the life and musings of a kinky slut

Righteous Beating

I stood by the back of the elevators, excited, almost jittery. I’d demo bottomed in a class, took a shower, changed into a sleeveless tight black dress. I wore my boots, as he had asked me to when I texted him during my brief dinner. I’d already helped Murphy with music stuff, and caught a bit of ManKraken!’s scene with crushpuppy. Now it was time for my reckoning.

I stood chatting with Veskrashen, nerves, for the first time in a long time, overtaking me. I am such a fucking idiot. What the fuck have I gotten myself into?

I saw him as he descended down the lift. “Oh God.Oh God.Oh God… There he is.”

I tried to breathe. I tried.

It seemed like he intentionally paused on the other side of the elevators, though I can’t be for certain. My view of him ended once the doors closed. I waited, trying not to show my panic.

He walked around the elevator bank, easily finding me. With my toybag at the ready, I followed him into the Dungeon.

Many scenes were going on. It was Sunday night, the last night. Everyone wanted to get their last play in.

He settled on a tall wooden chair with a winged back and post at its center; the seat was more like a stool. I put my bag by his bag and stood, waiting. He turned and stood in front of me.

“Leather or beating first?”
“Whatever you wish.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Beating.” I made my decision quickly. I could hear the anger rising in him.

Grabbing his toy bag, he pulled out and showed me each implement. There was the Brat Bat. His thumpy flogger. His new paddle, the one I’d christened less than a week earlier. His cane. And, of course, he pulled out the Twisted Bitch. I anticipated its appearance, and tried to not react when he produced it. I don’t know if I was successful. Either way, he already knew how I felt about the toy.

He circled me, screaming at me. He asked me why we were here. I said because I made a mistake. He said it was not a mistake. I said because I hit him.

He grabbed his paddle and began hitting me. Attacking my ass and thighs, my clothing gave little cushion to his blows.

He yelled for me on my knees.

He questioned me, interrogated me, asked me what I did.

“How did you hit me? What did you use? Show me.”

He stood over me, straddling my body with his legs. I mimicked the act, lightly elbowing his leg. “Yes, you elbowed me. Why?”

“Because I wanted Chey to use my coin.”
“Because I’m Cabin Bitch. I have to save the day so people will like me.”
“Chey used my coin. I got Chey’s smile. You didn’t want me to have that smile, did you.”
“No; I wanted Chey to like me.”

He unzipped my dress and unhooked my bra. He pulled my clothes partially off.

“Get your fucking dress off! Get your fucking dress off right now!” Standing, I quickly flung the garments off. He ordered me back on my knees, and then reprimanded me for being on my hands and knees.

He ordered me into a yoga pose, with my chest craned back and my hands on my ankles. I still wore my boots. He elbowed my breast, and I fell out of the position. I quickly recovered and he did it again. And again.

“Why do you keep falling out?”
“I’ve never done yoga in my boots.”
“Learning something new today.”

He continued to elbow my nipples and breasts.

“Do you understand why I’m doing this?”
“Is the fair?”
“Yes.” What else would I have said?

He ordered me up on the seat of the wooden chair, and yelled for me to grip the post. He pulled out his cane and began work on my ass and thighs.

He asked me, on a scale of one to ten, one being almost nothing and ten being excruciatingly-can’t-stand-it painful, what his next blow was. He struck my ass hard. I gave it a six. It quick succession, he gave me six cane strokes. He asked me for a new number. I said seven.

“Now we’re getting somewhere.” He struck me again. “Want to give me another number.” I kept quiet. “Now you’re learning.”

He elbowed me on my back and shoulder blades. He came around and slapped my face. He elbowed my chest, and then yelled at me for not turning away to protect my face.

He couldn’t elbow my arms, but he had an eviler idea in mind. Grabbing my right arm, he drove his elbow into my flesh.

“What nerve is this?”
“Radial,” I screamed.
“What nerve is this?”
“Radial! Radial nerve!”

He switched to the inside of my bicep.

“What nerve is this?”
“I don’t know.”
“What nerve is this?”
“I don’t know!” I suspect he heard the desperation in my voice.

“Do you want to phone a friend?” I looked over and saw Parker was watching us.
“Parker, what nerve is it?”
“It’s the median nerve.”

“Really,” asked Gray quizzically. “I thought it was the brachial nerve.” He drove his elbow into my median nerve again. “I know this is the ulnar.” His elbow ran across the inside of my forearm. I cried out in pain.
“Yup, it’s the median.”

“What nerve is this?”
“Median! Median nerve!”

He pulled me down to the floor and had me lie face up. He sat on me, elbowing my chest. He used pressure points. I let out a guttural scream. He enjoyed that.

“People like you. We like you because of the wonderful sounds you make.” He gave another reason, but I can’t remember it. All I could remember were my deep-chested grunts as he dug his elbows into my torso.

In my mind, I switched to combat mode. All I knew was that I needed to endure. I made it about me overcoming his pain, going beyond what he could unleash. If I was going to get through this, I had to wrench back, if in no other way than to not let myself give in or give up.

He had me spread my legs. He elbowed my inner thighs, tricking me again. He called me out on my assumption of where he was going next. That would be later.

As he hit me, my arms instinctively flinched down and my legs flinched closed. He again screamed at me. “Put your fucking arms up!” “Keep your fucking legs open!”

He talked about his old rule, of how anything someone did to him he would do back to them tenfold. As such, he would give me ten elbow strikes to my pussy. I would count each, and, once he was done, I would beg his forgiveness.

He began. Each strike rocked my body forward, the blunt pain like a dull wave centered on my pussy but flowing through my legs and chest. I counted, screaming, almost angry numbers coming out of my mouth. I got to six. And then I jumped to eight.

I didn’t even notice the error, but he did. He pointed to a person watching us to confirm. I cursed myself. We started again.

I counted. He struck. I got through it, somehow.

At ten, when the pain was at its worst, when I had finally endured my punishment, the tears started. I curled my body up, crawled to his left boot, encircled it with myself, and cried.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry. Please Gray, please forgive me. Please. Please don’t hate me. I can’t live knowing you hate me. Please Gray. Please forgive me. Please. I’m so sorry.”

In that moment, I didn’t worry about the leather and how my snot was not the best thing to treat it. I didn’t worry about my new crushes, my amazing scenes from WinterFire, the stress of Music/AV, or anything else at all. The only thing on my mind was the fear that Gray hated me. I didn’t want to live in a world where Gray hated me.

He reached down and softly brushed my hair. Slowly, he raised me up and pulled me into a hug. I still sobbed, but I could feel the anguish diminishing. Soon my cries quieted to just sniffles. My head rested on his leather vest. I could smell the sweet aroma of the material. My mood began to ease.

Gray slowly lowered me down to his cock and allowed me to suck it.

“Feel better?” Smiling, I looked up at him, mmm-hmm-ed, and nodded a yes.

Categorised as: D/s | DOWF | Emotional | Gray | Impact

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