Suffer In Silence

Melissa knew he was there, watching her, but it didn't matter; he had given her explicit instructions and she would not fail him. Even though she could not see him from her desk, she could feel his eyes on her, as though he were inside her head, sensing her, knowing her. She allowed her vision to take in the normal activities of the office as she embraced the sensations he had given her, grateful for how well he knew her, used her, controlled her. It was always that way with him; he knew her better than she did herself, knew what she needed before she did, gave her what she needed to survive the day. Only after she had received his instructions could she fully appreciate how much she needed him, needed his commands. Without him she was lost, aimlessly adrift. He gave her purpose, a reason to be.

There was no adjustment she could make to her position in her chair that would ease the pain. Later, at home, she would see herself in the mirror, staring endlessly at the angry red welts and bruising on her back and legs and ass. They would last for days, she knew, this had been the hardest he had ever used her. The strap had been thick, he had made her see it, kiss it, smell the leather; he had rubbed it against her face. And then, as he had so many times before, he had taken her pants down. He had told her to come in early today, so he could administer this thorough treatment before the rest of the staff arrived. Despite the quiet office he had gagged her, and she had known this one would be different.

In the past it had been after work, sometimes at his house; mostly at her own apartment. He would order her to strip off her pants, and he would tell her how worthless she was, how little value she had other than as an outlet for his punishment. The words would comfort her, console her, confirming her belief that she was nothing without him, that she was fortunate that he had selected her, and no one else. He gave her empty life meaning. Each stroke of the belt reaffirmed her value, and she counted her blessing with the strokes, and she would feel her value in the pain she felt.

But today he had done it in the morning, here, where they worked. When he had told her she had shuddered with the humiliation and anticipation, knowing that her co-workers would surround her as she suffered the results of her submission. They will know, she thought, they will all know. And as if it were not enough having to suffer at her desk, amid the seemingly normal environment of the weekday office, reliving the pain as she sat on her wounded flesh, he had given her the final instructions that would insure her public humiliation.

And he had given her such a good beating this morning, the most severe she had ever endured. Harder and more thorough, lasting long past her prior limits, long past her ability to count, her body passed through pain, through agony, into serenity and bliss. And still he rained the blows down on her, giving her worth, making her The One. She had cried and screamed until she had no breath, and then only sighed, and finally swooned. When he finally stopped she was bathed in sweat, and then he had traced his fingers along the lumps and lines of her wounds. She felt each touch as a lit match on her inflamed skin, and revelled in his caresses as he illustrated his marks. And finally, finally, his fingers found their way to her weeping, swollen cunt, her worthless hole, good for nothing but his pleasure, and his fingers had stimulated her, brushing against her welts as he rubbed her clit, and when he shoved two wet fingers into her ass she had exploded in orgasm.

All for him. Without him, she was nothing.

Sitting still was impossible, but no amount of wriggling or adjustment eased the pain. Her skin was on fire inside her clothes, she could feel the deep bruising in her muscles fighting for attention with the inflamed and throbbing welts, pulsing with her heartbeats as one giant exposed wound. She could barely breathe, so intense was her pain, and she struggled to appear normal in front of the office staff.

But she knew it was not to be, not today. No, today they would know; there would be no denying it, no mistake, and they would whisper about her behind their hands, and they would point and gossip behind her back from now on. She reached across the desk and took the nearly empty water bottle, and finished it, completing her third bottle, as instructed.

After allowing her to cum for his pleasure, he had helped her up. Normally after he marked her he would sooth her, thank her for recognizing her sole purpose and congratulate her for being useful in this one aspect, the only thing that meant anything. But not this morning. She stood in front of him, still naked from the waist down, heat throbbing from her scored flesh, as he handed her a bottle of water, and instructed her to drink all of it. When she finished, pleased that she had obeyed, he let her stand there. She watched his face change from satisfaction to disdain as he changed his shirt, removing his sweat-soaked garment.

"You think you have value to me?" he asked with a derogatory sneer. "Yet you hide who you are, you hide your only valuable purpose." He told her to open her blouse, remove her bra, and then she was naked in his office. She wondered how soon others would arrive, but feared to look at the clock. He would be disappointed in her then, and she couldn't stand that, couldn't live with herself then. She waited, naked, as the trauma of her beating wore off, and the intense pain took hold of her. He finished buttoning his shirt as he continued.

"You're ashamed of the one useful thing you are," he scolded, "all the worthless motion you go through in your empty life, you show it all to the world, let them see your useless and meaningless activity." He wrapped his tie around his neck and knotted it. "The one thing you are good at, the only thing that makes you useful," he said and stepped to her face, "the gift I have given you," he said, "you hide it from the world!" He slapped her tits, hard, and they ached, deep inside, and she felt her breath sharpen as she braced for more. And they came, slapping her breasts, the sides, the top, the bottom, his bare hand leaving prints on them; they swelled, and bruised, and she felt her eyes close as he spoke with each blow. "No more! No more hiding, not today! Today they will know! You will show them!"

When he stopped, he gave her another bottle of water to drink, and told her to dress. Gingerly she slipped her garments back on, her bra biting into the swollen flesh on her breasts, her nipples chafing inside the fabric, erect and hard. Her panties scraped like barbed wire as she slid them up to her hips, and she winced with the renewed sting as the fabric irritated the welts. She held her breath as she pulled them up tight. She put her blouse back on, and then struggled into her pants, and again felt the wounds on the backs of her legs, this time not as the fabric passed them, but settled on the inflamed flesh like a swarm of fire ants. She gritted her teeth at the pain, and loved him so.

He gave her another bottle, and she drank it as instructed. He told her to go to the restroom, fix her face and hair, and go to her desk and begin working.

"Once you sit," he warned her, "you will not leave your desk for any reason."

She nodded her understanding, and left his office, each step a new adventure in sensation as her limbs moved the impacted skin inside her clothing. She did as she was told, and was at her desk, appearing, she hoped, fresh and normal as her skin burned and nerve endings fired from the backs of her knees to her lower back. Her weight pressed her body into her chair, and every breath, every motion woke the wounds as anew, as though he were behind her now, still striking, still marking, still increasing her worth. Her breasts ached; swollen and full inside her bra, constricting her breathing.

She had smiled as her co-workers arrived, greeting each with a diffident expression, until she saw the note on the desk. From him. She stopped typing her email and read it.

There are three bottles of water in your left desk drawer. Finish them all before noon. Do not leave your desk.

Now, as noon approached, she understood his intent. He would force her to announce who she was, WHAT she was. Not just another useless grey person skulking through the halls of a faceless company. She had a purpose, and soon they would all know. They would see her humiliation, her willing subjugation; they would know. They would all know. He would make her show herself, her REAL self. The realization made her shudder, and her breath caught in her anticipation of the horror and release. No more hiding from the world. They would all know. Could she bear it? Could she endure their stares and whispers as she bore her shame and pride in what she was?

And as her bladder pulsed and swelled inside her, she shivered in fear. The last bottle she had finished had been her sixth that morning, and the pressure of her swollen belly had passed discomfort and climbed into pain; not enough to override the searing agony of her wounded flesh, but fighting for dominance. She knew it was only a matter of time before she could no longer resist, could no longer hold it. Would everyone be out to lunch? Could she hold out till they returned? She knew she could not last to the end of the day; the pressure mounted inside her, she focused on the pain from her beating as relief from the mounting strain and cramping. She silently thanked him for granting her this wonderful distraction.

She tried to concentrate on her work, keep her mind off the fire in her skin, and the swelling inside her, but she found herself reading and re-reading the same sentences over and over as her focus drifted to her discomfort and impending humiliation. In the back of her mind were the conflicting fear and relief she would experience. Fear of ridicule from the ones who would not understand her willing sacrifice and delight, fear of the pain as the urine stung her raw flesh; relief at the ecstatic release of her bladder, the euphoric, near-orgasmic elimination of the pressure inside her. And of course, the elation at no longer needing to hide who she was.

She felt the pressure build, and knew that she could only endure a few more minutes. Squeezing her legs together had helped some, an hour ago, but it was useless now. Squirming helped a little, but it only tormented her inflamed skin. Soon, it would be soon. They would all know. They would watch her. They would see, and know. And she would hold her head high in her humiliation, shamed no longer by the purpose she served, the need she fulfilled. She would be complete.

She took her hands from the keyboard and sat back in her chair. Her eyes closed, and her lips tightened in silent effort, and then slowly slid wider into a secret, satisfied smile, just touching her cheeks. She took a deep breath.

She relaxed her shoulders first, easing the full-body tension she had assumed as she resisted. She opened her eyes. No one had yet gone to lunch, the office was still full, a controlled chaos of meaningless activity, action without purpose. Her smile grew, her face assuming the easy expression of confident victory. She released her breath slowly, enjoying the air as it passed through her. She settled her aching, tortured flesh in the chair, wriggling slightly to renew the pain and inflammation, the electrical pulses shooting through her as her flesh chafed and rubbed. She felt her body acknowledge the cessation of resistance, the muscles groaned as they released the hold against the flow, surrendering under orders. Behind the wave of relief was the anticipation of the sting her urine would create in her torn flesh. And of course, the elation of her coming out, as they all stared in wonder and awe and jealousy. Her face flushed with pride.

And she relaxed. And released.