We hadn't seen each other in months and the sexual frustration was palpable as we rushed through the airport in search of the exit for hotel shuttles. We undressed each other with our eyes and held a lengthy, silent conversation that said we each had plans for how the night would unfold; I was quite certain that our thoughts ran in similar tracks.
He'd gotten into the city before I did so he checked us into the hotel already, anticipating our mutual desperation. Thankfully, he'd had the foresight to reserve a room at the hotel nearest the airport, so ours was the first shuttle stop once we'd left the airport. Hopping off the shuttle, we tipped the driver and grabbed my bags, then rushed inside. We had the elevator to ourselves and took advantage of the opportunity to get each other pre-heated on the way up to the 8th floor. To be honest, I'm not sure if it would have mattered if we'd had to share the elevator with others, that's how badly we needed each other.
Racing down the hallway, he hurriedly unlocked the door on which he'd already hung the "Do Not Disturb" sign (I loved this man and his ability to think ahead!), then slammed it shut behind us. Not bothering to lock the door beyond its self-locking deadbolt, he pushed me toward the bed, face down. Without a word, he lifted my skirt and ripped off my panties. In the next second, I heard him unzip his pants, rip open a condom package and roll it on his massively hard cock. Less than a minute from opening the door and he was sinking his thick cock into my drenched pussy. Fully sheathed within my moist heat, he paused for just a moment to enjoy the sensation and emitted a loud growl of pleasure. And then he was moving.
This was no gentle lovemaking. It was a hard, desperate, and almost brutal fucking; in other words, just what I needed. I was just as horny as he was and for every thrust he gave me, I responded in kind. He slammed his cock deep and hard into my pussy, battering my cervix with every thrust and letting me feel his balls slapping against my engorged clitoris. I squeeze Master's cock tightly, keeping him buried deep within me as we ride each other, use each other's bodies for our mutual pleasure.
Normally, my Master is a man of extreme self-control who can fuck for a good hour before needing to release, and he'll get me off at least six or seven times before even thinking about his own orgasm. Not tonight though. I was so sure that I had plenty of time to let that first orgasm build into something of epic proportions that I wasn't even close to it when I could feel him tensing behind me. When he stiffened like that, I knew it meant that his orgasm was imminent. He thrust faster and harder, using my soaked pussy like it was little more than a living masturbation sleeve.
With a loud grunt, followed by an even louder scream of triumph, Steve thrust his final thrust and released a heavy load of cum into his condom. Pulling out of me, he tore off the condom, flipped me over, and placed his still-hard cock at my lips. "Clean it," he ordered gently. He was my Master, but his orders were usually worded gently because that's the kind of man he is.
"But I ..." I began, starting to complain that I hadn't reached orgasm yet. "You think I don't know when my slut does and doesn't cum?" he asked me, and his tone was no longer gentle. "Clean my cock like a good slut and then we'll talk."
Obediently, I cleaned his cock while my pussy and clit ached. Was he upset with me? He's never treated me like this before. I spent a couple minutes carefully cleaning his cock with my tongue, encouraged by the fact that it was only semi-flaccid. Eventually, he pulled back and tucked his cock back into his trousers, then zipped himself up and sat down on the bed next to me.
Turning toward me, he took my hands in his, looked in my eyes and asked me very quietly: "Who owns you?"
Eyes widening, I looked at him with surprise. We hadn't had this conversation in a long time and I couldn't understand why he'd be bringing it up now. I must have done something to upset him, but I had no idea what it was. "Y-you do, Master."
"That's right," he responded. "I do." His left hand still held mine, but his right hand reached for my wet pussy and grabbed it. "And whose is this?" he asked.
"Y-yours, Master," I answered nervously.
"Good girl," he said. "So far you're two for two. Let's see if you can make it three for three," he said, and suddenly I knew what was wrong. Or at least part of what was wrong. "You don't have many rules, slut, but I do expect the ones I give you to be followed. What are the rules for MY pussy?"
Lowering my head slightly, because I was too ashamed to look into his eyes, I answer: "Your pussy must always be shaved and must never be covered." The problem is, it had been a couple months since we'd seen each other and since his rules only apply when we're together ... well, I forgot.
"Good girl," he said again, a bit condescendingly. "You do know the rules, yet you chose to disregard them. That is why you will not have the opportunity to cum until tomorrow, when you will have had a chance to earn it. A slut is only entitled to what her Master allows her," he reminded me. I nodded my head and murmured an apology.
"I'm sorry, Master," I said quietly, afraid that I would begin crying at any minute. I was ashamed at having forgotten, and always hated to disappoint him. He released my other hand and patted my thigh in acceptance of my apology.
"I know you are, slut," he said, and both his words and tone were gentle again. "But it doesn't obviate your punishment." I knew that without his saying it, but hearing it made my head drop even further. "Go stand in the corner while I take my shower. We'll deal with your punishment after I've showered and then we'll start this trip with a clean slate. Deal?" I didn't really have a choice, but I nodded my head as if it weren't a rhetorical question.
"Thank you, Master," I said simply, then moved to the corner he'd indicated. I'd been sent to the corner enough times to know what he expected of me, and I would make sure I didn't fail him again tonight.
I stood in the corner with my legs spread wide, the toes of each foot touching separate walls. My shoulders were straight and my head was held high with my nose buried into the corner. My hands were crossed behind my back and holding my skirt up at my waist, leaving my ass bare.
"A little wider please, dear," he said, referring to the spread of my legs. I spread my legs wider and this forced my nose deeper into the corner. "And thrust out your hips a bit better. Mmm. Yes, just like that, my lovely slut," he said, coming closer and running a hand down my back. He rubbed his hands over my ass cheeks, tugged at the plug that was nestled between them to make sure it was secure, then slid a finger down toward my pussy. With my hips thrust out like this, he could see not only my ass but my pussy. With my legs spread wide, I could feel the cool air rushing over my clit and labia and I knew however long he spent in the shower, it would seem like much longer.
"Good girl," he cooed, rubbing his thumb over my clitoris. He stroked it fast and hard, the way I love the most, and only stopped when he knew I was seconds from orgasm. "Tut," he said, clicking his tongue. "None of that until tomorrow. Now hold your pose and I'll be right back out." This was going to be the longest I'd ever stood in the corner.
Normally, Master showers fast, but not tonight. When he returned for me after about 15 minutes, my libido had cooled, as he'd known it would. He led me from the corner toward the straight back chair at the desk. I mentally groaned, but didn't complain. I'm short, so chairs like this pose a problem for me. Standing behind the chair, Master tells me to bend over it and make myself comfortable. It's not possible to be comfortable, of course, because in order to bend over it I'm forced to stand on my tiptoes the entire time. My large breasts heave over the top of the back and my legs arch from how I have to stand. I grab hold of the sides of the chair, near its seat, and spread my legs the way I know Master wants.
"Are you comfortable, slut?" he asks me.
My head hangs low but there is nowhere for it to rest. "Yes, Master," I tell him, letting him hear the contrition that's already seeped into me, as if hoping that will encourage him to be lenient even though we both know it won't; besides, there's a secret part of me that would be disappointed if he was.
"There will be no wiggling once I start. If you wiggle, I'll add more strokes. Do you understand, little girl?" He says the same thing every time. I haven't been a little girl in a very long time but it's how he refers to me at punishment time.
"Yes, Master," I answer. "I understand." Next he'll tell me what my punishment is to be, even though I already know it.
"It will be 20 strokes for each infraction. For each stroke you don't count, you will receive another. Do you understand?" Twenty strokes! I mentally screamed. I must have hesitated too long before responding because he prodded me. "Yes, little one. I reminded you last time that if I had to punish you again for the same thing, I'd be adding an extra five to the total." I'd forgotten that too.
"Y-yes, Master," I say quietly. "Twenty strokes for wearing panties, another twenty for not shaving, and I must count them. I understand."
He held his leather belt in his right hand and gently rubbed my ass with his left for a good minute, calming me. He waited until he could tell that I was mentally prepared before he started. My Master was a kind and gentle man most of the time, but he knew how to wield a belt. When the leather first cracked against my tender skin, I wanted to flail and holler; instead, I cried out a solid "One, sir!" The next four strokes came very fast and hard, leaving me no time to think about anything other than counting out their numbers, and making sure they were loud enough that he could hear me.
But to be effective, a good punishment must be memorable. After the fifth stroke, Master paused to rub my ass, soothing out the sting a little bit. You'd think he was doing me a kindness, soothing away the sting, but really that made it worse when he picked up the belt again. He wasn't gentle, but he knew what he was doing; moreover, he knew how much I could withstand. I kept counting, not missing so much as a stroke, but by the time he got to the first set of twenty, my voice was a higher pitch than usual, which meant that I was nearly in tears. I knew that my ass was bright red and welted, and that I would bear bruises from this beating for at least a week. Still, I gripped that chair tightly and continued to count. As we moved past twenty, I remembered to begin breathing deeply. Somewhere around stroke twenty-five, the burning of my ass had become a warm glow that settled around me like a comforting friend. When the last stroke fell, I realized that I'd been crying through at least the last fifteen strokes.
Master dropped his belt to the floor, helped me stand, then led me by the hand over to the bed. He pulled me into his arms and cradled me, stroking my hair and back, dropping tender kisses on my head, and telling me what a brave, good girl I'd been. I continued to sob for many minutes, releasing all of the stress I'd been feeling for the past few months, until I finally ran out of tears. I gave a quiet hiccough, then turned my head up to look at my Master with blood-shot eyes and tear-streaked cheeks. I knew my face was blotchy, because it always is after a long cry, but he never seemed to mind. I gave him a tremulous smile and then thanked him. He never insisted on a show of gratitude after a punishment, but I always felt compelled to give it.
"Feel better now, baby?" he asked me tenderly, his voice full of love.
I gave a quick nod of my head, widened my smile, and answered, just as lovingly. "Mmm. Yes, Master."
Our vacation was off to a fabulous start.