the life and musings of a kinky slut


The Cabaret had just ended. There was a crush of people in the hall. A slow lumbering line out of the main dungeon.

I was excited, anxious, at what awaited me.

He stood at the first aid table. When I arrived, he looked me up and down.

“Am I ripping that off of you?”
“Uh, no.”

Costume change. I took off my tight strapless black dress. Got naked in the hallway. Threw on a tank top and boxers.

He had a rig held for us. We walked back through the throng. Back into the dungeon. Back towards my fate.

His toy bag sat by a wooden double frame. Scenes were just starting up. We sat down our stuff. Laid down a sheet. Created our space.

He started pulling out all the items in his toy bag. Mean things. Horrible things. Rope-y things. Many many things.

He jumped up on the frame. Pulled up, testing the strength of the wood. He thought he might tie me at some point. He never did. But I didn’t care.

I was a ball of nerves. Jumpy. But also horny. He wore boots. His outfit looked vaguely military. This was going to be brutal.

Still, I didn’t know what to do with myself. So I talked. Stammered a bit. Giggled a bit. He bought into the ruse. We both knew it was just a matter of moments, though, before I was on the floor.

In the blink of an eye, I was splayed out on the sheet, sobbing immediately. He went from zero to ten; no warm up. Pulled out his knife. Tore open my shirt. Slashed at my boxers.

He punched. Kicked a bit. And slapped. Fuck, he wouldn’t stop slapping me. My face. My arms. My back. My ass. That was the worst, at first. The stingy, unforgiving pain. And then gripping the surface he just assaulted. Rubbing in the hurt. Making it last that much longer. It was intense and almost overwhelming.

But then he started with his toys.

A small marble dagger-shaped paddle. Smacking my breasts. Attacking my nipples.

His bath brush, minus the loofah. Burning stings to my biceps, my thighs. It created impressive bruises from the start.

His cane struck all over me. He’d hit a spot. I’d curl in, trying to get away. But it just gave him something new to attack.

My hands flew out instinctively trying to stop the pain. He yelled at me for this. And then came the punishment for my infringement: my sternum.

He slapped my sternum. Hard. And then he told me what he was going to do. Told me he was going to punch my sternum. Told me, if my hands got in the way, he would punch me more than the two times he had planned. He asked me if I could take the two punches without blocking with my hands. Or did I want more?

He punched me once, twice. It hurt like a bitch. And yet, it was the kind of delicious pain I crave.

All during his tortures, he took moments to check in with me. Coming in close to my face. Whispering in my ear as I sobbed.

“Are you okay?”
“I’m okay.”
“Do you want to stop?”
“No,” I whimpered each time.
“Good girl. You are such a good girl.”

He took the remains of my clothes. Put them to my face. Wiped away my tears and the snot.

Once, in the middle of our scene, he asked me a question I suppose many wonder about.

“Why do you do this?”

Through snot and tears. Trying to more than mumble. Trying to speak so he could actually hear me, I answered him.

“Because it forces me to cry. The pain takes me to a place where I can’t ignore emotions. I like to cry. Love the release. And I like to know I can take it. I can take the pain. Even when it really hurts.”

But he wasn’t always sweet with his words. Wasn’t always kind. More often than not, he was just the opposite.

“You are in way over your head,” he said, many times, an evil laugh following.

During one check-in, my back on the floor, looking up at him, he asked me if I wanted to stop. I had no sense of time at that point, and I worried I would not have enough time for our aftercare, my blacking his boots.

“You are amazing. I’m beating your ass and you’re worried about my boots?”

He barked at me to kiss his boots. I got on my hands and knees. Planted my face at the toe of his boot. Kissed and licked up and down his leather. Felt the pain melt out of me. Felt the lust I’d had from before build again. My head went back and forth between his boots, loving his leather.

He moved away. I followed him around. He bent down. Grabbed his whip.

I felt the first pop on my ass. I shrieked, but kept kissing and licking his boots. Another pop. Another yelp. Another lick.

He moved about, whipping me. I tried cowering away. He yelled at me. I was to keep adoring his boots. I scrambled around. Towards his leather. Away from his blows.

He checked back in with me. I wanted to keep going. I wanted to keep pushing myself. But I also wanted to take care of his boots. So I stopped the scene, leather love more important than my tears.

Categorised as: BDSM | Boots | Fear | FrozenMeursault | Impact | Shibaricon

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