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Filthy Kate

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Loinclothslave1 said:
Wow, completely subjugated, humiliated, degraded and passively discarded like a used tissue. You are a complete object, only able to be owned or discarded!

And here, you are both! Your master discarded you before but as soon as you saw him you recognized you remained his property. Then you hesitated... pretending to look in your bag, hiding your supplication? FAIL. A proper slave would unhesitatingly start groveling immediately, screaming your mantra to show obedience, that you know your place

Property has no shame, it just is... owned or discarded. No wonder his disappointment

As a discarded slave your only hope of your destiny fulfillment is redemption by master putting you back under his lash.

Simple unflinching 100 % obedience is your only hope.

And you blew it. Master teased you a little by cutting your clothes and humiliated you only as a taunt. “ I am slave” you piously say in memory of better times. But you don’t believe. The only thing worse off than a discarded Master less starving slave is one who forgets it’s place when it’s former master gives it an opportunity for redemption

You blew it cum- slut! As that mundane voice in the end asked if you were in trouble, you realised your despair. Your teardrops were not from shame but the clawing pain of loss.

lost chance to be owned

you are a slave, but owned by no one
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Well we'll see what he thinks when he reads it! Can I be humiliated if I genuinely have no shame? The subtle head fuck here is that I can only demonstrate how complete and meaningful my sacrifice is by offering my flawless obedience in spite of the fact that the humiliation I suffer stings me as viciously as any whip. If you knew the feisty anarchist I was before he reigned me in and tamed me, you'd know how grateful I am that he's allowed me my shame outside the game. It's the instrument through which his control over me is made infinitely sweeter.

Imagine stumbling across a discarded cum-slut, abandoned by the bins in a back alley somewhere? If she was really shameless she'd have sold herself for a ride home on the bus in her wrecked knickers as if it had all been just another afternoon out. Wouldn't you like to find her cowering in the dark, desperate for a hand to hold and aching for a moment's comfort from someone willing to own her? How easy would she be to take advantage of then?
 
If I found you in that alley, utterly discarded and masterless, in just your torn knickers, you are right, I’d tell you to kneel, as one might see a freshly discarded bottle and one needed to pee I would tell you to beg as I removed my belt, and repeat your mantra (which I heard) while I beat you before forcing you to see if you could raise my flaccid cock with your mouth. Having another degraded slave might be interesting given you now understand your worthlessness.

Depending on your diligence I might allow you to then crawl with me to my cum-slut storage room, where you will spend a few days in chained darkness.

But first I beat you, and you must beg when I tell you. Beg me to subjugate, do not raise your gaze unless asked, I may privilege you with my ownership for 1 or 2 nights.

Hust promise to never hesitate. As an object there is no choice, see me and drop to subjugation immediately- only by total removal if your own desires and hesitation to humiliate yourself can you hope to remain an owned slave instead of lost trash...
 
Blackmail

Alison’s kitchen table knows everything. It’s been the scene of a hundred confessions, mostly hers. The two of us have spent hours, days and weeks sitting opposite each other, loving it. We drink gallons of coffee, eat tons of cake and tell each other all our dirty secrets. She’s kinky too and knows the thrill of playing the victim, although that’s not quite the right word. She understands perfectly what it is to be willing.

This time it was my turn to admit my wickedness and as she put my coffee on the table in front of me and sat down, I thought I’d hit her with it bluntly. “I’m being blackmailed.” I said.

“Oh yeah.” she said, smiling as if she’d already assumed I meant within the context of an on line role play. I do those, that’s how it started.

She held her coffee as if she was warming her hands on the mug and looked at me with an expectant expression on her face. I saw her thinking “You’re going to tell me about it aren’t you?” So I did.

I began by telling her about a picture I’d found on DA. It was an anime drawing of a girl tied down over a school desk. Her arms were box tied, her ankles were tied to the desk's legs and her arse was presented for punishment with the paddle the artist had thoughtfully triggered his viewers’ imagination with. She was wearing a short skirt and little knickers. Aren’t they all?

The drawing itself doesn’t matter except for the fact that someone posted a comment under it about wanting a grown up woman tied down like that. I couldn’t resist a flippant joke and provoked “Love to put you like this.” That was my first button pushed. “That’s ‘cos you’re a tart.” Alison said cheerfully, as if she isn’t.

I carried on explaining that the resulting private message stream with my new friend was loads of fun. Alison was hardly surprised that the chat evolved quickly into role play. She seemed impressed when I told her my friend was happy to adjust his demands according to my occasional reluctance. I told him I was uncomfortable with some of the things he wanted to do to me and he said simply “OK, scratch that then.” He was so up front about telling me what he would do in the first place he frightened me. That was button number two.

“What did he want?” Alison asked, gleefully scandalised. I told her he wanted to penetrate more than my genitals. The thing is, his scariness intrigued me and I couldn’t resist probing and testing his dark desires. I discovered he wanted to own me completely and control my whole life, turning me into a sex slave. That’s quite common to be honest and for subs like myself and Alison it’s a fantasy we seek to make as real as possible within the limitations of our normal lives. Of course you can’t do it, but you can play at it in layers of ever closer reality. We often talk about this.

I watched her pretty, freckled face light up at the thought of handing over all her personal details to someone who would use them against her, to control her. She’d be forced to behave then wouldn’t she? She squirmed in her seat at the thought of it, especially when I told her that’s exactly what my new friend had suggested I handed over mine. It meant something to her when I admitted I wanted to, in a fantasy role play sense of course.

I explored the idea in the messages with my friend. He had me typing with one hand at the thought of giving him my bank account details, my user names and passwords and all my security info. He’d own me then. He’d penetrate me anywhere he wanted after that. I told Alison that he thought we could meet up, to bring me one step closer to temptation. I could talk in person, with body language and so on, with the man I fantasised offering myself to.

She had a mouthful of coffee at the time and almost choked on it, trying to gasp “What!” in shock. I thought I’d own up to my guilt and shame in easy stages and qualified the fact that I’d agreed to meet him by stressing I only agreed to a spanking, with a paddle, like the drawing.

Neither of us had ever actually met anyone and she sat wide eyed with her mouth hanging open as I explained I’d met my friend in a hotel room. “It was only about the spanking.” I said, as if that might have been a valid excuse for such a catastrophic error of judgement. The revelation that I’d suffered much more was coming later.

I told the whole story and admitted I genuinely believed I’d be able to trust not just him, but myself as well. I promised myself I’d be careful and wary of the intoxicating power of what I was going to do. I told Alison I left home “rabbit tailed”.

Normally she’d have laughed at that. It’s a joke we share and it means flashing white knickers under a tiny skirt to make us feel vulnerable to the predatory attention it draws. Going to meet someone I already knew wanted to control me felt as scary as hell and I was sick with the cocktail of adventure, risk and sex I know she understands intimately. I told her I wanted his first impression of me to be encouraging. I wanted to dress like the drawing too. She said “Fucking hell Kate.” quietly.

I met him in the hotel car park because we thought we’d better sneak me up to our room and he’d need to check that the coast was clear before we tried. “Feel like a whore?” he asked, watching me scramble up the stairs from below. I certainly did.

He’d brought the desk, the paddle and the rope and it was set up ready for me. I explained to Alison that both my friend and me were too excited to concentrate on small talk and we thought the best thing to do would be simply to get on with it. My train journey there had felt like three hours of foreplay. “He was an ordinary looking, older man, unremarkable, except I knew what he thought of me.” I said. She stared at me speechless.

He knew rope and secured my arms behind my back before pushing me down over the desk. It felt fantastic to have my ankles pulled apart and tied there. For a while he amused himself behind me, groping and stroking me. Wearing knickers while someone else, a stranger, is handling them is so fucking hot!

I noticed Alison’s breathing had changed by this point in my story and she seemed reluctant to pick up her coffee mug with shaking hands, especially after I told her I was spanked hard with the paddle. It cracked into my arse so loud I was sure the hotel staff, should there be any, would know exactly what we were doing. It stung fiercely and I fought to stifle my cries through the pain.

In my eager naivety I expected to have to let him fuck me, still trapped, tied or not and we’d rest, spent and satisfied, before he bought me dinner. Maybe we’d do it again? I would have agreed to anything, I was burning with lust and I have to confess most of that was because I might have had to agree to anything. “Did he fuck you?” Alison asked, curiosity getting the better of her astonishment. He did, in both senses of the word. “He branded me.” I said.

At first Alison refused to believe she heard correctly. “With a branding iron!” she asked. I was tied down, I couldn’t stop him could I?

She chewed her fingers in sympathy with my torment as I told her he’d produced the branding iron from a bag on the bed with the blow lamp he lit to heat it with.

He held it in front of my face so I could watch the X on the end of it begin to glow. He said he’d push it into my flesh if I didn’t give him my life in the way we’d discussed in our role play. Even then I clung on to the hope that he was only frightening me. We’d played exactly that in the depraved depths of my excitement on line. I’d told him he could make me come like that, if he wanted. I was terrified and heaving air into my lungs against the tension in the ropes binding me still.

Alison shook her head in disbelief as I told her he’d walked round behind me carrying the iron. I felt him pull my knickers away from my arse and the searing heat from the glowing metal close to my skin. I told Alison he told me that I would get one brand on the inside of my butt cheek, next to my arsehole and another on the inside of my thigh, at the top. Anyone who looked up my skirt might notice it. Did I want that?

To show Alison that the hotel room had been rigged with cameras, I pulled my phone out of my bag and found the video he’d sent me. She watched me beg in panic. I pleaded my heart out in tears, desperate to believe I hadn’t completely lost control of what was happening to me. I cried like I meant it so pathetically I was sure if he wanted me scared, I was scared enough. She remembered I said I’d been blackmailed and looked up mortified.

She heard me offer him my phone in a futile effect to appease him. He’d filmed me giving him my access code and revealing all my most sensitive personal details through my sobbing. He emailed it all to himself while I watched helpless as he took control of my life. Alison watched helpless too.

“Oh Kate, you stupid sow.” she said, “What are you going to do?”

I told her I was going to be a sex slave. I said I would be wherever he told me to be, whenever he wanted me there and I’d suffer whatever the people he sold me to wanted to do to me. If I didn’t he would humiliate me in front of everyone I cared for. He would steal all my money. He would ruin my life if I caused any trouble.

She heard my filmed, past self scream on my phone and looked down again. “Fuck!” she wailed as she saw the smoke and the agony I suffered as he branded me anyway.

She thought I should have been traumatised, having been so mercilessly taken advantage of. When I explained I’d fought to achieve a philosophical acceptance of my new circumstances she thought it was a joke. She thought we’d cleverly filmed our dirty sex session with a little bit of trickery to make it look like my story was true. I saw her smile as it occurred to her I might be winding her up.

I told her the only choice I had left was to concentrate on my vulnerability in the same way we thought of it as part of our fantasies. Either I could embrace the thrill of threat and think of the fear pervading my new life as positive, or be reduced to eternal misery if I let negativity grip me. If the ordeals my tormentors put me through when he pimped me out were bearable, wouldn’t my willingness to endure them eventually make me worth looking after? “I’m praying that’s true.” I said.

She wasn’t convinced. “Yeah right.” she said, grinning at me.

I stood up, loosened my jeans and slipped them over my hips. Then I turned round and wedgied my knickers enough so she could see the scabbed up, X shaped wound inside my thigh more clearly. I spared her the other one. “Oh my god!” she said.

Once I’d put myself back together I told her “Oh my god” wasn’t even half of it. It was so much worse. He’d been through all my photos and my contacts and selected the people he fancied. My life would be ruined if I didn’t recruit them for him to play with too. “What do you mean?” she asked.

“I have to give him you.” I said.
 
Arching my back on my knees with my legs spread is an element of fantasy I think about often. It presents my rose as a target beautifully, which makes it a powerful display of submission for me. If I lived with a RL Master it would thrill me to try to please him this way. In my fantasies I express my gratitute by risking humiliation in public by displaying myself when we're out. Sometimes it's when we've just parked the car. He locks it and watches me kneel, in the car park or by the side of the road. I pull up my skirt to uncover my knickers, show myself off and stay there until he's satisfied. I care deeply who walks past and it frightens me to think he'll keep me disgraced until at least someone has noticed me. He kicks my rose gently to tell me to get up. I put myself back together having shown him he can make me do this whenever he pleases. He expects to of course.
 
The things you want to do to me are psychologically disturbing as well as sexually. I'm scared of you, not just because of how you want to hurt me but because I'm very submissive and it wildly excites me to be controlled by you. It makes my heart pound to think that you can force me to display my arse whenever you want me to and I'll willingly let you penetrate me however you want. I couldn't bear the thought of you humiliating me by taking my arsehole in public. You wouldn't have to fuck me. I'd be so thrilled by being degraded I'd stand still with my feet apart and let people watch me patiently waiting while you lift my skirt, and cut a hole in my knickers. They'd think I was such a dirty slut when you pushed your chosen butt plug up my arse wouldn't they. Would it have a long furry tail?

I'd be close to tears in shame as you make me walk with you. My short skirt wouldn't fall over the butt plug's tail and everyone would see the curves of my arse and what you'd done to me. Would you snarl, "Don't you dare cry you fucking filthy whore!" in my ear, to remind me how completely you own me?

For me, your degradation and humiliation of me would feel like affection. I'd be so intoxicated by the thrill of your cruelty that I'd never leave. Your brutality would make me yours because I could never imagine how empty and lost I'd feel if you weren't there to reduce me to your whore. In time I would learn to want you up my arse and I'd only ever wear short skirts and easy knickers to tempt you.

Would my dependence become romance? Would my wicked thrill become love when I realised I couldn't live without the constant threat of your desire to humiliate me? Who knows?

I want to feel anxious whenever you're behind me. Does that make sense?
 
KurvyKate said:
Arching my back on my knees with my legs spread is an element of fantasy I think about often. It presents my rose as a target beautifully, which makes it a powerful display of submission for me. If I lived with a RL Master it would thrill me to try to please him this way. In my fantasies I express my gratitute by risking humiliation in public by displaying myself when we're out. Sometimes it's when we've just parked the car. He locks it and watches me kneel, in the car park or by the side of the road. I pull up my skirt to uncover my knickers, show myself off and stay there until he's satisfied. I care deeply who walks past and it frightens me to think he'll keep me disgraced until at least someone has noticed me. He kicks my rose gently to tell me to get up. I put myself back together having shown him he can make me do this whenever he pleases. He expects to of course.
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Only a slave understands the beauty of supplication before its owner. That comfort of having no choice, no freedom to express free will at all. To give up all such modern notions for the ability to be completely owned and enslaved to Master or Mistress’s will is truly the most gorgeous sensation.

It is similar for the dominant partner, to see the slave give up everything including dignity in such a display of submission is equally beautiful. Vanillas might not understand it, but modern consensual slavery with its attendant subservience, bondage, and punishment is truly the most wonderful act of love imaginable.

Even in play, a good session is based on mutual trust, good masters care for their abject slaves, the pay off in moments like these.
 
Loinclothslave1 said:
Only a slave understands the beauty of supplication before its owner. That comfort of having no choice, no freedom to express free will at all. To give up all such modern notions for the ability to be completely owned and enslaved to Master or Mistress’s will is truly the most gorgeous sensation.

It is similar for the dominant partner, to see the slave give up everything including dignity in such a display of submission is equally beautiful. Vanillas might not understand it, but modern consensual slavery with its attendant subservience, bondage, and punishment is truly the most wonderful act of love imaginable.

Even in play, a good session is based on mutual trust, good masters care for their abject slaves, the pay off in moments like these.
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Precise, succinct, profound and beautiful!
 
Yes there was a lot going on and I was having fun. Was I having too much fun? Did you send this email before I made you angry? Yes, please force me to come.

I'm tacked now and this morning my penance seems a little more significant, particularly because it'll be follwed by my shock punishment. My guilt and your disappointment is making me feel desperately subby this morning. I'm feeling the erotic power of shame and I'm worried about where your displeasure will go. I've know I've been naughty.

If you were here I'd want to bring you your crop and present it to you stripped to my knickers. Should I take them off this time, to show you how important my contrition is to me?

I'd crawl up to you and let you take your crop but while I waited for you to sting me I'd kiss your shoes. At first I'd place a gentle touch of my lips on one toe while holding my hands palms down on the floor. I'd wait to see if you let me kiss you. I know kissing your feet is a well worn and obvious cliche but it seems appropriate now. Will it amuse you if I try it?

I'll expect the crop to catch me at any moment, on my back or my arse maybe? I'll kiss your shoe with more meaning. I'll open my mouth and let my toungue touch the leather, I want you to know I can taste it. I'll lick the dust off. I know it's silly. Will you smile? Please smile?

Will you let me lift your foot so I can take your shoe off? If you do I'll take your sock too. You know I'm going to try to kiss your bare foot don't you, if you let me. Please let me? Do you crop me at this point? Does it mean "What are you doing?" If you do I'll keep my arse in the air to make another strike easy for you. I know it's awkward to lean over me. Perhaps you'll crack the sides of my tits?

I'll lick your feet and kiss them as if I'd been priviledged enough to have been allowed your mouth. Please let me take your toes in my mouth. I'll slip my tongue between your toes so you know I'm willing however you taste. Would you laugh at me trying desperately to reconfirm my submission to you. Please laugh at me, please be happy I want to do this.

How many strikes of your crop will I take before you lift my head by my hair and tell me "That's enough Kate, you stupid slut." I'll see in your eyes you still want me won't I? However many times you crop me?

I'd want all this but know I could only hope for it. I'd begin May.i.beg.to.ask.you.if.i.could.fetch.your.crop.please? It would fill my sorry sub's heart with joy if you said yes.

This morning I've edged thinking about how careless and insensitive I've been. I'm sorry. I'm frightened by how it feels to have made you angry and I ache to know you really do know that it's you who ultimately controls me sexually. I've lost some points haven't I? I shouldn't have let him hurt me so much. I should have begged you to do it. I'm sorry. My fear feels beautiful.
 
A slave choosing an instrument of pain before presenting it as they supplicate is a very stimulating image. So you’re in trouble, are you? My only query would be why choose such a tame appliance when it sounds like you clearly deserve far harsher treatment!

Still, it’s a nice effort for a novice. I’m of the opinion that begging to kiss your Master’s feet should be fairly routine. A dedicated slave seeks to serve. I know I love to supplicate before my mistress and, when RL allows, will always welcome her home in this fashion, not because I like it (although I deeply need to submit in this way) but because it pleases her!

If I’m in trouble (and right now I am in dangerous deep trouble of my own doing as I’ve stupidly held back in reporting my latest transgression) then it’s not a simple riding crop but her favourite- the one that hurts so much and leaves deep welts.

I will present that, if she takes it I beg her to strike me while I worship her. It is devestating when she refuses, and means I am in much worse trouble as she denies any attention, which only leads to me groveling harder. I may stay there for hours, stopping only for my duty such as providing her her meal. This will probably become days...

I need to confess, it thrills and scares me what she will do but I know she will be angry. I’m probably many long, knee crushing days away from the cathartic physical punishment, the psychological will be first. She will keep me in suspense and I will never be forgiven which is never a slave’s privilege - we are never forgiven, only punished. I must tell her.

Oh my goodness what happened? You were tortured by someone other than your Master? Without begging Him to? And you think a simple crop and grovel-worship will do the trick? I’m sure He will ignore you for days before telling you to fetch your harshest implements, for your deserved day/s of agony.

A slave disrespecting her Master in such a fashion definitely cannot hope for forgiveness- only pray for it’s harshest punishment, because that’s exactly what it so decidedly deserves.

But for now you must wait, and beg on your knees. If He finally punishes you, you are still His slave. If not, it doesn’t bare to think about.... Good Luck, I hope your richly deserved punishment is severe. So that you may know that you are still truly owned.
 
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Yes I was tortured by someone other than my Master. I was shared with another and although I knew I should not take the pain I was weak and I wanted it. Lust overwhelmed me and I begged to be hurt. I should have been satisfied with playing poor puta esclava, Loinclothslave's wretched whore, but I wanted to feel what she felt and the cruelty she endures. I felt so guilty but the shame of it made my desire burn so fiercely I begged him inflict his worst, insatiable slut that I am.

I felt so filthy I had to.
 
I just post stuff in this thread. It's stories, thoughts, inspiration from correspondence with my friends, basically the kinky filth I think about. I like it public because it's a forum, this is a thread and I love the idea that someone else might talk to me about it. Write whatever you like people, I'm interested. Lately, my lovely friend Loinclothslave1 has been torturing me by text with wonderful, sweet brutality. I've been enthralled and some of my previous posts have been about that, and one session in particular where my Master shared me with him. What's that? It was more than sexy texting, ask me!

This week I was trapped in a wheelie bin with screws turned through it from the outside, into my genitals. We enjoyed that. I thought I'd dig up an old story from years ago on a similar theme. Here it is.......

Sorry

I made a mistake, I failed a challenge and now I face punishment by painful and public humiliation. Tonight we're having a party to celebrate my disgrace and provide me with the persecution I deserve.

I'm standing on our landing between the bathroom and the stairs naked except for my knickers, a pair of four inch heels and a short spreader bar holding my feet about twenty four inches apart. My wrists are tied behind me in the small of my back to stop me interfering with a leather strap placed inside my pants. It runs from just below the little pink bow on the front, down between my legs, up between my arse cheeks, forcing them apart slightly. It ends near the base of my spine.

Screwed into it from the outside, through the fabric of my knickers, are a series of two inch long wood screws. At the moment they don't protrude through the inside much and I can't really feel them, but they will later. I expect that because hanging from a chain round my neck is a screwdriver, available for whoever feels like it to wind the screws inwards, into the soft flesh of my genitals as far and as hard as they like. I'm not sorry.

I'm not sorry because I've been waiting for the first of our guests to arrive for about half an hour. I've known this was going to happen to me for days and the thought of it has kept me excited, tense and distracted every second of them. Soon they'll be here and I'm so scared I can hardly breathe. I'm sick with apprehension and my heart is thundering in my chest so hard it hurts.

I know these people, they're mostly friends but I know they could bring dangerous strangers unfamiliar with the games we play. Most of our guests will be playful and they'll torture me gently until I plead "Oh fuck, please stop!" They'll leave the sharp points of the screws embedded in my pink bits just enough to make my punishment worthwhile. I can cope with that. As uncomfortable as it will be, it's not that which frightens me badly.

The horror I fear most is the screwdriver falling into the wrong hands, the hands of someone who doesn't appreciate my brutal vulnerability. Later, his humanity dissolved in alcohol, the tormentor I have yet to meet will find me. As the threat of that approaches inevitability, the more intense my thrill becomes. At the point just before my fantasy retribution breaks over me for real I'll be ready for anything. I pray my luck's in, I pray it'll be bearable. Without that destination, I cannot have embarked on this journey of wild, self discovery. I know I should be thankful.

Downstairs I hear the front door open, cheerful greeting and laughter. "Is this the right place?" I hear someone ask. "The right place?" I think, holding my frantic breath so I can listen. "It's a bitch to find, middle of bloody nowhere!" someone else exclaims. I hear our host respond but I can't quite make out the words because I'm startled by the implication that none of tonight's people know us. "They're just locking the car." he says, whoever he is. "They?" I wonder. Oh god, how many are there?

”Upstairs is she?" the first voice asks and I hear footsteps on the base of the staircase. "Fuck!" I think. "OK, now I'm sorry!"
 
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¡Puta! puta esclava

A slut like you deserves your pain. This is meant to be punishment, not a game!

I will turn the screws until you plead “oh fuck, please stop!” And make one more precise and vicious turn of the screw, just because it will amuse me and I know you not only deserve it, but secretly crave it!

Will I turn the screws another notch as you scream and beg for mercy? Will you suggest and beg for an alternative degradation instead? Is it embarrassing that everyone can see this strange tormenter wears a loincloth and chains as he tortures Her? That you are such a lowly slutty whore that even a slave is above you?
 
For Loinclothslave1

I was often humiliated in front of our friends, well, those for whom the shock wore off! "You're such a slut Kate." they joked. "Yeah I know." I'd laugh. I speculated for ages with my boyfriend on what would happen if we risked offering them a glimpse of the kinky slut I really am. We tested them by handcuffing me before they came round to our house. We pretended we'd mislaid the key. I thought my heart might burst waiting for them to arrive.

"Into that are you?" his mate asked him. "She loves it." he said, grinning at me. After the ice had been broken we went further. I wore less and less and we discovered who appreciated my shame and who'd rather not be a part of it. Our social gatherings polarised into with Kate or without Kate evenings and attracted a different circle of friends. Once we'd established that and we knew everyone present would be comfortable with the erotic intensity of what we we're doing, my boyfriend let them touch me. They were mostly men of course, and Alison. The first time she stood with her mouth hanging open, watching while one of them forced my head back with a handful of my hair. We were in the kitchen and he pushed me up against the cooker. He dared slip his other hand in the front of my knickers, easy because all I was wearing apart from those was a short see through top to show off my tits. He growled "You fucking whore." in my ear. Oh god it was lovely. Alison was stunned speechless by my depravity. Sometimes she plays too now.

In time, the more adventurous of our friends asked if they might introduce me to other people they knew. We realised that what they knew of these peripheral friendships was mostly kinky and sooner or later I was mentioned on line. Sometimes someone new would be introduced as "interested in meeting me." That is he expected to be allowed to grope me or watch while someone else did. I was often restrained and unable to resist. Strangers made our game sordid and dirty and I became "Filthy Kate". Strangers are a more exquisite fear, they bring unforeseen dangers. Eventually someone wanted to torture me.

We talked about how far that should go because BF was clearly turned on by the idea and encouraged by how desperately I wanted to try it. To facilitate it we invented a new game in which he assumed the role of my Master. I handed over complete control of my sex life because I wanted my boundaries set by someone else, someone I trusted. He would sanction or deny the discomfort our guests wanted to inflict on me and I was bound to obedience. If I tapped out, I would be severely punished. I'll remember how it felt to agree to that forever. Holy fuck, what a thrill!

I'm thrilled now, waiting to be tortured.

I don't recognise the voice or any of the others I hear shortly afterwards, there are women too. These adventures always escalate. They develop a life of their own and yet another participate is always another step down into the erotic horror my sex life has become. A woman appears on the landing followed shortly afterwards by another. They're middle aged, dressed casually and obviously expected me to be here. "You're Kate then?" one of them asks. It's a stupid question, who else would do this? I'm panting too hard to say "Of course, pleased to meet you." All I can think of is the screws poised to penetrate my crotch. I'm available.

BF comes up next and explains that tonight I've been offered to someone with an alternative perspective. My two middles aged acquaintances are going to watch me experience real slavery, but I'm not the slave, I'm the slave's purpose. I'm bewildered. Above the noise of my frantic breathing I hear what sounds like the clank of chains. I've no idea what's happening as the man in them crawls onto the landing. I'm shocked by how filthy he is. I don't mean kinky enough to be chained, I mean dirty as if he hasn't been hosed down for weeks. He's naked apart from the tattered rag he's wearing as a loincloth. His mistress steps onto the landing behind him. She kicks him out of her way so she can confront me. BF offers me to her with a wave of his hand and a nod at her as if to say "Be my guest." Tonight's game is theirs.

For a moment she stands looking into my eyes as if she wants to know what I'm thinking. I'm scared, what the fuck's going on? "Do you think he deserves her?" she asks the women. They agree he doesn't.

She's wearing a loose skirt with a belt and from that hang a coiled bull whip, an evil looking scourge and a crop. There's not room to swing a whip that long up here. Her wretched slave looks like he's already tasted it. She chooses the crop and lightly taps both my tits before smacking my right nipple with it, making me yelp. Then she rattles it against the screws in my knickers and gives me a playful whack on the inside of my thighs. "Do you know what we going to do?" I shake my head because I know nothing. Is she going to whip me? Oh fuck I might fail!

No she's not. She takes the screwdriver from around my neck and drops it on the floor between my feet. Her slave will stay on his knees, he's not allowed to stand. He's not allowed to look up, he's not allowed anything. I'm available as temptation. BF smiles as she explains I've already met this man on line and indulged his wicked fantasies. I've swapped messages in which I've claimed I rubbed myself off while he told me how he'd like to torture my sex organs. "Have you done that?" she asks, smirking. I have. Apparently so has he and she caught him. He's not allowed erection without permission. His punishment for that will be to fulfil his fantasy in real life, she's arranged the opportunity with my boyfriend.

I'm astonished to watch her move behind him and drive him forward with a series of blows on his back and buttocks with her crop. He's crawls up to me, shaking. I can smell him sweat. His hands are trembling as he picks up the screwdriver against the weight of his chains and tries to place the point in the head of one of my screws.

The women are her friends. They're here to enjoy her humiliating him. I notice a wedding ring on her hand and as he tries to turn the screw into me, I see he has one too. They're married, to each other?

She thrashes him hard and harder still as he continues to wind the screws in. Sometimes he stops to rest before selecting another screw and she gives him a moment's respite, until he tries again. It's surreal, I can't believe it's happening. I flinch and jump under the crop's impact, not just in sympathy but because I feel it through the screws he's holding as he flinches too. Soon they're deep enough to frighten me. The women watch him punished, BF watches the horror on my face.

He must have taken a hundred lashes by the time he's turned the screw's sharp points into my rose and my tail hole. I'm sure I'm wounded. The pain is awful and I realise the cruelty in the game is in making one of us tap out first. I can't believe he can take such a whipping and it occurs to me that maybe his mistress will not allow failure. She'll skin him first.

"Try that one." BF calmly suggests above my squealing. He means the one which will stab my clit. I present myself, hips pushed forward to let her slave find the necessary angle from his place between my legs. He's thrashed until I feel the point impale my hood and I know if it pierces my clit I'll die in agony. "Stop please!" I scream. "I'm sorry, I can't cope." I gasp.

BF is elated. I'm going to be punished, which knowing him, will entail months of domestic slavery and nothing but motorsport on television! However she wants me punished to her satisfaction too. After all I deserve it for tempting her slave. She finds her phone, logs on to Discord and scrolls up something. It's one of my messages to him. She shows BF .............

"I'll lay in the dirt and beg you to quence my thirst both for piss and the shame of what I want you to do to me. I'll be puta esclava for as long as it takes for you to force me to swallow your piss, for you to soak my hair and my clothing and for you to profoundly wreck my dignity. I'll lift my skirt and spread my legs to let you piss on my knickers. They are never dirty enough for such a slut as me. I thought you'd leave me. You'd put your cock away, zip up your fly and return to your coffee. I'd crawl back in later, wet, stinking and totally humiliated."

I watch his eyebrows slide up his forehead then he looks at me, needing truth. "Did you write that?" he asks. Fuck!

I'm going to be forced to beg to suck the wretch's loincloth. Or the screws go further in!
 
¡Puta! Puta esclava... slutty cum whore that you are.

So that’s how this came to be, you started by playing innocent humiliation games with your friends in typical slut fashion.

Then you escalate, allowing the brave ones who are interested to grope you. All while your BF watches.

As if that wasn’t humiliating enough you start bringing in strangers to your sick depraved game- now none of your friends are in any doubt that you’re a vim-slut only good for one thing! Well, as things develop maybe two things....

So you are giving up all sexual and punishment control to your BF? You say you want torture? Have you any idea as to where this might lead, you filthy slut?

The creation of Filthy Kate?! So I am just a tool to you? Well slut, I guess that’s right as you’re really just good for one thing even at this point.

I comment on a reply to a thread here and so you text me? First to clarify a point you posted, but all the time your agenda was to reveal your horrific sexual nature, to not only be fucked like a dirty 2cent whore but to be punished as a slave bitch?

That you sought only domination and would try to entrap an admitted slave to give you your heart’s desire? Tempting this slave to take you without mercy

Filthy Kate, you are such a puta esclava - a slave whore. Dirty defiled filth!

so it turns out I have very little real control but use you anyway. This slave never knew the thrill of domination - it never had a desire to do that, content with its life of humiliation and regular chastisement. Instead your slut mind forced me to Want to try.
When Mistress found out, I was in hot water. Literally hot water before 20 minutes, she scalded me.

yes she had indeed whipped me earlier including a cruel beating with her scourge flail.

yes I arrived in my slave skirt and chains. For my humiliation as much as yours!

when you at last tap kit, Mistress changes to her scourge and I will be punished in terror snd despair.

oh yes, you are indeed to taste my piss through my torn dirty slave skirt! You must clean up any mess as I suffer the scourge while I get above your head.
——————


You will be humiliated - now everyone can truly see just how filthy a slut you are. Just as in play, I piss onto my disgustingly filthy slave skirt and make you drink,

By the time you have finished I am screaming with each stroke because mistress used her short flagrim to scourge me while I cruelly pinned you - but st least this slut knows it’s lowly status and mine.

Thank Ghod your BF knew what Mistress wanted. You’re damn right she would have torn my skin off with a whip like this. I was never informed that I might have a choice to tap out. You were always the only one to tap out.

Thank you puta esclava for explaining. Just so you know, I’m still recovering from the crop and scourge?

if your BF ever needs you tortured again- Mistress promises to come.

Thank you !
 
Just so you know, puta esclava is the wretched whore I role play with my wicked friend Loinclothslave1 who tortures her without mercy during the weeks I'm available. She suffers mostly on Discord where our conversations often drift onto the subject of my own subjugation. I too am something of a whore and I spent the week leading up to this last message behaving like one. I thought I'd like to share it with you..........

“I thought he was coming back today? I promise no edging in the morning. The 12 or so I already inflicted seem adequate for now…"

He'll be home in few hours. In case I'm asked to show these messages, or feel I should, which I do because I love to be required to report my arousal to my Master, you writing "I promise no edging in the morning." is incriminating me. Often he's picked up on subtleties like this and accused me of letting others control me.

Of course it's a subby thrill for me to naturally let that happen and if I'm not careful I can easily become intoxicated and seamlessly drift into an obedience I'm denied. I did that last time. If I'm ever going to be shared again, and I want to be, I'm going to have to be very careful and mindful of the fact that I'm an incorrigible slut.

When you're torturing poor puta esclava, things like nailing her nipples are so extreme it's plainly obvious shouting commands at her is pure fantasy. However guiding my edging is real. I need to point out, in writing, for my Master, that I'll edge or not if I want to, because I'm allowed to touch myself. It's only touching myself as far as I'm allowed to go, right up to the point of orgasm but never beyond. My orgasms are his alone to control.

I used you to excite me by encouraging you to curse me. It thrills me so much to think that someone else thinks I'm a dirty whore and that given the chance I'd willingly offer myself sexually to anyone who wanted me. The greater thrill is in being prevented from doing that by someone who's control over me pervades all my erotic thoughts.

My submission to my Master is a beautiful joy, it's precious to me and I understand perfectly the rest of my wicked on line sex life is only possible with his consent. Here's the erotic paradox………..

In reality you are at liberty to write anything you want. That makes you dangerous and exciting to talk to. Obviously it's such a wild ride it can drive me to the point of orgasm over and over again. I need you to be free to express your thoughts so, yes, trying to incriminate me is hot. My constant fear is that my Master will find indiscretion in my correspondence with you even if none was intended. He has a sense of humour and I’m sure he’ll smile if he finds it. I love being watched, I love being treated unfairly and I feel as precarious as hell knowing that every word either of us writes might be used as evidence against me. Oh fuck, that's glorious!

I can't deny I woke up wanting to log on here and wanting you to be here too at some point. After all we've enjoyed this week I think I'm going to miss the intensity of it. I'm feeling as nervous as hell, worried that I've had too much fun and my Master is going to sanction me for it. Have I committed a punishable offence? I'm certain I haven't but I can't escape feeling guilty. I can't get the thought out of my head that feels this filthy should be wrong. Of course that's exactly why it's such a profound thrill. I imagine my Master, having allowed me to go exploring sex on my own, wanting to know what I did. I imagine "Well?" and his expectation that I might have slipped up, again. I'm going to send him this message because I want him to judge me.

I'm not allowed tricky secrets or clever deceit. My lines are read between and however carefully I try to imply that my sins were justifiable or somehow less than I'm admitting, he'll know if I'm trying to hide. I've spent so much time with you this week because he couldn't be with me on line, but he's always with me. He's in my head, reading my thoughts and I'm grateful for his presence because that makes everything else I do make me feel owned ever more completely.

There are chains in this, painful punishments, tasks and ordeals I suffer, but they're not my real bonds. My real restraint is my freedom, the emotion behind my first promise to submit to him and offer him my freedom as his. When I send him this message it'll feel like kneeling before him, praying he'll enjoy my adventure. I'll be terrified of what he might think of me. At some point he'll send me an email and I'll know. My inbox will frighten me almost witless and I'll need to compose myself before I open his reply. It's an exquisite fear. Holy fuck I love it!

I'm still wearing the same dirty knickers I wore last night. They're black and in the daylight I've noticed I've polished a shiny patch on the front. They're going in the bin before my real life lover gets home because I don't want to have to explain how that happened. I'm still wearing them because I don't want my week to finish. I don't want to have to put my kink back in it's box. Of course I'll be fine as soon as my real life distracts me, I always am. This will be the beautiful headful of wickedness I'll think of until next time.

I was knackered last night and fell into bed and a deep sleep easily. I'll admit when my Master forces me to come, he does it in the morning when I'm fresh and rested. I edged for him earlier this week, in the morning while I begged to be forced to come. I needed it badly then but as you know, he's been busy since and no news is “No".

I often wake up hot in kink weeks. I'm still wearing the same dirty knickers because for the next couple of hours, I'm still Filthy Kate.
 
A lady walks into a doctor’s consulting room glassy eyed, holding a handkerchief over her nose and mouth as if something is irritating her. She sits down when offered a chair then sneezes. She begins to breathe heavily and the doctor is shocked to see her slip one hand down the front of her skirt. It’s soon apparent that she’s excited erotically and although she continues to sneeze, within minutes she’s spread her legs, allowing her skirt to ride up her thighs and reveal what she’s doing inside her knickers. Then lost in it, she slips off her chair onto the floor.

Her free hand pulls her shirt open and squeezes her breasts as she moans and squirms at the doctor’s feet. “Oh god!” she sighs and soon her distraction escalates into a shuddering orgasm, leaving her shaking and gasping for breath.

“I’m sorry.” she says, having recovered enough later to remember where she is. Stunned, the doctor listens to her explain that the sneezing fits she suffers from lead somehow to the onset of irresistible, uncontrollable orgasms. He’s never heard of anything like it. As she climbs back onto her chair and restores her clothing he asks her if she’s taking anything for such a peculiar and debilitating condition.

“Yeah.” she purrs, ”Pepper!”
 
I had to come, that is achieve orgasm, I'd been told to. I'm in denial most of the time but sometimes I need my "hormones balanced", as he calls it. I wrote this down to save it. It's the fantasy I used to get my head in gear and excite me.

Waiting

I was a waitress in a restaurant for the purposes of erotic fantasy, in bed one night. I imagined one table gave me a particularly difficult time. They kept me running around as if all they wanted was to bully me. This wasn't good enough, that wasn't right, they didn't like the way I served them and seemed to be deliberately fussy as if they enjoyed baiting me for the sport in it. After a while I realised, as a table, they fancied me. I don't mean the simple sexual attraction a man and woman might experience, I mean they fancied me collectively, for something. I saw wickedness in their eyes as they complained. I saw the ominous smirk on their faces as they wondered what I'd do about it, whatever the next problem they invented was. As the evening wore on my attempts to satisfy them began to feel dangerous. I noticed them watch me.

When they'd finished their main course I cleared away their dirty plates but where I would have walked around the table to collect them, my fussing was apparently irritating. "Can't you reach from there?" I could, so I did, leaning over the table to pick up the furthest plate. I felt a hand slide up the back of my left thigh, under my skirt. Of course I reacted. I stood up straight, shocked, but with my other hand already full of crockery I couldn't exactly brush the intrusion away.

"Go on, get on with it." They meant carry on clearing the table and smiled at me, daring me to protest, but I didn't. Consequently they made me stand in the same place to hand round the dessert menus. They caught my eye as I walked over with them, indicating that they wanted me vulnerable again. Nervously I did as I was told, and leant over the table to offer a menu just as I'd taken a dirty plate. This time the hand explored the inside of my thigh, I felt knuckles against the inside of my right one as his thumb brushed the crotch of my knickers. "Fuck!" Should I let this happen?

There were other diners. I looked round quickly as I spun away from further trouble but no one else had seen what happened. I walked away feeling flushed with embarrassment and something like indignant, but nothing like the outrage I should have felt. Scared, I asked my colleague to take that table's order for dessert but she returned without it. "They want you." she said.

Heart thumping, I approached the table with my pad and my pen thinking about where I should stand this time, in the same place yet again? That would be such a provocation wouldn't it! I thought about it. Actually doing it frightened me but I can't deny it thrilled me too. It excited me to know what they wanted, no, not for dessert. I lifted my pen and asked for their order with an enquiring glance but they laughed at me for being too far away. I would need to come closer. So I did, I'm such a tart!

I stood waiting while the front of my skirt was lifted to gift the table my knickers to look at. The other tables were all behind me and I allowed my humiliation knowing that to the other punters I looked as if I was simply doing my job. I felt filthy.

One of them held my skirt up while I took the order, trying to write it legibly with shaking hands. I'd have thanked them for it politely if I hadn't been breathless. They had me for dessert along with the ice cream and the apple pie. I knew they would and wanted them to. I stood close to the table after I'd placed their dishes on it and held my skirt up myself to invite them to touch me. They didn't eat their ice cream, they dropped it in the front of my underwear and spread it between my legs. They tried me with a knife handle, slipping it into me easily then fucked me with it, all with a furtive eye on the rest of the restaurant and a grin on their faces while I let them do it. I moved my feet apart a little, I had to, I couldn't help it.

I'm sure my willingness amazed them. Was I simply a dirty slut to them? I felt myself getting too hot and had to push them away. I put my skirt down and marched briskly to the washroom with melting ice cream running down my legs, anxious to escape. I'd have made an obvious mess of the restaurant carpet if I hadn't and their mauling would have become too much for me to hide. My colleague watched me hurry past, red faced and distressed, with her mouth hanging open. Had she seen my disgrace? I sat gasping sexual exhilaration for a while, wondering if I might have fucked up my job.

Once I'd cleaned myself up as best I could and calmed down, sort of, I discovered they were still there, they'd waited for me, and only me, to serve their coffee. They wordlessly acknowledged me while I obliged, me and my dreadful but impressive obedience. I felt guilty, "I'm sorry." I whispered. They weren't.

My colleague took their money. I avoided the discomfort of my shame by being elsewhere. "They've booked the back room privately." she told me later, and as if that was more incredible still, she said "And you!"

To be continued.........
 
This story is what would happen if my fantasy came to life. He asked me to write it for him, from here it's his fantasy too.

Waiting Part 2............

It all made perfect sense in hindsight. I know things do, but at the time I was confused by my own wickedness, I wasn’t thinking straight. After the night I’d made such a shameless exhibition of myself I was stressed by the thought of that private booking at work and my part in it, because I obviously had one. For most of the week after my disgraceful display of reckless lust I’d swung between profound regret and the undeniable thrill of doing it again, or worse. Either I’d be intoxicated by it just as helplessly or be overwhelmed by the gravity (stupidity) of the risk I would take if negativity or common sense got the better of me. It would go one way or the other. I thought seriously about simply bottling out, lots, but then my boss would have to give the money back. I’d be Princess Popular then wouldn’t I?

That week my house was broken into. My first response was “Do I need this, you bastards!” They came in through a broken window. I called the Police but by the time they sent an officer round I was sure nothing I could admit to owning had been taken. They’d stolen my toy box from under my bed. I called it “Just a box of stuff.” “Anything of value?” the policeman asked. No, not really. Would I like to describe the contents? No I bloody wouldn’t! I’d waited in all day, the day of my private booking, and just before my hero in blue turned up I received a call from work to tell me I’d need to follow some instructions to do with that. I answered the door to let him in still on the phone.

Vicky, my colleague on duty that afternoon, giggled as she told me there’d been some sort of arrangement made and our boss had told her to keep out of the way. “There’s been a van load.” she said and “Dunno, it’s all hush hush.” when I asked what the load was. “They’ve left a present for you.” she laughed, “I’m supposed to give it to you when you get here."

While I was talking to her my policeman took a casual look round the house. If I’d been wealthy and influential I’m sure everything would have been dusted for finger prints but Kate Grindall’s scruffy hovel wasn’t worth the bother. If there’d been other break ins locally the villain would probably get caught. Neither of us had time to worry about it however and he left inconclusively. I would relieve Vicky in a couple of hours and needed to get ready, and think myself into the adventure zone. The question of why on earth my burglar wanted my toy box and nothing else would have to wait until I had the head space to worry about it. Then I discovered he’d been in my underwear drawer and stolen all my best knickers. “Fucking pervert!” I cursed, out loud.

By the time I made it into work for our 7 o’clock shift change I felt tense and that strange cocktail of emotion, that blend of fear and excitement I always get when I’m about to do something wildly irresponsible. The erotic power in it is undeniable and of course I knew I’d been booked for sex, or something sexy at least. Vicky greeted me with a beaming grin as she handed me a package. I saw her notice my hands were shaking as I took it. “Are they here yet?” I asked. “Yeah but you have to open that first.” she said, wanting to find out what it was.

The first thing I found was a plain card which read “Enter the back room wearing these.” “It’s clothes.” I told her and unfolded a short pleated skirt. My tack pad fell out of it, landing on the floor between us. “Holy fuck!” I cursed and bent down to snatch it up before Vicky got a good look at it. I raced for the washroom hoping I might panic in peace. “What is it?” she shouted after me. “Don’t you have a home to go to?” I shouted back.

So you know, my tack pad is a piece of neoprene sheet with drawing pins in it. I play with it when I’m alone by putting it in my knickers between my legs, points inwards, to inflict discomfort on me sexually. I keep it in my missing toy box. Why was it here now? You should also know I have a prolific on line sex life, it’s deliciously kinky and I’m an incorrigible slut when I’m upstairs alone in my office, with my playmates safely half a world away.

I locked myself in the washroom as the realisation dawned that I hadn’t been robbed, I’d been set up and those people I let handle me a week ago knew I would be. I felt sick and almost wet myself at the thought of my wickedness turning up in real life to bite me. Oh fuck, they knew where I lived. Kinky Kate wanted to play at being controlled? I looked at myself in the mirror, frightened for real and thought “Well you bloody well are now!” Who are they? Which of my monsters do I face in that room?

“Wear these”? I took my sensible, conservative waitress uniform skirt off and stepped into my scandalous new one, so scared my trembling hands could hardly cope with the zips. I pulled it over my hips wracking my brain to remember who I’d described myself to in detail. Who knew what size I was? I thought “I’m in so much trouble!” when it fitted. Kate the real tart in the mirror looked back at me horrified. “Fitted” is a stupid word for something so hopelessly inadequate as clothing.

There was at least a 10cm gap between her stocking tops and the hem of her skirt from my angle. From the point of view of her seated customers she would look provocatively displayed. I turned round and watched her bend down to see how much of her knickers she exposed when she did. “Oh god!”

Then there was my tack pad. I slipped it between my thighs and let my underwear settle on top of it, pressing the sharp points gently into my rose. At home I love that feeling but in public? I worked out that if I stood bolt upright my crotch might not be visible, but waitresses don’t do that much. I wasn’t a waitress, I was a whore. Now I’d find out whose.

I honestly thought my heart would burst as I walked carefully out of the washroom. Vicky hadn’t gone home, of course. When she saw me she held her face in her hands, mouth and eyes wide open in outraged delight. I ignored her and walked to the back room door, listening for a while in order to detect conversation. How many were there, were they the same people, the ones I now knew had come looking for me? There was nothing, no sound at all.

Before I opened the door I had to wipe the sweat off my palms on my little skirt so I could grip the handle. Inside just one man sat on the large leather sofa we keep as part of this room’s private party furniture. I hadn’t a clue who he was, until he spoke. “We meet at last, my writer slave.” he said, smiling at me.

After months of chatting away, typing my dark desires and being thrilled by what he wanted to do to me, I was lost for words. I was stunned speechless, confused by instantly recalling everything I’d told him about myself. I wanted to greet him but couldn’t think of how to, or speak past the lump in my throat. I didn’t have a clue what to call him, I didn’t know his name.

As he stood up I tried to explain the shock of all this had scrambled my intelligence and I managed “Sorry, I’m…..” but he didn’t let me finish. “I’m yours?” he suggested I might have said. “Are you?” he asked, “Really?” He told me we’d chat later because we did indeed have much to talk about but first I’d enjoy the opportunity to enjoy my filthy fantasies for real. “Isn’t that what you want?” I couldn’t believe this was happening, I didn’t know.

“My friends loved you.” he said stepping up to me. I put my hands behind my back, to hide them, and because that seemed somehow appropriate. He stroked my hair and held one of my heaving breasts for a moment to feel me panting in turmoil. “I’m sorry, I’m scared.” I tried. He was pleased by that. “Good, you should be.” He put his hand up my skirt and pressed my tack pad into me, making me gasp in pain and observed how obedient I was, in real life too. “I knew you’d turn up.” he said.

He told me I should be grateful too. He made the fact that he’d sent his friends to test me an indication of how committed I should be. Well he had to make sure I was as easily temptable as I’d claimed I was. He’d come all the way from wherever it was, and brought all this……….

My missing toy box was on the table next to his imported one, not a lowly dog eared cardboard one like mine but a proper, heavy case, full of unimaginable terrors no doubt. My missing underwear was in a pile on the table as well.

Had he done all this for me? How sweet of him. “I need to be sure my investment will be worthwhile.” he said, so he hadn’t then. He asked me to remember how I’d agonised over the decision to offer him control over my on line sex life and how turned on I’d been by having to make it. “OK, I submit.” was easy to type he said. Of course he’d never doubted my integrity. I always signed off ”Faithful Kate XX” and he knew I was but didn’t I wonder how it would feel to mean it for real?

He ran the fingers of his left hand up through my hair, gripped a fist full of it to hold me still then rocked my tack pad to work the pins against my rose with his right, making me yelp. I moved my feet apart to give him room to do it, tempted.

To show me the anchor points installed all around the room he twisted my head, making sure I’d seen them all. “You have a pretty good idea of what I want.” he said. I did. “Well?”

Did I mention how susceptible I am to erotic intoxication? The idea that he’d do all this in order to poison me with lust was breathtaking and I was instantly overwhelmed by it. “I’ll do it, I’ll submit, for real.” I told him. “Sure?” he said, laughing. I was.

He let me go and looked at me eye to eye and said “OK I’ll give you one last chance, yes or no? If you answer yes you’re fucked.” I smiled at that, he likes a joke, he’s always found it funny to put me on the spot, to panic me into rash, ill considered choices. I answered “Yes.” because I’d become conditioned, trained as he’d see it, to want what he did. I’d never, ever answered no, I couldn’t, that was unthinkable.

He knew that and kissed me for it.

To be continued.............
 
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