Ignore the Warning Label Pt. 03

I shook my head three times, making a distinctive sound with each shake. Our safety signal. All sensation immediately stopped. Malcolm undid my gag and lifted me up and forward, off my arms into a sitting position. He looked concerned but sounded calm when he asked if it was too much.

"Yes, Sir. I got really sensitive there at the end," I panted, feeling my harness press into me. It felt reassuring, somehow. Malcolm made to start untying me, but I stopped him. "No, leave it on! I'll be fine in a minute." My jaw was stiff after being gaged, my arms were aching to be stretched and I could still feel my heartbeat clearly between my legs, but I would be damned if I didn't feel Malcolm's cum!

He checked me over and seemed satisfied with the color in my limbs. "Could you feel it inside me?" I asked, nodding at the Hitachi.

"A little bit! It felt really interesting. I liked it, but I'm not sure it's very practical. It takes up a lot of room between us so I can't get very deep into you."

"Maybe if you prop me up a bit more and come at me from below?"

"Yeah, let's try that. Hang on, I'll have to adjust these lengths." He gave my leg ropes more slack so he could pile pillows under my butt, raising my hips and pussy once I'd lain back down. My arms protested at the added pressure. They were really starting to get sore, but they were the least of my worries.

"I'm ready, Sir!" I tried to sound confident. "Give me my gag back please?"

He chuckled. "You really do have a gag fetish."

"Hey! You like it too! I like the way it connects us without words. Like, I'm free to be helpless and just feel what you throw at me, but you still know exactly what's going on in my head. Just now, you were balls deep in me, but you still reacted to me in less than a second." Just before he slipped it back into my mouth, I added less confidently, "could you maybe ease me into it a little, Sir?"

"Of course." He leaned over me, letting his hard cock rest against my mound, settling himself so his arms supported most of his weight but some rested on me. "Breathe with me."

He took a slow, deep breath in, expanding his chest against mine. I love connecting with him like this. Synchronizing our breathing happened naturally when we cuddled and slept together and doing it now had the calming effect of putting me into that relaxed mindset. Deeper, slower breaths, his reassuring eyes inches from mine. Seconds stretched on to minutes and my mind quieted. Thought seemed to sort of float away, leaving nothing but those two eyes and the ebb and flow we shared.

The one part of being gagged that sucks is that I can't kiss him.

"Devyn... My love," he let the words roll around his mouth like he was sampling a fine wine. He clearly liked the taste! "I don't think I'll ever get tired of saying that."

'Good, because I'm never going to get tired of hearing it.'

I melted. My cares and concerns seemed to dwindle away to nothing. I felt lighter, freer, able to take anything. He ran his finger over my lips, circling around the ball of my gag while he eased himself back. I didn't need to say anything, he could see the love and adoration clearly in me. It was written in the way I tried to nuzzle against his hand, in the safe comfort I felt while smothered and bound by him and in the joy in my eyes.

The connection got more intense when he penetrated me again. Despite the time cooling down, Malcolm was still as hard as a baseball bat, and he felt about as thick pushing into my still hyper sensitive pussy. "Focus on me, my love. Keep breathing with me and watch my eyes." He groaned softly and throbbed hard inside me. "You see what you do to me? God, you feel so fucking good."

It was hard spare any focus away from my cunt. I wanted to revel in the pleasure of him, enjoy feeling him throb and pulse and spread me apart. It felt so sweet! With my hips raised like this, he pushed into me from below, thrusting against the roof of my pussy and right into my g-spot. I thought I was all orgasmed out, but I felt myself raising towards yet another one.

"I want more from you," Malcolm continued between thrusts and pants. "I want from you what you will only give to me. I want you to suffer for me and I want you to be strong for me."

It was what I wanted too, and we both knew it. The way he said it, it sounded like it was only one way. I gave and he took. But that isn't it at all. He gave me just as much. He gave me his dominance, his sadism, his passion and his joy, his love and his affection. The parts of Malcolm that made him quintessentially himself. All he asked in return was Devyn - the parts of me that made me myself.

I nodded firmly towards the Hitachi and he beamed.

Suffering for him sounds great and noble in principle. In practice, it's fucking suffering! The Hitachi assaulted my clit like a jackhammer, seeming to rip through my whole body into my brain. It was a mind fuck because it still felt good! Fuck, it felt fantastic! Malcolm hitting my g-spot, my clit being pleasured to within an inch of her life, my cunt so sensitive that I could feel every millimeter of his cock deep inside me! At the same time, it was pure torture. I was so overly sensitive, merely crossing my legs or putting on panties would have been uncomfortable. If it was for myself, I would have stopped a long time ago.

But it wasn't just for me. It was for both of us, and Malcolm was a vision of pleasure. I focused on him taking his pleasure from me, loving that I could make his face contort and his breath go ragged like that.

A strange thing happens when I reach points like this. It had happened a few times so far. I got a small taste of it my first spanking scene and it got deeper and more frequent as our play got more intense. It was slow in taking me, a gradual process of ironing away any pain, stress or negativity I felt in my life. Little ripples of peace beginning when our scenes start and I think of Malcolm as Sir, which grow stronger as he floods me with intense pleasure, pain and emotions. The ripples add up and eventually I cross a threshold. If I've said Malcolm makes me feel like I'm melting inside, this is what happens when the last of me melts away to nothing.

It feels like I get physically and mentally lighter. As light as a feather. I float on a warm fluffy cloud, basking in sun that is Malcolm. I'm not numb, I feel pleasure and pain both, but negativity just doesn't seem to matter and pleasure adds to my warm contentedness.

It's subspace. It's a chemical response to my body being intensely stressed, releasing hormones that approximate to a morphine high. When I was going through Malcolm's required reading list before our first session, I was frustrated that nobody could describe it without resorting to vague metaphors. Now I understand. I've been there many times, but I can't do any better.

All I'll say is that subspace is one hell of a fantastic drug.

I dropped back limply into the ropes, no longer fighting the Hitachi at all, settling into the languorous blissful state of subspace. It was a distinct physical shift for me, my muscles all relaxed at once and Malcolm took notice. In a way, it's the absolute peak of trust. I'm not sure how it is for others, but when I reach this place, I'm basically incapable of safewording. Hell, I can't even tell if I'm being injured, pain just kind of rolls off me. It's completely up to Malcolm to keep me safe.

Receiving that trust had an electrifying effect on him. Any self-control he had on his thrusting pace left him and he absolutely plowed into me as hard as he could while keeping the Hitachi firmly in place.

'I did that to him,' I dimly rejoiced. 'I gave him so much pleasure that my mighty Dom lost his vaunted self-control!' He didn't last very long after that. He collapsed forward onto me, supporting himself with a pleasantly crushing hand on my breast as he shuddered in erotic passion. Convulsions wracked his legs and abdomen and he thrust as deep as he could into me.

There's something magical about Malcolm cumming in me. My mouth, my pussy, onto my tits, doesn't matter. It's satisfying in a way that my own orgasms can never be. That cum is the physical manifestation of his pleasure. The hot, sticky white proof that my body and efforts bring him ecstasy. 'Basically, I'm a cumslut and I'm fucking proud of it!'

Malcolm came into me HARD. All the tension and urgency left him, pouring out one huge spurt at a time from his cock into my pussy. His whole body seemed to sigh, his face relaxed and he lay fully down on top of me. It was a beautiful transformation, like a rainbow coming out after a storm. From my hormone flooded subspace floating amongst the clouds, I didn't notice his weight crushing my arms or the Hitachi trapped between us. I just felt Sir covering me like a blanket, and I loved it.

He came back to himself much sooner than I did. My ropes were carefully undone while I drifted back down to Earth. It's probably a testament to how much strain my arms and shoulders had been under that stretching them out hit me as hard as it did. Malcolm's massage could only help so much and I groaned in protest. After getting used to it, being able to move again felt weird.

I didn't notice him taking pictures, and it showed. I looked completely dead to the world laying back spread eagled on my bed. Red lines coiled my breasts, shoulders, chest, arms and legs. Cum dripped out from my very red, very engorged pussy, making me look as thoroughly fucked as I felt.

Malcolm never left my side. I don't really like it about myself, but we'd both noticed that I became insanely clingy after a hard scene, especially when I drop into subspace. I need to feel his attention and his touch. It's totally irrational, but I'll start feeling lonely even if Malcolm goes to the bathroom for 30 seconds. I hate being needy, but Malcolm never let me get down on myself for it. He told me that aftercare is the single most important thing a Dom needs to be ready to give their sub, and wanting to cuddle is very normal.

He spread some kind of lotion over the red rope marks on my skin. Cool and moist to the touch, probably to help healing.

"Hey! I wanna keep those," I playfully tried to bat his hands away. One of our running jokes is that I like my marks so much that I'd stop my body healing if I could. He just chuckled and kept going.

After a big glass of water and a wipe down of my intimate parts, I had more or less returned to Earth again from the clouds. We lay together under the covers with our legs entwined and his arm around me going over the scene.

"I was surprised you stayed hard after I safeworded. I was afraid it would be a buzzkill for you."

"Oh? Why would you think that?"

"Well, most guys don't like it when they have to stop fucking their girlfriends to placate her neediness." I thought he would tell me that needing a break from having a Hitachi pressed to my clit didn't justify "neediness." Instead, after some thought, he explained:

"Some people think of sex as a payoff. Everything leading up to sex is effort and work. It's different for me with you. Caring for you isn't a chore I need to do to reach the payoff of an orgasm. Caring for you is the payoff." He chuckled and lightly pinched my nipple, "which isn't to say that the sex isn't fantastic for me! I guess it's just a Dom thing. Controlling you is a package deal, and caring for your needs is part of it along with the ropes and spanking and edging. All of it turns me on."

'I'm pretty sure that isn't just standard Dom. That's you being the best boyfriend I've ever had.' There was only one thing I could say to that. "I love you."

"I love you too."

-----

The train ride back to Manhattan was the perfect length. Long enough for Vivian to get a few lines done on the scarf she was knitting, but short enough to feel easy. She flew through the stitches on autopilot, keeping count as instinctually as breathing.

She'd learned to knit from her mother when she was very young. It was one of the few things she'd had the chance to learn from her mother, since she'd lost a battle against cancer shortly after that. Vivian sometimes wondered what her mother would think of her life. Maybe if she had lived, she might have had a more balanced childhood and her father wouldn't have been quite so overbearing.

Vivian's father loved her and Susan with all his heart. He wanted to set them up to have the best life possible, and he nearly killed himself working multiple jobs to support their education. However, he had some old fashion views. The sisters still laughed remembering how he'd seen no irony decreeing "No dating until after you're married!"

Well, it was funny in retrospect. Not so much at the time. So much of their childhoods had been stereotypically Asian, from their enforced studying regiments to their rice-based diets, it was important to find some comedy. She sometimes worried that she was still stuck in the stereotype. Both she and Susan sought out relationships where they were submissive to men. Surely that couldn't be a coincidence? Was it genetic? Cultural? How much of her identity was her own, independent of the pressures of the world?

But that got to an existential debate that ran around in circles. She was happy with her life now, so what did it really matter?

Vivian had been raised to be a productive and respectable member of society. Dress and act appropriately, work hard, always be mindful of others. To all outward appearances, she was. This was the version of herself that her friends and coworkers saw. However, there was another half of her. A part of herself that was both her joy and shame. The part that wanted to be nothing more than a dirty slut.

She wasn't one of those people who look back at their lives and wonder where the crossroads had been. Her dark side had been born out of three key discoveries on the path of her life.

The first one was the most amazing and wonderful discovery most people make in their entire lives. Vivian's first orgasm was actually somewhat embarrassing. Kids at school were joking about something she didn't understand, so she asked google what "jerking off" was.

In her young mind, she thought orgasms must be the meaning of life. How could it possibly get any better? She must have been put on this world in order to enjoy as many orgasms as possible.

As amazing as it felt, there were two problems. The first was that she had never been very good at moderation in anything. Once she focused in on something, she couldn't stop until she had exhausted herself. It was something that her father and teachers actually encouraged in her because it translated into long focused study sessions.

The second problem was that it was dirty. Undeniably dirty, never mind what some people said about it being natural. If it was natural, why did everybody wear clothes to cover those areas up? Why was it taboo to touch oneself there in front of others? Why did every porno she watched involve the woman getting called a bitch, whore, slut, bad girl, or any of a dozen other insults? Everything about it was dirty, from the bodily fluids that soiled her panties when she did it, to the societal judgments against women who enjoyed it.

Feeling like she was doing something dirty made it feel that much better to her. She couldn't stop doing it. From the first time on, she never missed a day. She fell asleep with her hand in her pajamas and wake up to do it again. Masturbation was her principle vice for years until she reached Sophomore year at the University of Connecticut.

That's when she discovered Tinder.

It's worth noting that she wasn't a virgin when she downloaded the Tinder app. Her first sexual experience was... well, not really anything exciting. He'd been such a nice boy that even her father had approved of him taking her to the prom. He'd fondled her over her bra, cum in his condom, driven her home and that was it. Talk about disappointing!

Tinder was different. It was emotionless, industrialized sex. Choose your partner, meet him, fuck him, on to the next one. She used condoms with everybody she hooked up with, but that was the only claim she could make to keeping one small part of it all clean. Her partners called her a slut. Her room mate called her a slut. The few close friends she opened up to called her a slut. She even called herself a slut on her own Tinder profile.

Her father had slaved for years to send her to college. She was meant to be studying, learning, getting ahead in life. Instead, she barely kept up with her homework and spent most of her nights in a strange man's bed. It was an addiction. No matter how much guilt and self-loathing she felt, she couldn't seem to break out of it.

She wasn't sure she even wanted to. Partially, Vivian hated herself for being a sex obsessed whore. But other parts of her loved every second of it, exactly because it was dirty.

It was Susan who set her on the path to balance. Or rather, it was Susan's boyfriend Dean. Dean set her up on a blind date with somebody she would come to know as Master Michael.

She smiled at the memory, her yarn all but forgotten as it flew through her fingers. She didn't find out about the BDSM aspect of her sister's relationship with Dean for another year after that. In retrospect, she imagined Dean and Michael must have been laughing themselves silly at how the two outwardly proper sisters hid the dirty sides of themselves from each other.

Master Michael didn't do anything sexual with her on their first date. Quite the reverse, he made her cry. She was drunk, she was horny, and as soon as they were alone, she basically assaulted him trying to get into his pants. He was amused, effortlessly deflecting her. Thoughtlessly, he made a comment about her being easy. It burst some kind of damn that had been holding back the conflicting parts inside her, and she'd broken down into tears.

To his credit, Master Michael had taken it well. He'd calmed her down, overridden her stream of "it's nothing"-s, and Vivian had found herself spilling her guts to this relative stranger.

He listened, and when she was done he asked: "you look at your sexuality like it's something to be ashamed of. Why do you feel that way?"

The question brought her up short. It was something she'd never really questioned. It was always a given. A basic rule of the world, like gravity pulling things downward and triangles having three sides and three angles.

"My friends, my room mate, they all say -"

"All women?" Vivian nodded and Michael chuckled, "Jealous. All of them wish they could have as much sex as you do."

"It isn't just them! It's the men I sleep with too!"

"How many of the men you swipe right on Tinder do you get matched with?"

Vivian tried to remember, but was in no state to do math. "Most of them?"

"Exactly. Do you know what it is for guys? Around five percent. Maybe ten percent if he's really hot." He put his arm around her and wiped her eyes for her. "Those guys are half jealous of how easy it is for you to get laid and half thrilled to be with you. You make them happy, and they can't help but love you for it."

He smiled at her reassuringly. Vivian hung on his words, willing herself to believe them. "All you're doing is what makes you feel good. Doing it makes your partners feel good. What could be so bad about that? The truth is that sex is like money. Everybody wants it, and everybody hates you if you have more of it than they do."

"But I still feel awful all the time!" Vivian protested.

"Of course you do. Your problem is that you have no discipline. You're letting everything else in your life fail." He drew himself up next to her, seeming taller and more authoritative. "I can hep you with that, if you'd like."