Inevitable

He walked into the room and saw me sitting quietly, reading a magazine, curled up in an old football jersey, his collar wound and buckled about my neck. He looked at me with hard dark eyes and told me to come into the bedroom. I watched him walk smoothly across the floor, his body muscular and graceful as he disappeared through the doorway. I took a deep breath, suddenly worried about my looks, checked the mirror, pulled off my shirt, and padded barefoot across the carpet into the room where he waited.

My new master stood near the wall, calmly looking me over. He wore a tight undershirt and jeans, the fine ribbing of the white cotton hugging the muscles of his chest and stomach, baring his arms, toned, scarred, brown. He looked relaxed, his stance wide. He barely smiled as I approached, and I stood before him, already shivering, looking, against my better judgment, into his face for reassurance. Finding none, I knelt on the floor in a position familiar from past training, with my back straight, sitting on crossed ankles, hands on thighs, eyes downcast.

He touched the back of my neck softly, the first vertebra below my collar, and I shivered. "Get down," he said quietly. I bent over at the waist, wrists crossed on the floor under my forehead.

"You will call me Sir; do you understand?"

"Yes, Sir," I replied in a low voice.

"You will ask permission before you speak; do you understand?"

"Yes, Sir."

"When I tell you to get something for me, you will present it to me using both hands, with your eyes down; do you understand?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Do you remember my safeword?"

"Yes, Sir," I said again, afraid, but trusting his calm, strong voice.

"Up," he said, and I sat back on my heels, eyes down, looking at my hands.

He ran his fingers through my short blue hair. He grasped it at my nape for a second, bringing me toward his cock, bulging in his jeans, level with my face. He let go of me and unzipped his pants. His strong fingers pulled me gently to him, and I parted my lips and swallowed as much of his cock as I could as he slid it into my mouth. More and more of the hard flesh passed my waiting lips, sliding along the slippery surface of my tongue. I opened my throat as best I could, trying to accept it all; I fought not to gag. I wanted to please him. He pushed my limits, fucking my mouth, his hand on the back of my head. He pulled back a little and I felt the smooth skin of the head, brushing the ridge below with my tongue ring. He sighed and I was encouraged, taking his cock into my throat again, as much as I could, swallowing around the head, my wet tongue running up and down the skin. All of a sudden, he pulled me away forcefully. I held my breath: had I done it wrong?

"Stand," he said softly. I stood, my back straight, head down. "Get my riding crop," he commanded, his words clipped.

I walked across the room, picked up the crop from the windowsill, and gave it to him as he had said, extending it to him in both hands, looking at the floor.

"Good," he said. "Now get back down. All the way."

I knelt and bent forward, my head resting on my crossed wrists. He crouched beside me, stroking my bare back softly with the crop. My nipples got harder.

"When you are being punished, you will count the strokes aloud, as such: 'one, Sir-two, Sir;' do you understand?"

"Yes, Sir," I whispered, afraid.

"When I called you into the bedroom, you delayed before obeying me. Do you understand that you are being punished?"

"Yes, Sir," I said.

I heard the rushing sound of the crop before it struck me, and I gasped at the force of the first blow, more in surprise than in pain. He hit me again, harder, and I whimpered, unused to the sting of the crop.

"Why aren't you counting the strokes?" he demanded, his voice sharp.

"I'm sorry, Sir," I said, unable to keep the pleading note from my voice.

Again the crop came down on my back, faster than before. "Three, Sir," I said.

He hit my back, my ass, my shoulder blades; the blows came quick and hard, and I counted each one, quietly, my hands curling into fists. At ten he stopped, ran the crop down my back. "Good," he said, and I relaxed, flattening my palms onto the floor again.

"Two days ago," he said softly, "you walked through five doors in front of me while you were wearing my collar. Do you understand that you are being punished?"

"Yes, Sir," I replied, berating myself silently for such a thoughtless mistake.

The tip of the riding crop caressed my bare back again, and I braced myself for the sting. When he hit me I gasped, "one, Sir," trying not to cry; I didn't know a little crop could hurt so much. It came down hard on the soft part of my ass, where the skin already stung. Tears leaked from my eyes. Again I counted ten strokes, and as he stopped I began to feel as though I could sink into the floor, wanting only to please him. I breathed deeply, calming myself, and became aware all at once of my hard nipples, my wet cunt, and the hot aching of my skin.

"Up," he said, and I rose from the floor, straightened my back, still on my knees. He touched my hair gently, soothingly, and I leaned my cheek against his leg. "My good slave," he murmured. "You'll make me proud."

"Now stand," came his voice, and when I stood before him, he slipped my underwear off and led me to his bed. Under the guidance of his hands, I lay down on the white sheet on my back, my sore flesh cooled by the fabric. He ran his strong, broad hand down my chest to my stomach, and sat on the end of the bed, spreading my legs and barely touching my labia. I arched my back, feeling his fingers intensely, a trickle of wet staining the bed. He smiled. "You're dripping."

I closed my eyes, ashamed of how I had reacted to punishment. He touched me more firmly, rubbing the wetness over my cunt, and slipped one finger inside me. I cried out, my hands grasping the sheets, trying to stay silent as I remembered the pain that had ended not five minutes before. He brushed a wet finger over my clit, light as snow, a tease. I wanted to beg him to touch me. I looked over my small breasts at my stomach, muscles contracted, every fiber tense; I looked at his hand, his strong forearm; I didn't raise my eyes to meet his. He withdrew his finger achingly slowly, and I bit my lip hard.

"What do you want, slave?" he said, kneeling between my legs. I could feel his steady breath on my clit, and all I wanted in the world was for him to have me, have whatever he wanted, but I didn't dare speak. I closed my eyes tight and breathed "please," not even sure what I was asking for. He laughed quietly and kissed my cunt, making me shudder. He licked my labia, his tongue flicking up over my hood, and I tried to stay still as he held me down with one hand, his fingers firm around my hipbone. One finger slipped inside me again and agonizingly slowly circled the soft tissue, reaching the perfect place and pressing gently, his tongue on my clit. I pushed my hands flat onto the bed, tasting blood in my mouth as I bit my lower lip, finally gave in and whispered, "please, Sir..."

He knew my body better than I did. He held me still, a possessive hand on my ass, his tongue in all the right places, fingers pushing insistently upward, and suddenly I crumbled, my cunt contracting around his hand. His tongue moved to the hood of my clit, touching me gently, and I felt the orgasm in every part of my body for seconds, minutes, until he slowly pulled his fingers away and uncoiled his body from between my legs.

I reached up to him, encircled his back with my arms, taking in with my eyes his soft tan skin, his muscles, his dark hard nipples. He slipped inside me and his cock felt perfect, a relief, a reprieve. My tight cunt could barely take the width, and I gasped as he moved it all the way into me: it filled me better than anyone else ever could. I rocked beneath him, my hands running over his back, triceps standing out in his arms as he lay above me, my fingers touching his shoulders, his throat. I glanced at his face and saw that he was looking down at me, his deep brown eyes fiery behind soft lashes.

"Please, Sir," I whispered, feeling that I was about to cry, or come, or dissolve.

"Do you want to feel your master come inside you?" he demanded.

I felt a lump rise in my throat, tears blurring my vision. "Yes-please, Sir," I gasped, begging now in earnest; I wanted nothing more than to feel him come.

"Look at me," he hissed, and I looked into his face, my eyes wide, locked with his. He thrust his cock into me hard and I clutched his back. He began to come and as I felt him fuck me harder and harder I came again, with him, sobbing, the walls of my cunt tightening on his shaft. I felt him wet inside me, viscous liquid filling me, slippery and hot. He kissed my face, kissed my eyelids, my lips, and relaxed his body onto mine, his cheek resting in the hollow beneath my collarbone. "My good slave," he said softly, "you did well."