A Sound Decision

When the plug was halfway down my cock, Mistress paused, letting me experience the sensations of being stuffed, of being helpless, of being terrified. She relaxed her grip on my impaled prick, and, under the weight of the plug, my member toppled sideways. However, Mistress stopped its fall, clutching my cock firmly in her hand again, laughing at my fear.

Tears sprang into my eyes; I couldn't help it, and my lower lip quivered.

"You're such a pussy, boy!" Mistress observed, laughing again. "Maybe I will arrange for a real man to fuck you sooner, rather than later." She gave my plugged cock a gentle shake; my organ felt heavy. "You'd like having a man's thick, hard cock up your little boy ass, wouldn't you?"

"No, Mistress!"

She squeezed my balls, and I flinched. "You will like it," she ordered. "In fact, you will love it, because I command you to enjoy it." She squeezed harder, and I moaned. "Right, boy?"

"Yes, Mistress!" I gasped.

"Pussy!" she said, spitting the word at me, as if it left a bad taste in her mouth. She continued to let the plug descend into the shaft of my flaccid penis until, at last, the instrument was fully seated. It seemed impossible to me that the plug could fit inside my cock, but it had, completely and fully, expanding the diameter of my urethra immensely. "Feel good, boy?"

I blushed as I admitted, "Yes, Mistress."

"Maybe I will make you wear it all day," she said.

Silently, I pleaded for her not to impose such discipline.

She smiled. "Maybe not. We'll see."

Of course, Mistress decided to make me wear the plug all day. The presence of the cold, rigid steel, filling my cock, made me hard several times, for long periods, and, at first, I was afraid that having an erection with the steel shank inside my penis might cause damage, but I needn't have worried, I found. The plug's smooth contours prevented any damage to my urethra, and, after an hour or so, having the rigid rod stuffing my prick felt almost natural.

Indeed, the sensation of being filled brought my excitement to a near-frenzy at times, and, inwardly, I begged Mistress for relief, although, of course, I kept my appeals to myself. Mistress probably would have refused to masturbate me, anyway, even if, in doing so, she denied me the pleasure of an actual, as opposed to a ruined, orgasm. She would have also probably forbidden me to masturbate myself.

I hadn't cum in months, and Mistress didn't seem of a mind to bring my forced chastity to an end any time soon. My cock and I would have to be satisfied with my experiencing a series of erections, although, in truth, the up-and-down, stiff-and-soft, thick-and-limp repetitions were more annoying than arousing—just as Mistress doubtlessly intended.

At bedtime—Mistress puts me to bed at 9:00 PM every night—Mistress removed the penis plug and had me kneel in front of the couch, my arms folded on the cushions and the right side of my face resting on my hands. She stood behind me, cane in hand.

"You were disrespectful to me today, boy!" Mistress charged. "You were defiant. You resisted. Now, you will pay for your insolence with a dozen strokes of the cane!"

I waited, squeezing my eyes tight, my body tense. Tears gathered behind my lids. I felt miserable, vulnerable, and helpless.

Mistress laid the cane across my buttocks, testing her aim. The long, cool length of the bamboo was familiar—I'd felt its kiss—and its fiery bite—many times, but it was no less frightening because of its familiarity. In fact, if anything, knowing the feel of the instrument made its impending use all the more alarming.

Mistress withdrew the cane.

There was a pause, which made me think that she'd lifted the implement and was about to bring it down, hard, against my ass. Instead, she let the length of bamboo touch my bottom again, drawing it across me as if it were a bow and she a violinist, about to play a beautiful solo.

The cane withdrew again.

There was another pause—

—followed, again, by a touch.

By now, I was a bundle of nerves, expecting, at any moment, a mighty stroke of the cane that, so far, had been signaled thrice, without occurring.

Mistress paused yet again. Then pain exploded in my derriere as the bamboo slashed viciously across my buttocks, and I lunged forward, against the couch.

"Keep your place, boy!" Mistress thundered.

My ass felt as if it were on fire, and my thighs were wet. I'd peed myself. Tears coursed down my cheeks, but I refrained from moaning, crying, or pleading for mercy. Any articulation, whether of word or sound, would earn an extra stroke, and twelve were plenty! I braced myself for the eleven more to come.

The cane renewed its acquaintance: a soft touch.

Followed by a long pause.

Then, another "kiss."

And another long pause.

Waiting for the next lash intensified the anguish of anticipation, as Mistress intended.

I knew her "game," but it remained effective, anyway—highly effective.

"Pull your balls down, between your thighs, boy!"

I obeyed.

The cane touched my bottom again.

Mistress paused.

Touch.

Pause.

Touch.

The tremendous slash across my buttocks caused a searing pain to flash through my bottom, igniting an inextinguishable fire within the reddening cheeks; the pain mushroomed, consuming my rear end. I trembled, my legs quaking.

"Be still, boy!" Mistress commanded.

With a gigantic act of will, I obeyed, avoiding the addition of another stroke in the series of blows my earlier indiscretions had earned me.

Without pause this time, and in rapid succession, Mistress laid three additional strokes of the bamboo upon my agonized buttocks, and, helpless to prevent the escape of the sound, I sobbed as piteously as a wounded animal.

"Congratulations, boy!" Mistress announced. "You have earned another stroke for 'speaking' out of turn."

I had endured five blows. Had I not sobbed, I would have had only seven more strokes to suffer. Because I had given utterance to my intense distress, however, I now had eight more blows to endure.

Mistress, perhaps hoping to wring another sob, or a moan, or a whimper, from me, lashed me four times, one stoke of the cane following immediately upon the previous, cutting the flesh of my backside to ribbons. I know not how, even to this day, but, by some wonder, I was able to resist crying out. I held my peace, despite the inferno that raged in my bottom. Although I could not see my inflamed buttocks, I knew, from long and painful experience, that they must be not merely red by now, but purple as well, with wide stripes across them and, perhaps, a tear or two in my bleeding flesh.

"Your endurance has progressed," Mistress observed. "Perhaps, after this—and a few dozen more canings—I shall make a man of you yet, boy."

My face was wet, with tears, saliva, and mucus, as my ass was moist with blood. As if to a lifeline, I held onto the knowledge that the eight strokes I'd had remaining had now been reduced, by Mistress' excess in administering the lashes of her cane, by half. If I refrained from moving or from crying out, I would have to endure but four more blows. Of course, the pain would persist. For hours, my buttocks would be on fire, but, at least, the beating itself would have ended.

Mistress played the waiting game again.

Touch.

Pause.

WHACK!

Pain claimed my bottom, but I made no sound and remained still, telling myself, I was a tree, insensible and rooted to the spot.

Mistress caressed my buttocks with the cane, letting it glide over my tattered cheeks, almost as if, by its touch, she sought to soothe, rather than to terrorize, me.

Be done! I urged her, but silently.

The cane withdrew.

I closed my eyes upon my tears and bit my lower lip. Hold on! I told myself. Endure!

Another brutal blow of the thin, wicked bamboo sent shock after shock of pain exploding through my ass, and I felt as if I might collapse, so excruciating was the agony.

I had two to go, just two.

There was a long pause before the cane touched my beleaguered bottom again, and I gritted my teeth, clasping my left wrist with my right hand so hard I thought I'd break it, hoping to distract myself from the pain of the next slashing blow I'd receive. I didn't think I could take even one more stroke. My reserve of strength and courage was empty; I was in despair of my ability to tolerate another blow, and I had two left to come. Two! I would cry out, or sob, or moan, and earn another, and, probably, another after that one, and yet another, until I'd been beaten unconscious and was bleeding from a score or more rips and tears to my flesh and muscle.

The pause lengthened.

Blood trickled down my ravaged buttocks.

The air felt cool upon my burning backside.

A motorcycle sped by on the street in front of Mistress' house.

Still, the cane did not fall.

The pause lengthened.

I remained motionless and silent.

But my mind whirled in terror and suspense.

The cane, at last, touched my cheeks.

I held my breath, dreading the next stroke, fearing it might kill me or drive me out of my mind.

The anticipated blow did not come.

Never had Mistress paused so long between strokes.

"I owe you two more lashes, boy," Mistress said. "However, I am offering you something else, instead of them, as you choose. You may elect to receive the remaining strokes, or you may forgo them in exchange of being butt fucked, not by me wearing a strap-on, but by the man I choose for this purpose. If you opt for the latter, you will be given a week to recover—and to heal—before submitting to sodomy by a man who will eagerly plumb the depths of your ass, as I have, today, stuffed your cock. Those are your choices: which will it be, boy?"

I swallowed, trying, through the pain in my anguished buttocks, to think. This was a new twist to Mistress' methods. She'd never given me a choice of options before, about anything. Always, she had been the one to decide what would befall me. To her, I'd always been more a thing than a person, something to be used and abused without consultation or consideration. What new game was this? I was puzzled—and apprehensive.

The cane poked my ass. "Answer me, boy!"

I shuddered, imagining a burly man repeatedly plunging his thick prick into my ass. But I shuddered more in anticipation of the remaining two strokes of the cane I had yet to receive. My striped, red-and-purple bottom was torn and tattered, and blood trickled, tickling, over the sore bruises and swollen welts. I had only two more lashes to suffer, but I had not the strength, nor the stamina, nor the courage to endure even another stroke of the bamboo if I could avoid it.

I might rue my decision a week from now, but I did not, at this moment, under my present circumstances, care. I would give up my ass to save myself from another stroke more of Mistress' cane.

"I would prefer to be fucked, Mistress," I mumbled.

"What's that, boy? Stop your sniveling, and speak up!"

"I'd rather be fucked, Mistress!"

I heard her set the cane aside, next to her collection of sounds and penis plugs.

"Get up," she ordered.

With an effort, feeling weak, and in immense pain, I rose.

"Shower," she ordered, "and then return. You will sleep with your cock stuffed tonight, with a plug, to remind you of how, a week from now, your ass will be plugged by a prick thrice the size of your own."

I shuffled from the living room to the bathroom and stood under the shower, hot needles of water pelting me inside a cloud of steam. Blood ran down my legs, across the tiles, and down the drain. I stayed under the water as long as I could, until Mistress ordered me out.

That night, my cock stuffed, I dreamed strange dreams.

None was as strange, though, as the life I live as Mistress' worthless slave.

. . . to be continued? Let me know whether you'd like more.