Hooded, Teased, and Beaten

When I arrived he was at the door at once, spinning me around, taking my bag from me wordlessly at first, then ordering me to remove my shoes but to stay there. I obeyed. I was standing again as he came back and wrapped a powerful arm around me, gripping my throat tightly and pulling me back against his huge, solid body. That's when I noticed the mirror.

He had hung a mirror on the door I had come through, and for the first time from the third person I finally got a literally breathtaking look at his hands on me, the delicious contrast of his rich black skin against my pallor as he groped roughly at both my breasts just for a second before returning one hand to my neck to raise the pitch of my whimpering. Had I ever seen such a man? Had I ever felt controlled as he could control me? My eyes so often blinded, or cast down awaiting his command, to see, to look at him like this felt almost brazen.

All too soon though my gaze was forced upwards as he pulled my head back. I felt my hair being gathered and tugged through something, then the darkness came as he pulled the full hood down over my eyes. He tugged and adjusted until my face was completely covered and the hood positioned to his liking, and then he returned to ravishing my body.

Time ceased to matter. This hood was tighter and darker than the ones he had used before and in the almost total darkness what he had done sank into my mind like a pleasant sensation of ice. Its shock was arresting but tantalizing, dripping and teasing. How the scene in the mirror must look to him now: this hooded, faceless, female body held helpless to his whim against his bare and muscular chest, utterly unable to resist.

What twisted wires must be in the brain to register such an image, how frightening it ought to be, and, knowing the truth of my safety with him, to call up that fear to harvest the electric shock, quickening my pulse, heightening my nerves. What are we, creatures, that this happens in us?

The adrenaline alone allows for that thought to even register in the split second, as any other pseudo-thoughts that follow. That strange mind place, that black place that understands the unspoken intention of every gesture and yet is devoid of thought. This delicious half-awareness melts me. I am reeling. I am his plaything.

I am ruled by his hands on my flesh and I feel one drop suddenly to part my flowing split leg skirt and hook hard against my pussy through my panties, making me cry out and squirm my small body even harder against him, searching for the sensation of his bulging cock.

But then his other arm releases me. He uses his torturous hand on my pussy to direct my movements, walking me backward into the room. I go as he wishes but I can feel myself beginning to tremble against his hand. How can it be happening again so fast? Just as he did the last time he had me, he seems to use precise pressure against my warming pussy, just pressure but in this heightened state I'm breaking I can't walk oh god--"I can't st-" I try breathlessly to tell him, "Sir I can't stand--Sir! Sir I'm--" screaming now and gripping senselessly at his shoulders as I cum on his hand, on his hand that isn't even moving, desperate for the press of his fingers against my entrance, sinking slowly in his steadying grip to the floor as my knees buckle and the last shred of control is stripped away.

I breathe only to scream again. How long will he keep me like this? He hasn't lingered like this before. I feel the pressure ease for a moment but have not even begun to try to rise to a proper kneel when he moves further up my panties to circle, god to start circling my clit and then petting, petting down to my pussy and back up again and I practically howl as my legs splay further of their own accord. "Sir it's so sensitive Sir I can't sto--I can't st--Sir until you--oh god Sir I can't stop I can't!" The words are weak and breathless between the screams. I am no longer human. Beyond thought, beyond shame I cum and scream and grind against his hand, unable to take any more and unable to live without, my thoughtless, shameless animal hips thrust my hungry pussy towards his hand until my whole body is on the ground.

I am almost beyond awareness when he takes his hand away. "Stay right there. Don't move." As if movement were still an option for me. I am prone, my legs bent and splayed open under me, my arms and hands barely finding the will to bend and cradle my head. I do not even try to follow his movements with my ears.

Time will not exist again until he is done with me. There is nothing except my panting and my sweetly aching pussy until he is kneeling over me again and I feel him wrap something thick and long around my neck. He begins to gently raise me to all fours and turn me, leading me under the frame I hope so much he will tie me to. But for now he removes the makeshift leash and pushes me down by the tops of my shoulders, pressing my face down, keeping my ass up and spreading me open with his knees. My insatiable pussy is practically humming as he grabs my hips and presses me against him, slowly but firmly forcing me to feel his already hard cock through the fabrics between us. My wishful traitorous mind flashes an image, the head of that monstrous cock threatening my small, starving pussy, and my whimpering turns almost to sobs. "Sir this is torture! Sir please, my pussy! My slutty fucking pussy needs it so bad!"

But I know somewhere in me that he will not fuck me yet. Not today. Not even if he is so generous as to make me cum for that long. I know he will torment me with it and I could almost curse my subservience that I do not spin and attack and take it into me. But what if he would not be angry? He can so easily overpower me. Maybe just to feel him put me in my place but god the very thought slows my sparking resolve as the image of him catching me in his powerful hands and forcing me back down melts my pussy and--suddenly he pulls away from me.

I almost whimper the loss but then. It begins. WHACK! A blow from one of his many implements on my left ass cheek sends a small scream from me. I cannot see what it is but it feels small and lightish compared to what I know will come. A flogger maybe? Not a crop. WHACK! The evening stroke on the right cheek stills my thoughts. This. The pain. This is the part that makes me truly aware of how long it's been. WHACK! Explosive streaks of liquid neon paint the blackness in my mind. WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! Faster, harder, and seemingly always, maddening in the precision of it, right to the edge. The tiny rational observer in my mind asking its millisecond question: "is this too much?" just before he stops and lets the pain bloom across my flesh and the true waves begin, spreading from the stripe on my asscheeks where he strikes me across all of my skin, rippling through my entire form, through my miswired brain and into my pussy. I can feel how wet I am. If he touches me again once he's through with my ass I know he'll find my panties soaked. But do I dare hope for such a thing?

He changes toys. Something fully rigid now, solid. A wooden paddle, I can feel it in its short, solid connection. But he doesn't hit too hard for very long this time. Now he moves down to my thighs and lightens the strokes, speeding them up into a regular rhythm, one thigh and then the other, again and again. I'm somehow able to think about the fact that with any other toy, this would be too light, too fast, and I would long for the space in between to savor the impact. But in his hand the heft of this paddle is such that the speed is perfect, each blow eclipsing the next in rings of light against my closed and hooded eyes.

When he gets up again I am panting, my hips squirming to advertise my flooding pussy. My hands make clawing motions in the carpet and I rest my lowered head there in delicious anticipation. Will he use the wand on me? I listen but my swimming head can barely register my environment and then--WHAM! The hardest, most painful single blow I have felt in all our sessions sends me forward onto the carpet, my scream half darkened and rough in my throat. I wonder another second if I will be forced to beg mercy if he hits me many times with this one, but again he seems to know. He waits longer still this time as I pant and groan and--there. The bloom. The waves of this pain are more intense and more beautiful than ever before, and the iridescent blackness shines pure euphoria through my entire body. My sounds are senseless as I raise my ass and thank him and he lands another blow and another. Somewhere in me I hope I remember to ask him what he's hitting me with now, sensing the instrument of my release. Again I sprawl in the shock of the pain but I am deep in the waves now, powerless against the tears streaming under the mask, but free, too, of all shame, free of everything in this hurricane eye of catharsis, I thank him and I beg him for more and the pleasure pain continues to wrap around every inch of my body, wringing me until everything is yielded up. This, this impossible cathartic euphoria is how I KNOW that I am where I must be now, that THIS is what I want, what I so desperately need. The innermost door. The neural floodgates, opened, streaming paths of light in every imaginable and unimaginable color through my entire being. Here I am again, at last. How I hope he can see it, can hear in my wailing, half-sobbing, ecstatic screams, what he has done for me.

As the blows subside and the tide begins to ebb, I am weightless. I am not sure if I ever had eyes or ever needed them. My limbs, the slack, forgotten appendages of a bygone era that was mere minutes ago. I exist in the blackness beyond all conception of any universe or plane or dimension. My sparkling nerves are the primordial rain. My mind is the dark river.