Wheelchair Bound?

Admittedly I enjoyed being treated and mistreated as her sex object. Mostly. But when she wanted me to suffer -- apparently she got off on my squeaks and squeals -- I could only endure it, until she chose to balance out the pain with pleasure and send me into a floaty mental state where I ended up welcoming every sensation.

Getting to that state was not fun for me, but I gained satisfaction from knowing I was pleasing my mistress. Once I'd reached subspace, or an endorphin explosion, a high from feeling reactions, whatever you wanted to call it -- then I simply craved more and more, which of course was what drove me to submit to Ali again, however much it hurt.

Without my being restrained, this wasn't going to get me aroused enough to balance out the pain, so I was most relieved when my lady stopped, nodded approvingly, and handed the cane back to the Professor.

"Thank you," she said. "For the cane and for your advice. I think we can work something out."

He smiled as he waved us off, Ali holding my leash as she rolled along so I was forced to stay walking right by her side if I wanted to remain upright.

After some time snuggling down beside me on a comfy battered sofa, people-watching, Ali commented, "That was educational." She groped the stinging fronts of my upper legs.

"Mm. Very. I suppose we'd better let someone else use this space though. Oof! I could do with another sit-down myself," as Ali settled herself back in the wheelchair, by now easily avoiding banging her ankles on the foot plates.

We meandered round the hall, admiring quite a few women in skimpy outfits. She probably admired some men too, but didn't bother pointing them out to me.

"That was fun," she said, "but I'd really like to do a more sexy scene with you." She looked at me sideways. "Get your kit off and see you squirming in a good way..."

At first I was aghast at the idea of stripping in public, but, looking round, it was clear that wouldn't offend any of the audience. A few people were naked, or nearly so, on pieces of equipment, and quite a number of people of various genders were on the floor, providing blow jobs or just curled up at their companion's feet. "If we could find somewhere suitable..."

The lone bed had a long queue. As did the spider web, both horses, and other pieces of kit of the right sort of shape.

"Humph. I may have energy but I'm not rolling on a hardwood floor with you!"

I agreed. Then I saw a gleam in her eye.

"What's your idea, Al?"

"Who says I've got an idea?"

"Me. I know that look."

It was one I hadn't seen for too long. If the flame of passion was starting to burn again, I would encourage it to flare up as much as I could. "Go on, spill."

"Well... We've got a comfortable chair with handy metal frame, right here."

"Huh? Oh..."

Her wheelchair. About to become a piece of fetish equipment. "Are you sure that's a good idea?" I asked her.

"We need to test its robustness, after all! I read the small print. Whilst we're renting it, all accidental damage is covered..." Another fiendish grin.

"What about you?"

"Good point. Fetch me a chair so I can sit down as much as possible. Let's go against a wall."

I followed her as she wheeled at speed into a corner. I moved a couple cardboard boxes and she reversed against the breeze-block wall, taking care not to skin her knuckles at the side. I found one of the stacked chairs that had been used in the tea area, and waited to swap seats.

"You're overdressed, love."

I gave her a pleading look. Not sure why I bothered.

"Come on, babes. Take that dress off. And the bra. Show us all your lovely huge tits. Oh, yeah, babe. Come here."

I stood between her knees as Ali reached up to give me a big hug and nuzzle the top of her head against my breasts, while I held my wrists together behind my back, the picture of submissive obedience.

I noticed Gordon wandering over to us. He caught Ali's eye as she raised her head.

"You guys OK? Mind if I watch?"

"Look, but don't touch," we replied in near-unison. Al added, "and no getting in the way or interfering or jerking off at us."

"I wouldn't dream of it," he retorted in his camp voice. "I may be straight -- ish -- but I have some manners, thank you!"

"Ish?" Ali asked. It wasn't just me who'd assumed he was gay.

"Mainly. I love beautiful women! He gestured at both of us, probably mainly out of politeness. But I get off on being forced to do stuff with men..."

"Classic internalised homophobia, that sounds like," Ali said wryly. "Can't admit you're a filthy bisexual?" It was a sore spot for her.

Thankfully, Gordon didn't seem offended. "You'd think. But being forced is my kink. I've done stuff with guys other times -- I'll suck cock of anyone who asks nicely, I'm kind like that! But it doesn't turn me on unless I'm being physically made to or threatened if I don't. Even if it's a guy I found really hot when he shoved himself on me before." He fanned his hands outwards. "You see, we did the proper scientific controlled experiments and everything!"

"Huh. Whatever. As I said, enjoy watching. Actually, would you mind being on standby, just in case the chair tips or anything? That's so kind. Thank you.

"Now, my darling. You're overdressed. Get those boots and leggings off. Yes, and your shorts. How am I supposed to reach your cunt if you've still got knickers on, huh?"

I focused on her face, blotting out all the hundreds of people milling around, dancing, playing, unabashedly staring, while I obeyed her command and got naked in this huge public space, with nowhere to hide. It's not even like people find me attractive. My bulk is an imposition even when clothed, according to the world; my nudity is an obscenity.

Thing is, Ali likes both my big dyke tits and ass, and loves being as improperly outrageous as possible. She's gazing happily into my eyes.

I'm pleasing my Mistress. That's all that matters. Anyone else can take it up with her.

"Sit in the chair."

I remember that it's sized for her, not me. I don't know if I'll fit.

"I can't squeeze between the arms."

"Just perch on the front few inches. Don't worry. We have ways of making sure you don't fall out! Besides, if you sat back, your legs would be all squashed together, and where's the fun in that?"

"Right." I could guess some of what Ali would want to do. Me, restrained on the chair, with my legs held apart? I've as good an imagination as anyone.

"You. Could you put her thigh cuffs round for me, please? Can I trust you not to molest my girl?"

Gordon nodded. "Yes, ma'am. Of course." He took the new wide red velcro cuffs and fastened one round each of my meaty thighs. "To this cross-bar here?" He indicated the vertical metal tube just below the seat, and capably bound the cuff's metal loop to it with a short piece of cotton rope, then repeated the action on the other side.

"Hm. To the vertical above the seat, too, I think, please." She'd taken to using a third party like a duck to water. Her management training course at work hadn't been in vain after all.

I tried to lean back onto the chair so my weight wouldn't tip it forward. Some loops of rope running around my waist and the back of the chair dealt with that problem, shifting my centre of gravity sufficiently backwards. My ankles were attached to the foot plate holders, my feet spread as far as could be achieved with my legs no wider than the seat, and my forearms were cuffed securely to the armrests.

I really wasn't moving. Sliding off the front of the seat was not going to be a problem, no matter how much it felt like it should be, pressing unpleasantly into my bare buttocks.

I took a deep breath, continued to look only at Ali, and remembered I was making her happy.

Being bound and naked in front of so many strangers turned me on, too. As soon as I knew I was helpless, the hairs on my back and arse stood up as my unclothed skin tingled.

The fact that I was misusing a disability aid just made it even more depraved.

I could tell that thought had occurred to Ali, too. Along with the fact that people would assume that it was my wheelchair that was getting my pussy juice on the seat.

"Poor baby," she told me. "All unable to move." She beamed. "Wheelchair-bound, even."

I glared at her. Sarcasm and puns didn't bode well for my skin.

She sat back on the dining chair and pulled herself alongside me, facing me side-on. Her hand reached for my bare breast, and squeezed round as much of it as she could. She added her other hand.

"Ow!"

"Aw. Terrible, for someone so young and pretty to be confined to a wheelchair."

She was referring to herself, clearly. People don't call me 'pretty' - even Al calls me 'sexy', 'lovely', possibly even 'beautiful', but 'pretty', all proper and feminine? Never.

She clawed both hands into my other breast, then dragged her nails as she pulled away, making red lines round my tit. I pressed my lips together, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of my crying out so soon. She returned to the first breast, dwarfing even her hands fisted together, dug her claws in again. Symmetrical red scratches, now.

That was far from the end of it. Roughly kneading my breasts like bread dough, punching and pulling on them, was bringing a small knowing smile to her eyes, especially once I released a whimper, against my will. I tried shuffling backwards in the seat, but given my back was already tied to the back of the chair, getting my bum half an inch further onto the seat wasn't going to help me evade her torture.

Then she pinched my left nipple between thumb and forefinger. Painful, yes, but an erotic pain that sent a pleasurable zing through my body, making me thrust my pelvis onto a total lack of penetration, pulling against the ropes.

Al knew all too well how much I loved that, and pinched my right one, too.

I whined at the lack of anything between my legs. Even if pulling my thighs against the rough velcro fabric was turning me on no end.

"What's that, babe? Had enough pain? No? You want more? Ah, you are a little pain slut, aren't you, babes? Just as well you're all tied down and restrained, I think. You'd be desperate to be fucked by so many people and things, otherwise, wouldn't you?"

It was an exaggeration, and a rhetorical question, mostly just babble as Ali figured what else she could do with me in this position. At least, sitting on my bottom, I'd be safe from a spanking, or a paddle or crop.

I thought wrong. Big woman with chunky thighs, each one nearly as large as a bum cheek...

Thinking about it, each breast of mine is as big as a small woman's buttock. Hers, for example.

Al sat back in her chair, having pulled out a short crop and a leather paddle from her messenger bag. She tapped the blocky rectangular leather onto her thigh, thoughtfully, then leant forward to do the same on my thighs, first just on the tops which had recovered from her gentle caning earlier, then, as she grew more confident, onto the more delicate flesh normally sheltered between my legs.

Gentle, but annoyingly persistent.

Annoyingly sore, soon, and annoyingly her hands weren't even groping my lovely soft inner thighs, always so warm and loving on that sensitive skin, even when possessively gripping the meat there, or even inflicting bite marks. Some pain is lots of fun. What she was doing wasn't, much.

And it really highlighted how my pussy wasn't getting any attention at all.

Which would be why she was doing it, the fiendish bitch.

I knew better than to say anything, but if looks could kill...

Forget me boring into her with a gimlet stare -- she was grinning at me with a look that was pure predator, knowing her prey was completely trapped.

I tried to rub my thigh muscles together. I had big quads and glutes built up from years of roller derby - Ali had been banned after the injuries from her first and only session, but she said it had been worth it to meet me.

I couldn't make my legs touch at all, even at their fattest point. Surely, she and her new cuffs couldn't have thwarted the forces that always rubbed the tops of my legs against each other, chafing if I didn't invest in perfectly-fitted tights or bloomer shorts under my dresses?

It looked like she'd managed it. I could just about make the cuff material touch, but no pressure could I put anywhere round my cunt, not at all.

Which was what I needed. Her thwaps were making my legs more and more aware of every inch of skin all full of sensitised nerve endings, while all the eager neural networks of my clitoris and surroundings were deprived of any sensation at all.

It wasn't fair. And I could feel myself getting wetter and wetter as I wriggled in the firm bonds, pressing tight bonds against my arms and legs and stomach in ways that always turned me on -- restrained, out of control, at the mercy of my Mistress -- but no touch at all to stop simply leaking my juices onto the seat of Al's wheelchair.

"Please...?" I begged.

A slow sadistic smile as she lowered her hand from where she'd raised it to hit, and clawed her nails into the red flesh.

I screamed. But, as she well knew, so much sensation, all around my pussy but not touching it, was getting me more and more aroused, and dripping wet.

She reached a finger forward. Finally!

But I was denied, despite every effort to thrust forward towards her, pulling at my bonds. Instead, she merely wiped up my moisture from her wheelchair's easy-clean seat, barely touching my tender skin at the top of my legs.

And then she brought her finger to her mouth and sucked it.

"Mmm," she told me. "You are a mucky pup, aren't you? But so, so sweet..."

The woman was truly evil.

I started plotting scenarios involving pushing her and her bloody wheelchair off a short pier.

Until she knelt before me and put her mouth over one of my nipples.

Pure heaven. She held my breast in both hands; gently, reverently, and sucked the big brown teat with all the love and tenderness anyone could wish for.

As my Mistress, my lover, slurped all round my sensitised breast, moving a hand to delicately handle my other one, I exhaled and relaxed. With both cotton rope and the velcro straps holding me firm and snug, helpless to do anything but be cared for by my darling lady, I released all tension out of my body and enjoyed her care.

I felt more wetness sliding out my cunt onto the seat.

Ali put her hand down, still not touching where I prayed she would, and brought a drop to my mouth.

I sucked her finger as it came between my lips and teeth, worshipping her with my tongue.

"Just made for sucking, aren't you. Shame I can't sit on your face like this." She looked like she was considering pushing the whole wheelchair backwards so my head would be lying on the floor. I didn't know if I was relieved or disappointed that she didn't.

"You want your pussy played with, don't you?"

"Yes!" I groaned. No point not admitting it.

"Yeah, I know, pet. But it's such fun, watching you all wanton and desperate, writhing in all that rope..."

Half of me wanted to kill the bitch; the rest was simply delighted to have my bitchy mistress back.

She slapped my breast. "But what I really want to do is hurt you. Leave marks..."

"Oh yeah," I murmured enthusiasm.

"So I need at your lovely arse. Gordon, love, could you release her so I can turn her over?"

Clearly the Prof's suggestion of delegation was working. She told me to kneel on the floor, then to bend over onto the seat of the wheelchair, head resting on my forearms. My shoulders and breasts wouldn't fit, my nipples slipping down over the edge of the chair. It added to my vulnerable feeling. Normally I'd be wanting restraint, but now I relished the freedom to squirm, albeit within the snug box made by the seat, back and sides of the chair. It was dark.

And my bum was exposed for all to see. Probably five hundred people were getting an eyeful. I tried to restore my focus to Ali only. Think only of my mistress, not of my embarrassment.

She pulled up one of the plastic chairs so she was sitting above me. A few goes moving the chair and she found the perfect angle, where she could swing her arm down to achieve contact without overstretching herself, and our double-sided leather paddle could whack my arse while meeting all ergonomic requirements.

"Oh boy. We're cooking on gas now!" she exclaimed, landing blows on one buttock then the other and back again.

And again. And keeping going.

One experiment with a hard whack, but she clearly decided that was too much strain for her shoulder. I was sure it wasn't mercy for me that had her dialling it down again.

This medium-force swinging, she could clearly manage repeatedly without hurting herself. It looked like she was enjoying herself, building up the effect slowly.

A warm, pleasant soreness spread across the middle of my bum cheeks.

It became a reddened blush all over my arse.

A painful tenderness in those hot spots closest to her.

Acute pain in those areas.

Then a delightful ache, as she let up and tapped all round more gently.

Every inch of my arse was now an erogenous zone, as sensitive and reactive as my nipples. "More," I pleaded.

"Well, sure, babe!"

Oh fuck. Why do I say things like that?

I gripped the cushion in the seat of her wheelchair, and proceeded to bash my face against it as I whimpered in pain.

She stepped it up, I was sure, shoulder joints be damned.

I was crying against the nylon of her seat, swinging my arse this way and that in an instinctive action, despite it being totally useless at evading the leather beating down upon me.

My brain switched off. There was no sensation being received except for that heat on my bum, that pressure.

She'd probably let up a bit, keeping me at the point of registering warmth and impact and nothing else. No more messages about pain were reaching my head.

It was wonderful.

I moaned. I couldn't have said anything coherent, even if I'd wanted to.

I couldn't say how long she continued, but I finally noticed she'd dropped herself to the floor, abandoned the paddle, and was applying her hands, fondling and spanking, gripping and clawing that bruising expansive flesh she loved so much, grabbing my already-red thighs, and finally pushing a hand between my legs, filling my poor deprived pussy with some fingers and flicking my clit with others.

Oh, god. There really was a heaven.

I screamed and whacked my head against the chair seat as I came. The orgasm was all the more powerful for being the first one from a scene in so long.

A few minutes later I'd ceased panting and I managed to rest my chin on my hands.

"You OK, babes?" she asked me.

"Oh, yeah. Great. How about you?" The question I wanted to ask was, 'Not overdone it?' but she'd see that as nagging.

"Good. I think I need a couple more long toys, though."

"If you insist." My mock-grumbling was obviously fake; I was so delighted to hear her enthusiasm included plans for our future.

"Oh, I do, babe." She ran her hand over my big red arse, while I purred. This feeling was what I really liked BDSM for; the warm cosy sensation of bruises being gently pressed, my whole bum an erotic pleasure point -- that's a big pleasure area, I tell you -- and, most of all, feeling loved.

Our connection felt stronger than ever.

So I said it without thinking. "Happy Valentine's Day, love."

She lifted her hand, shocked. "What did you say?

"Happy Valentine's Day. I love you." I thought hastily, before she could remember her bad associations with the date. "Maybe this could be the start of a new tradition?"

That stopped her. As I lifted myself up to turn and look into her eyes, Ali, my glorious mistress, smiled down upon me.