about keeping his cock in her sneering mouth for as long as he wanted and how he would see she was so eager for it, to show him how she so truly felt about him. He asked her why she would go so far out of her way to express such falsities to him and she said he deserved to believe he was loved and he pointed out that even if it could possibly work for very long, tricking someone into believing they were loved was quite different from loving them and she claimed it didn’t matter, as long as it looked like it, that would be good enough.
He laughed and said that she was so full of shit, and she replied that it was worse than that, that she actually was shit and that he needed to man up and do the right thing here, and finish it. To give the fuck up. For real this time; not like last time. His eyebrows crossed and he looked away from her and he asked her if she meant that and she said oh my fucking god, yes, and that he should get away while he could because there was nothing here, there never was, there never will be, world without end, and that she could just as well now go about learning to hate him.
His face darkened and his jaw set and his eyes narrowed and he called her a fucking jew whore, and carried on about how she hadn’t been hiding a thing from him and that her silences were never silent and he disparaged how she had been just going through the barest minimum of motions and had no real god damn commitment here, and she responded how he was such a god damn fucking protestant asshole bastard, demanding that she adjust her precious little feelings in ways she could no longer do if she ever even fucking could, and he shouted to her about what the fuck she was even doing here and she spat back at him that until now, she, at least, was living up to her obligations, and even though it was a lousy bed she had made she had stayed in it until right fucking now no matter how much shit was in it as that was what she deserved, to be shit among the shit, and she lied to him about how honored she was to fucking be here and she lied to herself about how she couldn’t stand it here any more, or maybe she could, she had no fucking idea; she was the princess of lies.
He bolted up out of his chair, spilling her off his lap onto the floor which she crashed most noisily into, sending flares through her elbow and her shoulder where she hit, and he pulled one foot back and thrust it forward directly into her solar plexus, knocking the wind out of her in one swift kick, and she coughed and she curled up and she wheezed and batted the air in a feeble attempt to ward him off. She rolled around, and he kicked her on her lower back, getting her to arch, and he fell on her and proceeded to beat her with his bare hands. Not with a whip or a belt or a cane or a bat or a crop or a cat or any number of other implements of corporal punishment he had brandished against her so many times on so many endless nights before, no, he set about her by slapping her directly about, first with his open palm, striking whatever intimate stretches of flesh became available as she thrashed about on the floor, raising her hands up defensively to thwart his efforts to strike her in one place only to open up and avail some other tender spot as she curled up and bunched herself in as tight as she could make herself, swearing up a bluestreak and promising in no uncertain terms retributions and repercussions and convictions for all that he dished out on her over the months, the past couple years, how she was down to just being a fuck-woman and it was time for him to fucking pay for his fucking failures to be what she fucking needed.
He snarled and called her a fucking bitch and upgraded his attack to punching her with the heel of his hand, throwing as much force as he could onto her back, the sides of her stomach, her buttocks, her thighs, her head as she flailed underneath his assault, and it didn’t take long for the bruising to set in and she caught glimpses of the marks that were being left from his bashings and he called her all the other bad names he could come up with with all the rage he could muster, and he ordered her at the top of his lungs to put her fucking hands down so he could hit her tits and she did not comply so he pried her legs down and sat hard on her and assailed her on the exposures of her chest he could get at, howling at her to fucking obey him, you god damn worthless slut, and he continued to violate her with his mitts, pummeling and buffeting her with a demonic abandon until she surrendered and cried out that she would, to please stop, she would put her arms down if he would only stop for a second and he said no, this isn’t a god damn negotiation, this is about you doing what you’re fucking supposed to, now submit, submit, submit you fucking cunt, submit, and he did not relent and he did not retreat and if anything he hit her faster and harder and she quivered and she shook and she spasmed through all the pounding and she was sure this was going to be it, that he was going to beat her to unconsciousness and then get rid of her in ways she truly dreaded and she would never see him again and assuming she survived, it was a price she was willing to pay, to let him have his final onslaught onto her and be done with it all and she stopped pulling her arms in as hard as she could and he felt the change in her and he threw her arms aside and began pummeling her breasts with his hands, punching her as hard as he could with actual fists, knocking her hands back out of the way with every strike, bruising his own hands and cracking his knuckles and he even fractured two of his own fingers in the process, making her hurt in a way he had never done before, and she rolled her head back and forth and screeched and wailed as she willed her hands to the floor, to let him hit her, to stay out of his way, and when the marks definitely showed up on her boobs, he froze for an interminable second and then attacked his own clothing as he tore at his pants to get them down and out of the way enough and he jabbed at the insides of her thighs along her abductor muscles and roared at her to fucking spread her fucking legs, and her elbows came back up over her breasts so her hands could come up and cover her face as she was about to sob and she obeyed.
He threw himself in between her legs and he jammed his erection into her vagina and he raped her. He took no regard for whether or not she was wet and he forced his cock into her cunt with every ounce of fury and hate he could rally, and she raised her knees and spread them as far as she could and rolled her hips to make it easier for him and he pumped himself into her and he fucked her, he crushed her fucking tits as he squeezed them as hard as he could and held on for dear life as he fucked the ever-loving shit out of her until his orgasm overtook him and he ejaculated into her pussy, he came into her twat, and he grunted and collapsed his entire weight onto her and his breathing rattled into convulsions as he lay on her and she quivered and stilled and she dropped one hand off her face onto his shoulder and simply touched him there, not pulling, not pushing, and she otherwise did nothing to interfere with the actions of the man who had put her through every wringer he could, but not this one.
Something had always stayed his hand when it came to re-enacting her first intercourse that she had spoken of in only the most reluctant and off-putting ways, clamming up and making it clear that she saw no need to speak of it, taking whatever response he would give with her nose turned up the slightest bit and a snarl that she didn’t want his pity and she had always considered him a bit of a coward for not doing it anyway—she had survived it so many times before, she could survive it again—and she always wondered why wouldn’t he do that. He let all his friends do it while he watched, and everyone else she had ever been with went out of their way to make it happen again and again and again, in some vain effort to somehow try to change the outcome and it was here and now when she was sure they were at an end that he finally succeeded in breaking down whatever it was in himself that kept him from such barbarity, and her entire outlook changed. There was something about him she suddenly wanted to know: this, this act, this atrocity had somehow hurt him as much as it was supposed to hurt her. And she had to know how. And why. And when. And what the fuck happened. And for the love of god, who.
If she had anything to say about it, they weren’t going to end at all. They were only just beginning.
Not that he could see or feel or hear or smell any of that in her reactionless state. He tipped his head up up up and bore his stare into her face and growled, "The whole point of body armor is to eventually find yourself in a position that you no longer need it." Blink. "Get the fuck out." He struck her in the diaphragm, getting her to clench back up into a ball and he leaned back onto his knees to take one last long look at her. He exhaled and stood.
As he slumped off to mope in what could only be guilt or despair or frustration, trudging up the steps with his pants falling down around his ankles that he did nothing about except waddle through their hinderances, she listened to his tromping fade and his breathing degrade into something that could have been a sniffle until it was quiet and she sat up and put her collar back on and then she set out to disobey him through her own aches and crawled after him, following him up to his room, dragging her nipples up the stairs which got her breasts to bounce along the way in a most comical fashion, passing his pants on the way up to the bedroom she had never actually seen before as they had always performed their acts of whatever depravity he could devise in his living room or in his basement or his garage or back yard or out in public but never here, never where he slept, and she hesitated at the door for only a moment before she stood and crossed the hardwood to his bed and got into it with him as he fumed and flinched. She kissed him long and slow and tender with all the adoration she could summon whenever he would spin up some protest about what either of them had ever said or what either of them had ever done, or what the fuck she was even doing here now and she wrapped herself around him as she had understood lovers do, and she praised him in whispers and thanked him for at long god damn fucking last completely becoming what she had needed, that he was indeed her master. She took a deep breath and reminded him aloud that she had promised to to to—it was hard for her to put it this way, the way it was referred to in all the endless hours of soft-core porn he had sent her; it felt so alien, never mind the current that coursed through her as she spoke—to go down on him, and his eyebrows crossed but he eventually slowly nodded and he held his breath while she dug her way around under the covers to where his cock lay, limp, wet, exhausted, and she re-enacted all the lessons she could remember about fellatio and set about enslaving herself to a man, to this man above all others, as she had no other. When she felt him finally breathe, she closed her eyes and marveled at how good he tasted.
She stayed the night, and attended onto him, cleaving and walling herself onto him, never once straying out of reach. She had so much to learn about him; she had so much to tell him. She liked it much rougher than he did, and she said so, not as any kind of demand, but as an offering, and that and that she she c-came when he f-fucked her the way he did. Hard, like that. She gasped at the zaps. He nodded, and mentioned that the intent of the collar was never to quiet her, but that what he wanted was for her to be willing to suffer to speak to him, and that he missed her talking to him and he had done everything he could to get her to say something, anything, even going so far as to try to bore her to damn death in the foolish hopes that she would at least try to offer up some kind of rebellion and he bewailed that she had never understood that and that she should have—through mystical means, if necessary; he even felt bad about having to come right out and say it, and that kind of ruined it for him, and she said no, please, let her be worthy and she flinched and she swallowed and she straightened up and said it again—and then he nodded and said he’d have to see what he could do about going back to doing things some other way for her again; he had missed it, too, and none of this was exactly easy on him, either. And that he’d have to do something about her coming without permission, now wouldn’t he. She nodded and her mouth fell open around a smile and she wept, for reasons that didn’t involve being tortured into it since she couldn’t remember when. In the morning, after breakfast, during which she told him all kinds of stories about herself he had never asked for, taking the hits from the collar, which he smiled and approved of, he took her to the garage and hung her by her hair, and somewhere in there, as she was intimately engaged and involved with screaming at the top of her lungs, and the collar was happily frying her throat, they entangled and he pierced her and her slut-god with needles and skewers and the darts of longing.
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