Author: NA73

Warnings: Slash, BDSM, PWP

Summary: The inside of the slave's mind, let the fic take you into the

heart's desire of the slave.

Nominated Category:

This is where I live:

His cock is deep inside me. His fingers dance around my shaft. Whispers wash across my neck and my fingers twist the sheets. I can feel the pillow rubbing my cheek and there’s a hand pushing into the small of my back. This is now. This is being fully in the moment. This is living!

The fierce bite from the clamps around my nipples sends darts of heat between my legs keeping my cock hard. A bite so tight it aches and burns. This is much tighter than I normally experience, but I can take it. I’ve been trained to take it. I’m a good pet; I want to please. Please, gods, please, let me be strong enough to take it!

I grumble in protest when the cock is taken from me. Spent already? Bastard, work on that stamina. I’m too good for my own good. There had better be another one waiting. Make this worth my time or I’ll not come back. I don’t mean that. I’ll be back. Send me the e-mail and I’ll be right there. This is my life. My secret little life.

Yes! Bend me like that. Twist me like that. Tie me like that. Yes, I’ll stretch that far. Yes, I’m that flexible. Position and reposition me. Pose me and let me be the naughty mannequin that I am. I breathe for rope burn. I sweat for the taste of leather. While on my knees, my arms are pulled behind my back, tied together and hoisted nearly straight up forcing me to lean over. I have no choice but to scream as the barely faded pain forced upon my nipples is rejuvenated. A spreader bar is put between my knees and my ankles are tied to my thighs. I can feel my heels pressing into my skin just below my ass. If I look down, I see my own cock. If I crane my neck, I can see hips and cocks, but mostly all I see is a white sheet.

Be proud of me. I practice yoga for this very purpose. Please, give me praise! Turn my ass from tan to red. No, not pink. Red. I need it red. I thrive on this. Finally, the slaps reach the point of praise. Sting penetrates my flesh and webs across my skin. I can feel the heat radiating inside me. I take this for me and for him.

They are all “him”. They all have the same name – Master. That’s all I need to know. “Master.” It’s the feel of his name upon my tongue more than the sound in my ears that does it for me. They are all a Master, but they are not My Master.

My Master is on the other side of the two-way mirror watching. He’s watching me suck and fuck. Unseen, he’s waving his baton conducting this orchestrated circus. A circus which stars me. I flash him a coy look. The one I know he likes so much. The one that uses my baby-face for all it’s worth. I’m twenty-three, but I can still look underage if it gets me what I want. The look whimpers, “I’m so innocent and sweet. Why do you do such horrible things to me? Why do you like to hurt me? How do you make it hurt so good?” Oh yes, I can play this game. I can play this game extremely well. I own this game. I know he has his cock in hand right now. That’s right, cum for me. Let me know I make you feel good, My Master.

I feel someone pushing against my ass. Oh yes – the stretch. The stretch of penetration is unlike anything else in the world. I toy with him and tighten up. If he wants in, he’s going to have to work at it. I know the lube will let me protest only so much, but it’s enough. It’s enough to make me feel the waves of heat as my body is opened. It’s enough to make my mind spin and my blood rush.

One of the “he’s” dangles the buckle ends of a toy in my vision. My eyes grow wide. I know buckles like that. No, please, no, not a gag. I’m terrified of not being able to breathe. Don’t take my breath away from me! I let the fear show in my eyes. It’s an O-ring. I know I can breathe with an O-ring. That’s fine, but not necessary. I’ll gladly suck cock. The hinge of my jaw whines as my mouth is almost stretched too far. Another cock is thrust at me. How many cocks does this make? I’m not sure. I’ve lost count. That’s fine.

I suck as best I can within my restraints. If they would allow me the use of my lips, I would be doing a much better job. As it is, all I can do is shift my tongue and time my breathing as I’m passively skull-fucked. I don’t feel like I’m actually pleasing this man. I don’t feel like I’m really blowing him. I’m just a wet mouth. I make up for that by feigning a gag and trying to cough. Oh, I see, this one likes the drool. This one likes the gagging. Let me make a good show of it. I gag, cough, spit and sputter. I even whimper like I don’t want it. Can I do it this time? Can I let tears flow from my eyes? Yes. Yes, I can and they like it.

Thank the gods! More praise! Stinging heat pools along my spine. A temperature so stark it almost feels like a slap. A sticky penetrating heat that can only come from hot wax. I couldn’t stop my mewing if I wanted to. Some kind soul reaches under me and jiggles the clamps on my nipples. The renewed pain toys with the boundary between “just enough” and “too much.” I writhe and my moans vibrate the cock on my tongue.

He fists my hair as a warning that he’s about to cum. The salty tang of jizz floods the back of my throat. He’s too far back and I almost really gag, but I’m quick enough to avoid disappointment. I’m doing well. I’m good enough for My Master. The cum down my throat tells me that. That man was easy to satiate. That man is very different from the one pounding inside me or the ones who left their debauchery across my back.

This is where I shine:

His cock hits a special spot along my inner walls. That spot deep inside me -- both vile and beautiful. Pleasure explodes inside me and flutters through me. Trembling and shaking, I try to hold back from release.

In a place that is neither here nor there. A place where my body tingles and my mind is deliciously numb. Stuck somewhere between “going there” and “been there”, I want to reside here in this betwixt and between place. This precious palace of my domain. I yearn to stay here.

I cannot. I’m weak against my own body. Screaming and arching, I cry out. Life shoots from my body. Hot cum cools against the sheets. My arms are released and I crash forward.

Bereft of my palace, I don’t notice if the guy in my ass cums or not. I just want my palace back.

This is how I die and await rebirth:

My binds fall limp against the bedding. My restraints are removed and I’m left alone. My breath slows and my body calms. Alone to feel the myriad of sensations in my shuddering body – the throb in my ass, the ache in my jaw and the ultra-sensitivity in my poor abused nipples. My feet tingle as they wake-up. I roll my wrists and look at the impression of the rope along my forearms. Alone with wet and sticky sheets. Alone with the tightness of drying cum on my skin. They didn’t even remove the wax from my back. Alone with my thoughts about lying in this sinful filth. I push my nose in the bedding and take in the lingering scent of debauchery. This is the fading evidence of my sordid secret life. I want to hold on to this for as long as I can.

I hear sounds coming down the hall and my heart skips a beat. Will I be allowed to live again so soon? Crestfallen, I realize that, no, I will not be allowed to shine right now. I’m taken in for a bath and given something to eat and drink. I’m held and whispers claim the lingering redness around my nipples. Swipes in my skin are kissed away resulting in the theft of my precious marks. Damn it! I earned those marks; let me keep them! Creams and ointments are rubbed on and in my body; it’s supposed to be soothing. “Rest” is what they call it. I call it “death.”

The next party isn’t but a few weeks away. Daily, I shall trudge through my existence – sliding from a dungeon called “home” to a prison called “cubicle.” I’ll think of the party often, but I’m confident that I won’t remember what any of them looked like. I’ll only remember the praise and my palace. I’ll remember living.

During my death, I’ll, no doubt, meet people who cannot satisfy my needs and I’ll despise the appalled look in their eyes when I tell them what I crave. They won’t understand the call of the leather. They won’t know that I need the crack of the whip to spring breath into me. They will never comprehend that the rhythm of the flogger restarts my heart.

Most assuredly, at the next party, I’ll live and live well. Perhaps if I’m real good, I’ll be granted a cock ring to prolong my time in my palace. I can only hope. Until then, I shall rest in peace.