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“Pump it hard, Makaila,” I hear Bernard’s voice. Believing it was just this lovely woman and me alone, I’m strangely wracked with embarrassment to know that the master has been watching my preparations. I open my eyes to see him standing near the far wall to my side, arms crossed, the classic expression of a determined master written in every feature of his dark face. I am naked, in bondage and impaled slavishly before him.
In response to his order, I realize this is no mere anal dildo inside me, but an expansion plug, attached to a small hose and rubber pump. She squeezes the bulb and the plug inflates. Each time the fullness in me increases, my anus widens and my insides seem to grow, conforming to the shape that molds me to its growing size. I think I can take no more and gasp aloud, “Please, I am full!” I may sound pitiful, and gain Makaila’s sympathy. Though I can’t see her face, I imagine her staring at her observant master waiting for some clue to continue. I gaze toward him myself and see him unmoved.
“She’s faking,” he says as he strides to her side. Without seeing it, I picture how his black hand holds the bulb, how his firm, large fingers squeeze down not once but several times in quick succession.
“Oh, my lord no!”
“Get used to it, Anna!” he snaps at me. Right into my guts. His words cut like daggers or the shot of a rifle, while this plug balloons enormously—at least that is what the pain tells me.
He pumps the bulb again, and what measures my body took to ease into the sensations disappear. This is too much. I’m sure I can’t take more. I moan, hoping he’ll hear my distress. Perhaps he does, since he abruptly drops the bulb and moves away.
This pressure plug has two sides. An inner and an outer. I’ve only held one of these once, and that was for a deep anal cleanse Heinrich administered nearly a year ago. There is a bulb outside my ass nearly as large as the one within. It fits as snugly at the rear door and prevents me from
any attempt to expel this before I’m given permission. It’s like holy hell bearing the sensation, but I know I’ll have no mercy from Bernard. Isn’t this what I asked for?
He’s about to leave the room and me alone when he turns at the door. I can see him again from the corner of my eye. “I’ll let that settle in you a while, and then we’ll get on with things. I hope you made your excuses with Ian for tonight. I doubt you’ll be going home.”
Jolted back to reality, I remember that Ian has no idea where I am. He’ll expect me home by ten o’clock, and be in a panic if I don’t call soon.
Good lord, the bastard’s set me up!
Though I’m struggling for some solution to this predicament, the agony of my ass soon supplants my worry over Ian. The pain is rich, but the feeling grows on me with each second that moves slowly by. The pressure in my bottom ceases to attack me. I can even wiggle, just slightly and then feel the sexual pulsing in my groin as I connect with my wild erotic urge. My cunt throbs again, like it did before all this began, when it was just fantasy pushing me and a promise that has never failed me. Though the muscles in my thighs and shoulders begin to ache, I can’t complain. Yes, this is what I asked for. How appropriate that Bernard is like every dom that’s taken me—Heinrich and the few others my husband allowed to have me—those who thrive on giving a submissive a bit more than they counted on—and a good deal more than they expected in discomfort and pain. This gives them their dominion, and a reminder to a submissive of who’s in control.
When Bernard returns, he feels like a breath of winter entering the cold white room. It’s as bright as a new snow—sterile as an Arctic day inside these walls. But when he dims the lamps the tile glows like a pale gold sun, and the mood begins to change.
He moves around the table so I can stare at him.
He’s been my friend, my dear dear friend, and a kind face at the worst time of my life, a firm but honest representative of my former husband. Now he masters me. The scene suddenly feels terribly intimate in ways we’ve never managed between us. The eroticism that arises in the midst of this amazes me. He squats beside my bent torso so he can look me in the eye.
“Got yourself in quite a predicament here, haven’t you?”
“I have, sir.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t call me, sir, Anna. I’m not your master.”
This disheartens me.
“You’re here because you need this, because you’re a miserably selfish woman that needs to be punished. I am angry with you beyond words. And I should dismiss you altogether, but our past precludes that. You will, however, take what I give you in the deep measure I believe you need. And you will report this to your lover, just as I instructed you before.” His eyebrows narrow. “I’ll do it myself if I suspect you’re lying to him. You’re not going to skirt this, Anna. You’ll be strapped and caned tonight and perhaps again in the morning. After that, I’ll determine when you’ll next visit, if there will be another one.”
He moves quickly out of my sight behind him. I hear him at the wall of implements, but I can’t see what he pulls down. I’m imagining the strap he mentioned.
Waiting is grueling punishment. My heart flutters, my tummy tosses about the crackers I ate before I came. They were supposed to calm the butterflies, though now they settle sourly in my stomach. For one brief moment, I panic and struggle to move out of these impossible bonds. But then, the air stirs behind me.
Thwack!
“Yeeeawwwww!”
The leather connects to my rear so astoundingly; I’m dizzy from the sound and pain. Again and again, the strap connects with my ass cheeks. Each strike stirs the dildo in my ass, making it feel as though Bernard’s pumping the bulb again and the plug is expanding once more.
This must be a short strap he uses, for it doesn’t rap my ass wildly, but with precise strokes, those to my left cheek and those to my right. The pain brightens in each. I imagine the skin flushed and turning scarlet. He goes on and on in one fluid motion after another, naturally pausing for several seconds for us both to take a breath. Yet, before I can gain any measure of relaxation he starts again, the agony repeating itself over and over, until something in me lets go. I drift on this crazy high, like I’m floating on drugs, way out somewhere I can’t explain… pictures, colors, faces, pain nothing more than sensation. I drift and then return, drift more… then there is nothing for several seconds, everything in me clenches and falls away, and I realize that Bernard has stopped the barrage and is now removing the plug.
In its place, he inserts another that is nearly as big, but this one won’t expand, it’s firmly fixed, and inflexible as the master that plunges it inside me. It stays inside, bound with a strap that attaches to my waist belt.
Finishing, he holds a cane in his hand and comes to my side so I can see it. The slim bamboo will cut the skin if he’s not careful. Since he’s never mastered me before, I’m not sure what kind of behavioral lapses warrant that kind of extreme. But it won’t really matter if he cuts the skin or simply mars it. The effect will be the same. He’ll leave marks that will not quit for several days, and make certain that I explain myself to Ian.
“Twelve, Anna,” is all he says.
Once more behind me, Bernard stands for some seconds with eyes so strong I feel them boring into my hot skin.
