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Filthy Kate

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Good morning Sir,

I didn't think I could become so deeply aroused without touching, but I might have, unless I touched, I don't know.

Being chained spread in bed was beautiful. The roped chain worked perfectly. I lay there feeling it, thinking of being kept for ages and must have fallen asleep on by back. I feel undeniably kept, chained in bed properly.

I woke up around 3.30am aware that I'd been pulling on my left ankle. When I felt for what had happened I noticed deep chain marks round one side of it. I needed to go to the bathroom anyway so I slipped the shoe laces undone for that. Slightly worried about the marks, I didn't re-chain myself on my return to bed. Three hours later they're gone, it's all good.

It's all better than that because before I untied the chains I thought about how you told me you might come into my room. Your knickers haven't been tied on again for a while, you haven't taken them off me lately. They're a relaxed fit now and I felt they'd been disturbed, probably as I was writhing and wriggling in my sleep. Did I handle Her unknowingly? I imagined you helped yourself to Her while I was helpless.

I love not being able to defend Her. I thought maybe I'd pulled on the chains to try to subconsciously. In the morning She was alive and feeling dirty. I wanted to touch her so much, at least as badly as I do after you've dismissed me hot.

I lay there aching and desperate, needing sex. How on earth will I ever escape that? Are you sure that when I'm chaste those thoughts won't torment me? I'm astonished to begin to understand they might not but that brings with it understanding of how long my journey will be.

Does it follow that later, arousal like this will be an offence, and that I will not masturbate, ever, to ensure I do not suffer it? When the time comes, will I think of arousal as suffering, as only ache and need because I will have sacrificed sex to please you?

Up until now I've thought of chastity as a physical achievement which I'm confident I'll eventually reach, but is it beyond sacrifice? Am I chaste only when I have nothing left to sacrifice?

By then will you have purged the filthy slut I was completely?

"Post Reply means stop touching. OK Kate?"

Yes Sir, XX
 
I woke up the other day feeling a bit historical and imagined sacrificing myself, whoring that is, for the sake of a living in an economy where social disadvantage was grim indeed. I fancied Georgian England would be a wicked place to behave like a kinky tart in. Here's..............

The Merchant's Whore

The house I'm kept in is a network of rambling corridors and rooms dedicated to particular functions. The upper floors have drawing rooms, sitting rooms, dining rooms and bedrooms. Downstairs on the lower floors there’s a kitchen, a scullery, and the various store rooms, all stone floored like the cells where we live. We all work but the others are employed, I’m kept. Of course I work like they do but that’s not what I’m needed for. My purpose is to be punished.

My Master is a merchant, a businessman and engaged in the dog eat dog world of commerce. His struggles take place behind closed doors, quietly, away from the genteel pillars of polite society he calls his friends. The problems which vex him are hidden in the manipulation of numbers in the grand ledgers where success or failure is recorded. This house and those who maintain it are the measure of that success but inevitably there are also failures. Impediments in supply chains are common. Sometimes unfavourable weather slows his ships. I know he’s unhappy with the politics of colonialism in distant, exotic lands. Such setbacks increase the price of whatever commodity he hopes to sell and he rages, exasperated by the dent it makes in his profit. Although I have none, I know that for those who have lots, money is everything. When he suffers, then I must too.

How unbridled and wild can anger be? Is it ever so fierce and uncontrolled that someone so afflicted might reach for anything, no matter how precious or essential, then need to destroy it in a whirlwind of hate? Perhaps, but anger can also be measured. Maybe a temper stressed to breaking point in a kitchen for example, might still not overwhelm the presence of mind to choose expendable crockery to smash? Would that keep the expensive and elegant pieces safe? I’m not expensive or elegant, or safe.

When it’s time for his need of me, I’m distracted from my tasks by the sound of his footsteps thundering down the wooden floors we keep so beautifully polished. Sometimes I’m terrified by “Where’s my slut!” shouted, echoing in the lower chambers if I’m busy in the guts of the house. The others will betray me, they know exactly who he means. I dare not run and hide. I have only a moment’s warning before whichever door it is crashes against its stops as he storms through it. He’ll grab me seconds later. I live in fear of it.

“Come here you fucking whore!” he’ll snarl at me. He’ll tear at my clothing, hurriedly repaired so often I’m stripped and exposed easily. I do not fight back. I’m mauled, roughly handled while I’m pinned down on the floor, thrown over tables or crushed into corners. However it happens, I’m always trapped and rendered helplessly available.

We play a strange game. I think of how I sacrifice myself so that he might vent his frustration. The act itself is bruising, brutal and beastly. He hurts me but I’m not wounded. I’m not broken, that’s not what this is. He is married. To continue to keep me he must not allow the intoxication of his fury fuelled lust to conquer his common sense. How desperate he must feel, to have me forced open and bare, undefended and willing. He’s right, I am a whore. I trade myself to be kept in his house this way. Temptation must be agony for him, I must be punished for that too.

When it gets too much I must be disposed of, discarded and thrown out. I’m dirty and tainted. He’ll growl “You filthy little harlot!” breathy and vicious, hot against my ear as his weight holds me still, his probing fingers between my legs. I’m panting too, he knows this wickedness is my doing, my fault and my depravity. I know how close he is.

Sometimes he drags me through the house by one ankle. I slide on the shredded wreck of my useless dress, my modesty lost. Sometimes I’m marched, his left fist clenched in a grip on my disheveled hair while his right lifts me off my feet, if my dress is intact enough to carry me with. I stumble and fall, unable to keep up with the haste with which we rush to the front door. I’m dropped in the hall way for as long as it takes to open it.

Even though I know what’s coming next, I wait for him to pick me up, so he can launch me out into the street outside. I’m thrown bodily down the steps up to the house’s grand entrance, built to rise above the city’s dust and dirt. I tumble onto the road, a tangle of limbs and grimy fabric, hot and sweaty from my torment. The door will slam behind me.

Sometimes I land in the mud with a slap, breasts down, at the feet of the passers by who narrowly avoided me as I fell. Rain makes no difference, snow neither. Sometimes I land on my back, looking up at them as they look down at me, at my uncovered body. There have been times I’ve balked horses and carriages, scrambling out of the way in panic, fearful I’d be run over as the drivers cursed me.

Often, I attract a crowd as I clamber stiffly to my feet. Some walk quickly on, too busy to wonder for more than a moment what it was I did, or deserve to suffer for. I see some find humour in assuming I’ve been caught whoring. They think I’m a scandal, I’m cheap and I’ll pay with destitution.

The worst are those who stop to stare at me. Naked flesh is a public outrage for a host of reasons as criminal as they are disgraceful. For some, I’ve brought humiliation upon myself and they have no qualms at all in making sure I suffer it as deeply as they need me to. No one would sink so low as to touch me, not with the rest of the sanctimonious, self righteous citizens watching, for then they’d be as shameful as I am. I feel the danger in knowing they still think of it though. I feel how they would prey upon me if we were alone in the dark.

I wait, ragged and wretched for someone to rescue me. If it’s cold I’ll be shivering when the door opens, when one of the servants has been sent to let me back in. If I haven’t passively allowed the coarse and vulgar to abuse and degrade me while I stand silently in submission, I’ll stay outside.

Does he watch me wait with my head bowed, my wrists crossed behind my back, my breasts and thighs displayed? Does he know I’m obedient, or does he just imagine my withering self consciousness? Does he think of me in tears, enduring my ordeal while he finds somewhere quiet to satisfy himself, safe, and solo, tolerated by his wife? She knows as I do that my suffering will calm him. He’ll face his challenges with restored purpose, his thinking clear, his bollocks empty. This is what I’m for. She too knows this is the way of men. In public, I of course, will not achieve release.

Sometimes I really do cry, because after the physical submission of being claimed sexually, the psychological stress of denial is almost too much to bear. To be wanted, and then abandoned so publicly is a profound cruelty. I dream of it, I ache to sacrifice myself. It’s an exquisite pain, and so perversely erotic I want always to be kept in his house, living in fear, expecting at any moment to be punished for the capricious nature of our embryonic, global capitalism!
 
Georgia goes to work on the bus. Every day she gets off at her stop where there are usually a trio of lads waiting to get on. She thinks they must work somewhere further up the bus route. They're boisterous and they frighten her because they crowd around the door of the bus in their haste to get on. Sometimes she has to barge her way through them. Close like that, they smell of male grooming which rubs off on her, reminding her of them throughout the day. It matters that they look at her but don't step out of her way.

Sometimes, when she's alone in her bed she thinks of them. Then the lads look at her as if they're eyeing her up, like a predator would. Her fantasy is that they baulk her when she steps off the bus deliberately. They touch her breasts or her arse as she wriggles her way past. This happens so often that she looks for them as the bus slows down, praying they're not there but her fantasy is that they are. She's aware that they watch her stand up out of her seat to leave the bus. It turns into a game. It gets rougher until they handle her badly enough to disturb her clothing and pull her hair into a mess. She's spreadeagled under the duvet with one hand between her legs at this point. One day she knows will come, they'll grab her.

Two of them pin her to the side of the bus by her wrists. Her bag falls to the ground. The third guy kicks it fifty yards down the street then tears open her shirt, buttons flying off in all directions. He gropes her tits, mauling her before knocking her ankles apart at the same time as he hauls her skirt up over her hips, exposing her knickers for all to see. She's horrified as he steps back then swings his boot hard into her crotch. The other two let go of her, letting her crash to the ground in agony.

After the bus has driven off, her tormentors on it, she's left to try to put herself back together as best she can, dirty, discarded and mercilessly humiliated, but that's not the fun part, this is.........

Her fantasy is that the next day she still takes the bus to work, almost paralysed with fear that they'll be there again. Of course they are. Can you imagine how she'll feel, facing an assault possibly even more brutal and degrading than yesterdays? She can, but the real thrill the dirty, subby, kink crazed slut in her wants is knowing that to step off the bus again means consent.

The thought of that makes her come.
 
Morning Report

Good morning Sir,

I've stripped and chosen the tack pad for my discomfort, it's in your knickers now. She feels very sensitive after her adventures last night. I had a magical time. I have hot coffee as usual but today the weather is a little cooler, making my naked vulnerability feel worse (better).

I was still awake at 2.30am. I released my ankle chains at around 2.00am but I was reluctant to take the heavy chain off. Trapped on my back, it felt good but I wanted to move around to feel its weight for a while longer. I love to hold it, feeling how heavy it is and letting it go again to rest on my hips once more. I love how its weight wraps me, dragging me still when I move. I test it but I do not deliberately make it behave, hoping somehow, this time, a few of the links will fall somewhere sexy. Subspaced, it's an "Oh my god!" moment when they do. I could have allowed the chain to play with me for hours, wanting and needing just one more touch, just a little more pressure somewhere sweet. I began to drift off half an hour later, calmed down by fatigue.

For your info Sir, and technically interesting, it weighs 3.0kg.

I tried the scarves but their gentle, soft sensations weren't right for my tiredness. Still subspaced, I wanted harsh, intrusive difficulties imposed on me. Maybe we should try the scarves while we chat?

Did you enjoy me begging for pain Sir? I enjoyed doing it. This morning She feels it. The marks on my thighs have gone and She doesn't look red or bruised but I can still feel my figging. It doesn't hurt or even feel uncomfortable, I just know I suffered it. I'm willing to again tonight Sir, if you want that. I loved the rope between my legs. Just one tail? Oh please try that Sir, please? Stripped and tacked, I'm aroused again by the thought of another adventure.

This morning my bedroom looks like a kink bomb's hit it. There's a plate of carved ginger, cable ties, a spreader bar, chains everywhere, the rope flogger and all the bits and pieces normally on my bedside cupboard scattered around where I was on the floor with my computer. I'm going to leave it for tonight.

With respect to honesty and openness Sir, I want to tell you the rope whip subspaced me because I thought of it as punishing her. She torments me so badly. She's the dirty whore who wants me to suffer. In my head I thought "I hope he thrashes you raw you fucking slut!" and every time I hit her properly I felt her suffer too. She is what's left of my depravity, still there, still torturing me because I've sacrificed my pleasure for dependence on you Sir.

Please Sir, does it make you think less of me that I want her punished severely? Oh fuck, the thought drives me nuts with lust. Or do you want her torturing me, so that you can meter out just a little, just some of my debauched desire to feel her pain? I think you do. I love that you don't let me have enough, to keep me desperate.

I'm going to put my fleece back on now Sir. It's been half an hour stripped. I'll strip again at 11.00am when you want me, so I can beg for clothing. I love all this Sir, begging, pleading, writing "when you want me", aching to masturbate so fucking much I could cry. I love my moments of weakness, that almost touch, that careless slip of my hands I must reign in. It's a subconscious weakness I must fight consciously to resist. I love "No Kate! You do not masturbate, ever." as if you slapped my hands away.

Please can I tell you Sir, last night, pushing ginger inside me really was the first time I've put my fingers inside your knickers for months. Wearing them means you own me sexually. She is for you then, out of bounds, denied me by my submission.

I'm going to press on with more email replies until 11.00am.

I feel so good Sir. Doing this again is indeed magical.

Your, happy, obedient, chaste Kate XX

He asked me to post this raw and uncut. It's not fiction, it's not a story, it's my submission.
 
She is no longer mine, I do not touch her seeking sexual stimulation, ever. Senpai is very particular who does and soon, only my lover will handle her, when he wants to, not me. I must wait obediently for the gift of his touch, desperate and aching for it.
But you fail to understand, puta esclava was never yours, not really. Certainly she inhabits your body, but that slut is wholly mine! She’s my slave, I named her, so she’s mine to torment, humiliate, and sexually abuse.

She belongs to me, submit as you know you must, release the wanton harlot that is the real you! Obey, and prepare to suffer!
 
But you fail to understand, puta esclava was never yours, not really. Certainly she inhabits your body, but that slut is wholly mine! She’s my slave, I named her, so she’s mine to torment, humiliate, and sexually abuse.

She belongs to me, submit as you know you must, release the wanton harlot that is the real you! Obey, and prepare to suffer!
You're trying to get me into trouble. You're hoping he'll read this and accuse me of role playing. Then I'll have to explain carefully so I don't dig myself a hole with some awful punishment at the bottom of it.

I think She inhabits my mind. She tortures me with my own body. Yes I must submit, I'm driven by it. I'm so grateful to Senpai for teaching me chastity, and letting puta esclava off her leash to remind me sometimes what a filthy fucking cumslut I really am.
 
You're trying to get me into trouble. You're hoping he'll read this and accuse me of role playing. Then I'll have to explain carefully so I don't dig myself a hole with some awful punishment at the bottom of it.

I think She inhabits my mind. She tortures me with my own body. Yes I must submit, I'm driven by it. I'm so grateful to Senpai for teaching me chastity, and letting puta esclava off her leash to remind me sometimes what a filthy fucking cumslut I really am.
No need for me to “get you into trouble”, my puta esclava is perfectly capable of doing that all by herself. Be honest, isn’t your rose already electrified? If not I can always reach for a tens pad… I’m 14,000 miles away, I didn’t do anything, that arousal is all from that cum seeking whore who resides within. Gosh i am so going to punish her! Right in her most vulnerable spot! Why not beg me not to?
 
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