Her Secret Desires Pt. 01

Part 1. Saved by the Bell

*

I am here, yet again, tied to this bed. His bed. I lost count of how many times we've done this after the sixth time. The thing is... I'm here because a part of me wants to be. The pain and humiliation unlock a part of myself that I didn't know I had. Kinda like chakras, or something like that.

"Stay still, nigger," he growls, as I wriggle and withe on the bed. It's because the rope tying my wrists to the bed head is so fucking itchy, and I know that the asshole makes it that way on purpose. Even in my discomfort, though, hearing him call me that makes my clit swell so much, it hurts.

"It itches, master," I groan loudly.

He looks down at me, his baby blues seeming to stare into my soul. He grins lazily at me.

"I know," he responds. "It's one of the only ways I know how to torture you." He isn't wrong. I enjoy pain, so he's had to get a little bit creative with my punishments, or when, like now, he just wants to torture me. I hate itchiness. It's something he discovered when he saw me tear the tag off of one of my blouses because it kept annoying me, and since then, he has been using itchy ropes to torture me, or every time he punishes me, or like now, just for fun.

"Phil— Master! I mean master," I correct, when he raises one brow at me, "can you use different ropes? Please?"

"I don't know, can I?" he asks, before chuckling. I want to swear at him, tell him to go fuck himself, but I'm not really in a position to run my mouth at the moment. "Tell you what," he says, looking down at me, "if you're a good nigger, I might consider it. Might."

I groan to myself loudly. That makes him laugh.

"You can always safeword if it gets too much, Camilla," he reminds me.

"Yes, master." He stands up, and rests one of the pillows on my face, so that I can't see. I can hear him, though, walking around the room, picking up his belt. My pussy throbs in excitement, and I hear the whooshing of the belt before it comes down hard on my tummy.

"Fuck!" I cry out. "Thank you, master." We always had a BDSM relationship, but about three months ago, we tried race play for the first time. And both loved it.

"Bend your knees and spread your legs like a good whore," he tells me. I comply almost immediately, both out of horniness, and out of desire for him to change the ropes on my wrists. The belt comes down on my pussy, not too hard, but hard enough to sting a little. I groan a little bit, and when he hits me again, I realise that he's going to make me come.

"Master, you're going to make me come," I tell him, my mouth muffled by the pillow. He hits me again.

"Did I give you permission, nigger?" he asks me."

"No, Master, but—"

"Then don't come," he tells me, hitting me again.

"Please," I beg. "I can't help it! You know I can't help it, Phil!" There is a pause, before he hits my pussy hard.

"Fuck! Master, I mean master."

"You really don't want me to change those ropes, do you, nigger?" he asks.

"Yes! I do, I swear I do, but I forgot, okay?"

He sighs deeply.

"You're such a naughty nigger sometimes," he tells me. Even outside of this, I give him trouble. My stubbornness gets me into trouble with him all the time. "Do not come," he instructs me, before pressing and running my clit in exactly the way that he knows will make me come. He wants me to disobey him so that he'll have more of an excuse to punish me. And even after fighting it, I come. I come so hard my back arches, and he tsks in disapproval.

"You've been bad, Camilla," he tells me, and I feel my anger boil inside me. I hate it when he makes me disobey him, because me not being able to hold back orgasms as well as other girls has always been an insecurity of mine.

I lose my temper.

"Fuck you!" I say loudly. He stops, and removes the pillow. His blue eyes are glaring down at me, all traces of playfulness now gone.

"Excuse me?"

"You know exactly what you're fucking doing, Philip."

He slaps my breast harshly, and it's so fucking hot. But I'm mad at him. I don't want to do this anymore.

"That doesn't mean that—"

"Red," I say. He looks at me in surprise, before going to untie me. I've never safe worded before, but this time, I just need to get away from him. I move to get up as soon as he unties me, but he grabs my arm.

"We need to talk," he says to me.

"No," I say, "we don't." I have a habit of crying whenever I get too emotional, and I'm not cute when I cry. So I'd rather not go there with him right now. And luckily, before he can say anything else, the doorbell rings. But from looking at him, I can tell that he hasn't let this go. He's going to bring this up again, later. Hopefully, I'll be more composed by then.