I Pay the Price Ch. 03

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I could hardly believe I was walking back up to Mr. K.’s door. I was terrified, unsure and excited at the same time. My mind flashed back over the events of the last week.

I had woken on Thursday morning with my whole body, but particularly my breasts and especially my nipples excruciatingly sore from the combined torture of the C-clamps and the riding crop that my boss had used against me the previous night. The glory of my multiple and seemingly continuous orgasms had faded and I was left with just a dull overall ache in all of my sexually-oriented body parts, including my inner thighs, my pussy and my ass.

I had stumbled through that Thursday at work. But Friday morning, I had screwed up my courage and confronted my tyrant of a boss in his office. The conversation did not go as expected.

“I’m not coming to your house again,” I’d stated.

“Why not?” he’d asked. “You don’t need this job anymore?”

I explained to him that there was no end in sight and that I couldn’t take the punishment anymore. Further, I was afraid he would permanently damage me and no job was worth that. I also explained that he was dead wrong about my enjoying being spanked, strapped, clamped and cropped and sucking his dick and all the rest of it. I hated being in that position.

“Then why did you keep having orgasms?” he’d shot back at me.

I couldn’t explain that, but he didn’t understand that while my body could be helpless in its reactions to his sadistic torture, that didn’t mean I enjoyed it – just the opposite. And that, more than anything else, was why I wasn’t coming back to his house.

“I understand your point of view and am willing to give you the benefit of the doubt in explaining yourself,” he responded. “In fact, I’ve given some thought to this myself and have determined that one further night of punishment will suffice, from my point of view, in putting paid to your attempted thievery from my company and, more importantly, from me. Be at my house next Wednesday for a final punishment session and we’ll put this behind us.”

“No,” I replied. “I won’t do it again.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he replied. “You can continue in your employ through next Wednesday. I’ll have your final check prepared for you Thursday morning if I don’t see you Wednesday night.”

And with that, the meeting had ended. I had been in turmoil the rest of that day leading into my weekend. I thought that I could bluff my way through, but he had called me on it. At least he’d definitely indicated that only one further session was left, but I couldn’t bear, in my current condition, to even think about going through it.

Desperate for something to take my mind off my predicament, I had called my ex to meet me that night for dinner. I needed some kind of normal companionship. As the night wore on, I decided to go back to his place. I knew that I needed to reconnect and have something normal to keep my feet on the ground, to reassure myself about my decision to quit rather than endure another night of torture.

Remembering back to that night, as I stood in front of Mr. K.’s door, I remembered making love to my ex. Although sex with him was just like it had always been and I had even orgasmed under the tender ministrations of my ex, I noticed that something was not there. The intensity of the feeling was not there. I came, but my entire body was not on fire as it had been under Mr. K.’s cruel touch. The orgasm was weak and tepid compared to what I had experienced the last two weeks. This had sent a minor panic attack through me.

I had seen my ex again the following evening, desperate to see if this continued, and it had. He was a good lover, the sex was not what had broken them up – but there was a hole now in that sex. Had this torture that I’d gone through ruined me for normal sex? Would I have to put myself into the hands of a sadist in order to recapture the feelings that had coursed through my body as Mr. K. fucked my while I was tied, my nipples clamped and my body strapped or cropped?

To answer that question, more than anything else, I found myself making my way unwillingly, but inexorably back to Mr. K.’s house. I had not had any contact with him during the three days leading up to Wednesday night after the weekend. I guess he assumed that I would stick to my original position and not show up. In my confused state, I didn’t know really what I was going to do until I left the house that evening to meet him.

I knocked on his door.

“You’ve decided you want to keep your job after all,” he said upon answering.

Yes, I thought. I liked my work and it paid well. I also had to know…

This time, we didn’t make it to the couch. With firm pressure on my shoulders, Mr. K. made me get right on my knees in the hallway and start servicing his cock. As he unzipped his fly and pulled his manhood out, I felt myself, almost unconsciously, lick my lips levent escort in anticipation. The very act of kneeling in front of him, so abruptly, in his hallway, without any drama or discussion or anything else, sent a shiver through my body.

I felt inordinately pleased as he pulled out his prick, already stiff and fully engorged, using his right hand to feed it into my now-wide-open mouth while his left hand, on the back of my head, guided me with gentle, but insistent pressure, right down onto him, deeply. Already, just a few seconds into this third ‘punishment’ I already felt myself responding quickly to my boss’s gestures, molding my body’s reactions, anticipating his desires, feeling a strong urge to submit to his will.

Kneeling in front of him, I also knew that I was pleased because he was so stiff for me already! That just the act of showing up and kneeling in front of him, without question or protest, made him excited enough to stuff my mouth with a cock that was hard and stiff, rather than soft and weak. The thrill of having my mouth immediately impaled on what felt like a lead pipe was intoxicating – the familiar warmth spiraled outward from my belly as I serviced him.

With his pants still on, I clutched at Mr. K.’s hips for support as I sucked his prick through his open fly. Eventually, he fisted my hair in a tight grip, using it to control my head movements as the ‘servicing’ continued. Often, he would force my head back a little, making me look up at his 6’4″ frame, even as my mouth was full of cock. I felt small, overpowered, humiliated, degraded and delicious all at the same time. I imagined what it must be like for him to look down at me – seeing a young woman, in my prime, on my knees, submissive, in the hallway just two feet inside his front door, staring up at him with huge eyes as my mouth, stuffed, sawed back and forth on his manhood in a steady rhythm that he controlled and directed to HIS satisfaction. No wonder he was so stiff! It must be an incredible sight – thinking about it just made me wetter and wetter.

“Take off your shirt and bra,” he commanded me. I remembered this from my first punishment. I made a show of unbuttoning my blouse, slipping it off my shoulders and unhooking and removing my bra – all while gazing up at his face, with my mouth slowly sliding up and down his thick shaft. It was strange. During that first session, his peremptory commands had upset me, offended me. Now they aroused me. It was a short journey from independent, liberated woman to slut, I mused to myself, as I completed baring my breasts and torso.

At one point, he told me to lick his balls. As I ran my tongue back and forth across them, coating them with my saliva and slowly jerking his cock with my hand, his balls felt huge and ponderous and full of cum. If past experience was any guide, I knew their contents would soon be deposited somewhere inside me (probably my gullet). That thought contributed to my overall feeling of being absolutely in his power, helpless to resist him.

I was slightly uncomfortable, kneeling on the hardwood floor. But I didn’t dream of protesting. Uncomfortable as I was (even while sort of enjoying myself at the moment), I didn’t want to do anything that might increase what I figured would be some harsh punishment later on.

As he moved me back onto his dick proper, I settled in for the long haul. Deeper and deeper I tried to force my head down onto his dick, taking as much as possible, holding him inside me for seconds at a time, angling my mouth and neck to provide as much depth as possible, letting him flex his fuck-muscle as it bottomed out inside me. It was a delicious, degrading feeling to feel his dick bottom out, cutting off my own air, feeling his heart rate intimately against the inside of my cheeks and upper throat, as the blood pumped through his cock, growing ever so slightly inside me. He flexed, holding me impaled on him, using his grip on my hair to brook no argument.

I doubted whether I’d have the strength to push off of him if I needed to. He could probably suffocate me with his cock if he wanted to– he was so strong and his grip in my hair so tight. I saw him smiling at my involuntary gagging, obviously enjoying himself. Whether he enjoyed the sensation of my mouth and throat convulsing around his cock or the look of fear and pity in my eyes as I looked up at him, pleading silently as only a woman that is occupied, on her knees, can plead, I didn’t know. I felt utterly helpless, along for the ride, giving in to the sensation, molding my body, my mouth, my tongue, my throat, to bring as much pleasure to him as possible.

I could feel my own juices leaking out of my pussy. My only remaining clothes were a miniskirt without panties (what was the point of panties, I thought, as I dressed for the night – besides he’d just stuff them in my mouth!) and my heels. I was mortally afraid now that my cunt’s moisture would simply start dripping onto the floor while I was being mecidiyeköy escort throat fucked (or forced to throat-fuck myself, as I wasn’t ‘restrained’ at the moment), reinforcing to Mr. K. his chauvinist impression that I got off on being used and dominated in such a rough and callous manner.

He pulled a couple of clothespins out of his pocket and handed them to me.

“What the fuck?” I thought to myself, holding one of the wretched, pinching pins in each hand.

“Pinch and twist your nipples until they’re hard,” he said.

What!?! Just who did this motherfucker think he was! He hands me a couple of clothespins, while I’m sucking his cock and tells me to get my nipples hard! What kind of bullshit is that? Does he think I don’t know what he’s going to do with these things, once they’re hard!?!

I just stared up at him, a questioning look on my face, my mouth stuffed with prick.

He gave me a sharp slap across the cheek. “Do what I say.”

It was no use. I felt out of control of the situation (as I usually felt in Mr. K.’s presence). So, a clothespin held against each palm with my ring-finger and pinkie, my head doing the cha-cha-cha on his cock, I raised my hands up to my breasts and took each of my nipples between my thumb, index and middle fingers and began slowly twisting and pinching them. Of course, they were already hard, since I was naked and aroused. His simple command to me to pinch them, followed by the slap to my face, was enough to complete their transformation into hard nubbins of flesh, extremely sensitive, ready to be bitten by the springs of the pins in my hands, without any help from me.

Nonetheless, I luxuriated in the feeling of twisting and pinching my tits, as I sucked his cock, while holding the small instruments of pain I knew I’d soon be feeling. It made me feel wanton and hot and lusted for. More moisture leaked from my honey pot as I stimulated myself, while continuing to orally stimulate him. This guy sure had a way of making a girl feel bad, and yet still feeling good at the same time.

“Okay – put them on.”

Again, I was dumbstruck, but not really surprised (why had he given them to me, after all). Apparently, not only was her boss going to hurt me, humiliate me, fuck me and use me, but he was going to make me do all this stuff to myself! As I gazed up at him, gagged by cock, I silently pleaded with him. – “Please…don’t make me put these on myself. Punish me, fuck me, whatever – but don’t make me do it to myself – that’s too much…”

He just stared back down at me, implacable, brooking no dissent, showing no inclination to give me any room for maneuver.

So, still pinching and twisting one nipple, still with his cock in my mouth, I moved the clothespin held in my right hand up to my left nipple. It was awkward to position everything correctly, because of his cock. Although he wasn’t currently face-fucking me, he was holding my head firmly on his prick and I felt instinctively that he would be greatly displeased if I spit him out while carrying out his ridiculous instructions. It was a little hard to see down to make sure I was getting it on right (and wasn’t that a great big joke – trying to make sure I ‘properly’ clamped myself).

As the pin closed on my nipple, I both savored the sting and dreaded it. It certainly served to focus my attention, that’s for sure. I also knew that the slight pressure now would surely build with time and G*d only knew when Mr. K. would take it off – I didn’t hold any high hopes that it would be anytime soon however.

Having clamped one nipple according to his instructions, I proceeded to close the mouth of the remaining clothespin on my other nipple, wincing a second time at the sting of the pin as it bit home. Thank goodness these weren’t the heavy-duty type of clamp he had subjected me to previously. I wasn’t sure if I could have actually followed through in placing one of those hellish binder clamps from two weeks ago on myself.

So, bare-chested, nipple-clamped, kneeling, mouth stuffed with cock (and still very wet down there), it looked like the real party was about to begin as Mr. K. suddenly began anew fucking my face, with as much cooperation from me as I could give. The situation, Mr. K.’s dominant attitude, his sheer physical presence, his size and his overwhelming male scent enveloped me as he sawed his fuck-muscle back and forth inside my mouth, using his grip in my hair to completely control me until I felt like I had been turned into nothing more than a receptacle to sate his desires. What’s worse, I was happier here, in this position, and more turned on by far than I had been over the weekend in my desperate attempt, with my ex, to experience some good old-fashioned ‘normal’ sex. His successful (at least to this point) sexual domination of me, so soon after my miserable experience over the weekend, just served to reinforce my growing realization that I might be trapped into this new way of life, this new need to have a man control kağıthane escort me in the bedroom.

“Now – When I come, I want you to be a good girl and make sure you keep everything inside” he said softly. “I don’t want my floor to get dirty…”

His tone, ridiculous as it would have sounded in normal conversation, was just delicious in the current situation, making me feel all soft and pliant inside. Stuffed with cock, I nodded vigorously; batting my eyes up at him in what I hoped was a positive signal. “No, Mr. K. I won’t let anything spill out. I’ll be a good girl. I promise.” I’d given him enough blowjobs to know, at this point, how he liked everything to finish up.

Several minutes, lots of spit and about 100 strokes later, I felt his cock begin to grow in what I knew was the normal prelude to his orgasm. I felt his balls tighten perceptibly beneath my chin in one of my extended stays buried down to the roots of his dick. I spread my knees slightly in anticipation, lowering myself a little bit, doing my best to create a long, straight, warm, tight, oral tunnel for him to drive his cock into – hoping to add just enough more to get him past the point of no return even though I was pretty resigned to the fact that he’d only come when he wanted to, not when I wanted him to.

When his cock finally swelled to its largest thickness and a hot stream erupted out of it and into my mouth, down my throat and into my stomach, I felt another rush of warmth radiate from my belly up to my clothes-pinned nipples and down to my leaking cunt. He lingered inside me for a few seconds and I eagerly suckled his cock, licking and cleaning it, removing all traces of his cum.

Pulling out of me, Mr. K. took his cock in his own hands (I’d never really seen him do this before). He started at the base and, giving it a few long, slow jerks, squeezed one last drop of jism into view. I opened my mouth, almost without thinking, tilting my head back, anticipating that Mr. K. would want to make a final ‘deposit’ into his oral ‘bank account’.

Instead, he pinched it off and let the heavy drop of cum fall onto the wooden floor in front of me.

I stared at the pearly drop, lying on the floor in front of me, in a kind of dread fascination.

“Now. Now…I’ll need you to clean up that last bit up before we can move on,” I heard him say in a serious tone, as I continued to contemplate the drop of jism on the hardwood floor.

I was mortified and turned on at the same time. He really knew how to push my buttons exquisitely. Kneeling, naked (except for the scrap of my miniskirt), tit-clamped, wet, humiliated and with a salty, unpleasant aftertaste in my mouth, I lowered my head to the hallway floor (seeing Mr. K.’ shoes out of the corner of my eye) and darted my tongue out to lick up the last of his orgasm in the most supreme act of submission I’d ever performed in front of a man, Mr. K. or anyone else. Unbelievable.

I could only imagine how he must feel, seeing me in such a position, practically naked, my ass in the air, my face on his floor, cleaning up HIS jism from HIS floor with MY tongue. It must be a sight to behold, I thought.

“By the way, since you’re already down there, why don’t you lick up your own cunt juice as well. I see some there between your legs,” he said in a condescending, playful tone.

A hot flash of humiliation coursed through my body at those awful words. What a bastard, basically outright calling me a slut and reinforcing my slut status by telling me to clean up my own mess. As I shifted position to lick up the faint traces of my own pussy’s moisture, I vowed to myself that I’d quit after tonight anyway. I’d never spend another moment, beyond this evening, with this heartless jerk.

I ignored the fact that those very same words he’d just uttered, combined with what I was actually doing right now, running my tongue across his entranceway floor, had the exact opposite effect on the continuing state of my sexual arousal.

After finishing up, he quickly guided me into the familiar office with the big desk, the sight of my previous run-ins during ‘punishment time’. I resigned myself to another night of being tied and tortured on top of his desk.

He quickly produced his trusty pair of leather, fur-lined cuffs and attached them just above my elbows, rather than my wrists. When he locked them together, my upper arms were pulled far back behind me, thrusting out my tits, while leaving my lower arms free from restraint. I gazed down at my clamped nipples in helplessness. Next, he pulled a leather collar out of his top drawer, securing it around my neck. The intimate touch of his fingers on my body sent shivers through me. The collar had some metal rings emplaced in it.

Then he moved to my ankles, locking them in the same fur-lined leather cuffs he’d used on me in the past. But instead of attaching my ankles together, he told me to spread my legs. From underneath the desk, Mr. K. pulled out what looked like an oversized sawed-off broom handle, about three feet in length. It had a couple of eyehooks screwed into each of the ends and another eyehook screwed into the middle. It was a solid piece of wood. It only took two more snap hooks to attach my leather-cuffed ankles to the ends of the homemade ‘spreader bar’.