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Price appeared with a tall glass of water. “Drink this.”
I waited for painkillers to be offered, but he apparently hadn’t softened on that front.
“Drink all of it,” he said with a note of impatience.
I knew I needed hydration, but it was hard to drink with hard blue eyes staring at you and a room full of punishment equipment waiting just through the door. My legs felt steadier now, and my mouth not so dry. I wanted to suggest that sleep might be the best cure for my hangover, but I didn’t dare.
While I drank, he ran his gaze over my naked body, planning what he would do to it for my lapse in judgment. I never knew what was coming. He had never been the predictable type.
“Okay, that’s enough.” He took the glass away as I dawdled over the last few sips. “In you go.”
We stopped inside the dungeon door for him to put on my brown leather collar. He’d had it made especially for me, so it fit snugly, but not too tight. It looked plain, but what it represented was intricate and complicated. Obedience, love, ownership, submission. Poetry. There was an O-ring in the front for yanking me around or pulling me toward him for a kiss.
Today, he used it to drag me across his huge dungeon toward a low-slung spanking bench, a relatively recent addition that was also custom made for me, fitted to my dimensions. The bench’s hard, polished wood surface supported me in a position halfway between lying flat and kneeling. Why? Because when you were straight-up kneeling over a bench for an ass-beating, you were able to squirm a bit, move forward and backward. This bench’s configuration served to elevate my ass for punishment while not permitting me to brace with my knees.
As for bondage, this bench had plenty of contact points that might have been used to strap me down. Cuffs at my ankles or wrists, or a restraining belt secured across the backs of my calves, or around my thighs. A chain and clip to attach to the O-ring on my collar.
But no, this bench had none of that. It had only one—well, two—points of restraint.
“All the way down,” he said, when I hesitated to position myself properly. “Don’t make me angrier than I already am.”
I sighed and lowered my breasts into the two curved recesses also sized precisely for me. Beneath these recesses lay a crosspiece with two silver chains screwed into it, and at the end of those short chains, two gleaming clover clamps waiting to be engaged.
This piece of equipment was christened, not fondly on my part, the Boob Bench, because the only restraint point was the excruciating clover clamps affixed to each of my nipples before I was spanked here. Affixed by me.
Price could have done it, yes, because he enjoyed causing me pain, but I was the one who was made to put the clamps on myself, because it was really fucking hard to cause that kind of pain to your own body.
“Not yet,” he said, when I reached down for them with dread.
I waited, my head lowered in penitence. If I was waiting, there was some other torment to come first. I heard one of the drawers open and lifted my head to stare forward at the dark gray wall. Another drawer. The snick of a lube bottle. The only question now was how big the ass plug would be, and how much it would hurt. Since he was pretty upset with me, the answers were: very big, and a lot.
I received no warning aside from his approach, and his big hand grasping one of my ass cheeks to pull it aside. The plug was lubed enough to go in, but not enough to make it easy. Big plugs were never easy. They hurt, and I let out a cry as he pushed it forward.
“Ow, ow, ow…”
I sighed the words, because I wasn’t supposed to talk in the dungeon unless spoken to. Owwww. Please. I thought you loved me. The ache in my head minimized as the ache in my asshole overrode it with taut, acute pain. Butt plugs started out manageable, then widened and widened and… He pushed it into me, ignoring my whining and trembling, and paused with the plug at its widest point.
“If you weren’t a bad girl, Chere, I wouldn’t have to do this to you.”
It took my breath away, how much it hurt my ass, and this punishment was barely started. I tried to control my breathing and the frantic tensing of my sphincter muscle.
“Do you deserve to be punished, Chere?”
“Y-yes. Yes, sir.” It was hard to get the words out when I was simultaneously holding my breath. “I’m so sorry, sir. I was bad. I-I didn’t obey.”
“What were you supposed to do? What was the agreement for you attending this stag party without me?”
“Checking in. Calling you.” Oh, my asshole. Oww. “Being home on time…”
He finally shoved the butt plug home, so the most harrowing pain was over. Now my sphincter was clamped around the thinner base, though my ass was still stretched around the thick bulb inside me.
He walked around the dungeon for a few minutes, partly to make me lie there with my ass in the air, gripping helplessly on the butt plug, and partly to open cabinets and drawers and collect spanking implements. My eyes followed him as he tested various prospects on his palm. I wanted to know what was coming, even though I didn’t want to know what was coming.
Eventually, a thin whip, a strap, and a rattan cane lay arranged before me. When he put me on this bench, he liked to use implements that swung and dropped. His arm had more range of motion, because I was lower to the ground. He’d explained the physics of it when he revealed the new bench to me, but as his torture subject I knew. I knew.
“It’s time to put on the clamps,” he said, coming around to watch me, to be sure I put them on firmly and squarely, and didn’t try to shirk any of the pain. I pressed open the first clamp, tugging at my nipple with my other hand to prepare it for the contact. A deep breath, and then…
Oh God. Oh help me. Did I mention how hard it is to put biting clover clamps on your own freaking nipples? And any movement, the slightest jerk upwards, tightened these types of clamps with agonizing results. When I could think again, I lifted the other clamp and prepped the other nipple, flicking it to get it hard. Price watched, unmoved and unmoving. I had to place the second clamp twice to satisfy him.
