by mirri

Pulling you by your long blonde hair, I drag you down the stairs. The basement is dark but for a small nightlight, creating more shadows than light. Glaring at you as you stumble behind me, I throw you against a St Andrew’s cross and slap your face. Already terrified, you crumble into a trembling mass on the cement floor.

“Stand up, bitch!” I snarl, causing you to shrink further into the floor. My hand finds your hair again, burying deep into the blonde curls and fists, dragging you to your feet with a squeal of pain. “Move again, without permission and I’ll call a biker gang in here to show you what real abuse is all about.”

Your face, so beautiful, but for the angry red mark from my hand, pales and you freeze long enough for me to strap you to the cross. Leather cuffs, secured with dully gleaming brass locks restrain you to the oak cross, making an X with your body.

“You interrupted my conversation, that was bad enough…”

“I’m so sorry, Mistress, it will never happen again,” you whisper, interrupting me again.

“Shut the fuck up. How many times do I have to tell you to be quiet in one night? You insist on interrupting me; what do I have to do to keep you quiet?” I pull out a cock gag. The black dildo completes a circle of latex tubing. It has no straps, only the elastic latex to keep it tight, and a ring on the outside. You won’t be able to push it out with your tongue.

“Suck on this, my little bitch, you want a cock so much, here’s one for you to suck on. Maybe this will shut you up while I teach you a lesson.” My hand moves under your jaw, fingers pinching your cheeks so your mouth opens then shove the gag in. I know it will fill your mouth completely and any movement of your mouth or speech attempts will force a gag reflex. I snap the band around your head, pulling your hair in its grip.

Tensing, your eyes fill with terror; your breathing stops. Crimson tipped fingers curl into claws; you panic and try to get away. Wrenching your body forward and back, you lunge at me, trying to escape. You try to reach the gag, to yank it off, but I’ve you locked tightly.

I slap you again, another red mark blooms on your alabaster cheek, gaining your attention again. Gripping your jaw again, I growl, “breath through your nose, idiot. You have no reason to panic. Yet.”

You calm as my words sink into you and suck in chest-heaving breaths. You fall limply onto the cross, letting the cuffs take you weight. The claws are the last to relax. Head hanging in shame, pressing into my palm, I feel you slow down, remembering again why you are here, not the panic attack.

Tugging your face up so I can look into your eyes, I snarl, “You’re not getting out of this with subbie drama. You gave yourself to me with a collaring and contract, to do with as I choose to, in play or punishment. Now is the time for punishment.”

Your eyes close, forcing a tear to slide down your cheek. I laugh softly and murmur, “Now you’re understanding, aren’t you, baby? I’m angry. I’m going to teach you certain lessons tonight that you’re not going to forget.” I hear a soft moan come from low in your throat.

I stroll to a cabinet, under your watchful gaze, pulling out a small plastic bag attached to a long, flexible tube and a dildo. This one is short and fat, with wide spirals going down to its flared bottom. I look at you; your eyes widen, then clench shut. You concentrate on breathing. Laughing, I walk to the sink, then let the water flow until it’s comfortably warm. I fill the bag and snap the tube, just to see you jump before walking to the freezer. My nipples tighten with the rush of cold air and I quickly toss three long ice cubes into a bowl, along with the dildo. You whimper as I approach you, I only smile sweetly – with a touch of evil. On a whim, I stop back at the cabinet, retrieving something small, you can’t tell what it is, then rummage around for more little things. Three small items clang into the metal bowl.

Kneeling in front of you, I place the bowl between your legs, slightly behind, you can’t see anything but the top of my head and the hand holding the water filled bag that I have hooked to a nail on the cross.

I slowly rip your thin muslin skirt to the waistband, you wear no panties, as usual; I do not allow you to wear them. A muslin vest, secured closed with a single button covers your breasts.

My hand moves between your legs, you are completely open to me, not even a dusting of hair to hide your most vulnerable place. One finger rubs your clit, starting slowly, in big, slow circles. Your head tilts to the side, resting on your shoulder as your ass cheeks clench in pleasure. My finger moves faster until I see you gleaming with moisture; one long finger dips into you, drawing a hot rain into my palm. You shift so that your knees are pointed outwards, opening you further to me, becoming lost in my pleasure.

I take the end of the hose, and slide it into your wet heat, drawing it out quickly. One hand separates your ass cheeks more as I slide the tube into your tight little asshole, lubricated with your own juices. Already the warm water begins to fill you.

“You had a lot to drink tonight, didn’t you, baby?” I murmur, “you’re going to have to get rid of that pretty soon.” Your eyes widen even more as you realize that the enema will not be a simple one. You suddenly notice that your bladder is straining and just as your ass is filling.

“I don’t like it when you drink alcohol, baby, it makes you forget the training I’ve given you in being a lady. You snuck into bar without my permission.”

The bag is emptying and your tummy is beginning to pouch out. I flick your clit with my forefinger. “Tighten up,” I instruct and pull the tube out of your ass, quickly replacing it with the dildo, after dipping it into your liquid heat. Tapping on the dildo, I murmur, knowing you can hear me, “Don’t let this fall out, if you do, you’ll be sorry.”

I pick up a piece of ice, drawing it up your inner thigh, and smile, then push it into your hot cunt. You immediately tighten more. I add another piece, knowing the first is already melting inside of you; you shriek behind your gag. Feeling your hips squirming, I slap your thigh, “Be still, you can’t push the ice out without pushing the dildo out, but to make sure, I’m going to make sure that its not going to come out until I want it to.”

Reaching into the bowl, I pull out heavy black upholstery thread, that I’ve scrupulously unwound, sterilized and wound again, already threaded onto a thin needle. I prick the skin of your labia, blood wells into a tiny droplet. Your cunt tightens; melt water is already dripping from it, drawing the needle through and out, to prick the other side, then cinching it closed. The cunt I’ve spent hours worshipping, gapes and flinches as more crimson blood oozes from your tender skin. Your screams are muffed behind the cock gag.

“You were upstairs begging for male attention, you whore. You were kissing every male you could get your hands on. Every one of them pushed you away. You want something in your little cunt, bitch, you can have it.” I shove the last piece of ice deep inside you and lift the needle to penetrate you again. Hot liquid pours from you as you piss into my hand, losing control in your agony. Savagely, I growl and slap your thigh, then wipe my hand over the flaming area.

“With this pussy sewed shut, you won’t be able to get a cock in here.” I close one more stitch. “This is my pussy, you little whore, no one touches it without my permission.” The needle digs into you again. “You have been told about offering your body to others. It is in our contract that only I may offer you to another. You may never do it yourself.” I tighten your labia closed over your cunt, dripping with pinkish water, grab something from the bowl and stand.

Lifting my hands to hold yours, looking down into your pain filled eyes, my forehead drops to yours. I kiss your nose, just as I do in times of loving play, knowing it drives you nuts, but still makes you giggle.

“You gave your body to me, to love and to punish. You are mine, now and always.”

One hand glides down your body, opening the single button on your vest to caress your breasts. Gentle fingers tease them to peaks, then my mouth follows, sucking greedily on my property. You taste of heaven on earth, your texture is silk, your scent is sweat and honey. I stand. In each hand now, is a clover clamp. I open one and close it on your nipple, pulling the string then treat the other to a kiss before clamping it, too.

“Your breasts may never press against another person’s body in lust, little one, they are mine.” I pull the strings again, tightening the clamps. Your moan fills me like music.

A single finger traces down your breastbone, over your painfully full tummy, sliding down into your treasure, still closed. Gently, I pull out the first strand of thread, leaving the other two, your whimper filling my soul. My finger delves deeper, stroking your clit. I gently kiss your eyelids. I carefully pull out the next thread, one finger sinks into your cunt, still chilled from the ice, to stroke it back to heat, my thumb caressing your clit from under its hood. My other hand rubs across the very tips of your nipples, surrounded by steel, you shiver. I drop my head to lick tenderly, teasing the hard points of your breasts as I pull out the last thread, dropping it to the floor. Moaning in pleasure, you move your cunt into my hand, seeking more of my pleasure, you grind into my hand, seeking more of my fingers, even though your belly is straining for release. I pull away.

“You disrupted the entire party, beautiful girl, with your drunken humiliations. What should I do?” My fingers tap the dildo, holding the water inside of you. “Tighten up,” is the only warning I give you before pulling it out, dropping it to the floor and stepping back quickly.

I turn away, hearing you groan in embarrassment as you void. Sobs are muffled by the gag and the sound of liquid hitting the floor.

The smell fills the room as I get the hose, holding it limply until the only sounds are your tears from behind the gag. Knowing you are now completely empty, I turn the hose on and walk back to you, hosing the filth down the basement drain. Holding the hose in one hand, I remove the clamps. You try to scream, but the cock in your mouth stops it from assaulting my ears.

Expressionless, I hold the hose up to your chest, letting the cool water cascade over your breasts and down your body, clearing most of the filth away. After cutting your vest and skirt off with one of the many pairs of safety scissors, I throw the ravaged muslin into the fireplace, to be destroyed later. Then, using a washcloth and soap, I efficiently wash your body, gently cleaning the piercing sites, then ruthlessly hosing down the floor. After dropping the hose, still running, near the drain, to flush it.

Your skin is pink from embarrassment, but pale underneath the rose. I unlock your feet from the cross first, then your hands; you sink into me, I guide you to sit on the floor. Curling as small as you can, you sob into your hands.

I stand and watch you for a moment, tears sliding around your hands and onto your naked breasts, before going to the fireplace and touching a match to the kindling below your clothing.

Resting my hands on the mantle, I lean with all of my weight, pushing my frustration into the wood, knowing what still must be done. I stand for minutes, I don’t know how many. The clothing, consumed by the flames, is now only glowing embers. Your sobs have slowed, to be replaced by a mantra of “I’m sorry, Mistress, please forgive me.”

Sure the fire is safe, I leave its warmth and turn off the hose, the smell has dissipated. I go back to the cabinet and retrieve a long leather thong, then string it through the ring on the front of your gag. Your head bows, eyes close and you assume the position of all fours. Echoes of begging for horsy rides and loud cowboy yells earlier skim through your mind; I say nothing. You already know. Your knees part and hips square while a silent sigh of relief shudders through your body that I’m not holding the tail you’ve worn in your ass before. You know this isn’t play, but a quiet lesson, more humiliating than painful.

You take up the washcloth, lying on the floor, and carefully wash my shoes, then kiss the tips of each. While you rub your cheeks over my shins, I say quietly, “we will now put away my tools.”

Your hips square again and I sit on your ass, directly above your legs. You crawl slowly to the washing machine, far across the floor, as I ride you. I drop the cloth in, knowing that it will be clean and put away before I am awake in the morning.

Silently, I guide you by tugging on your reins to the cross. Body weak, but resolute, you crawl to do my bidding, bringing us closer to the bowl still sitting on the floor and bag hanging from the cross. Without looking, I know everything in it must be washed thoroughly. We reach it, I drop the bag and tube into the bowl. You begin the slow journey to the sink, pushing the bowl across the floor with each forward movement. The only sound is the slap and thump of your motion and the harsh scraping of the metal bowl across the cement floor.

At the sink, I stand and help you rise and remove the thong from your gag. You do the washing up under my supervision. Each item is washed in hot soapy water then soaked in alcohol for a minute before being placed in a bag and into the cabinet. You move on your knees to the cross as quickly as possible, to wash down and dry the leather cuffs and covers and return to me, to wash your hands and kneel. I remove the gag, setting it in the sink. Tomorrow will be fine for that.

My hands slip into you hair again, this time to caress and stroke. I raise you to your feet, take your hand and lead to the stairs. You’re confident that I’ll take care of your wounds, as is my plan. At the base of the stairs I stop, gently kissing your lips, saying nothing.