The master grabbed my collar with a sudden, firm tug, and I stumbled forward, barely keeping my balance as he led me across the room like a dog. His grip was unrelenting, the cool leather of the collar digging into my neck as he dragged me toward a large, black leather sofa that seemed to dominate the space. He didn’t say a word, but his presence alone was enough to make my heart race.
When we reached the sofa, he shoved me down onto the cool, smooth leather. My back pressed against the firm surface, and before I could even adjust, his hand grabbed a fistful of my hair and yanked my head back sharply. The sudden motion made me gasp, my neck straining as he held me there, pinned beneath his control.
Without hesitation, he reached for a length of rope. I felt the rough texture against my skin as he looped it around a space on my collar and secured it tightly to the legs of the sofa. He tied the knot with deliberate precision, each pull of the rope rendering me more immobile. When he finally stepped back, I couldn’t move my head at all—my vision was fixed upward, the dim lighting casting shadows across the room.
His hand appeared in my peripheral vision, starting at my shoulder and moving excruciatingly slowly down my torso. The leather of his gloves brushed against my skin as his hand traveled downward, his touch maddeningly light. When he reached my crotch, still confined in the chastity cage, he paused, his fingers grazing the cold metal.
He gave the cage a sharp shake, the pressure sending a mix of pain and pleasure through me. “Pathetic,” he muttered, his tone laced with disdain. “You’re a pathetic little sub. You don’t even deserve to feel my hand on you.”
His words stung, but they also sent a thrill through me, my body reacting despite the humiliation. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t respond, and even if I could, I wouldn’t have known what to say.
He leaned in closer, his voice low and mocking. “Why did you choose this—” he gestured toward the cage with a flick of his fingers—“over the Wicked Cripple I offered?”
I hesitated, my throat dry. The truth burned inside me, but admitting it felt impossible. Finally, I forced the words out. “I… I wanted to come.”
He laughed, the sound sharp and condescending. “You wanted to come? That’s your excuse? Foolish.” He shook his head, his smirk widening. “I would have let you come anyway. But now? Now you’ve locked yourself away. You’ve trapped yourself in your own stupidity.”
His words left me feeling smaller than ever, but then his tone shifted slightly, the edge softening just a fraction. “If you work well,” he said, his voice dropping lower, “if you do exactly as I say, maybe—maybe—I’ll let you come.”
Relief and gratitude flooded through me, and I blurted out, “Thank you.”
He froze, his expression darkening instantly. “Thank you, sir,” he corrected, his voice cold and sharp. “Have you forgotten your place already?”
Before I could apologize, he untied the rope around my neck with quick, practiced movements. My head fell forward slightly as I caught my breath, but I didn’t have time to recover. He pushed me forward, his hand pressing down on the back of my head until my face was buried in the leather of the sofa. My body folded, my knees still on the floor, and my bare ass was now on full display.
I heard the faint swish of the riding crop cutting through the air as he paced behind me. My heart pounded in anticipation, my skin prickling with fear and excitement. “How many do you think you can take?” he asked, his tone almost teasing.
My mind raced. The truth was that I didn’t think I could take any. I was weak, and the idea of even one strike was terrifying. But I forced myself to respond, my voice trembling. “Five,” I whispered.
He laughed, the sound sending a shiver down my spine. “Five?” he repeated, clearly amused. “Then I’ll double it.”
I barely had time to process his words before the first strike landed. The riding crop bit into my skin with a sharp, stinging pain that stole the breath from my lungs. I gasped, my hands gripping the edge of the sofa as I tried to steady myself.
The second strike came quickly, then the third, each one worse than the last. By the fourth, tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, and I focused desperately on anything to distract myself. My gaze landed on the wet spot on the sofa where my gag had been. Droplets of saliva clung to the leather, slowly rolling downward, and I watched them with an almost obsessive focus, trying to block out the pain.
He continued, the strikes relentless, the sound of the crop meeting my skin echoing through the room. By the time he reached ten, my body was trembling, my breath coming in shallow gasps. But somehow, despite the pain, despite the humiliation, I felt more alive than ever.
He left me there, my body trembling and my skin burning from the crop’s relentless strikes. I could hear his footsteps fading away, leaving me alone in the silence. My face remained pressed against the leather sofa, the damp spot from my gag still in view. My breathing was shallow, every slight shift of my body reminding me of the fiery ache on my exposed rear.
From the kitchen, I could hear faint sounds—the clinking of glass, the rush of water, and the low hum of his voice as he seemed to move around with practiced ease. My mind raced, desperate and aching for relief, but also consumed by a longing I couldn’t quite explain. My throat was dry, parched from the gag and the strain of everything, and all I could think about was how much I wanted a drink. I hoped, naively, that he’d return with one for me. But deep down, I knew better.
When he came back, I heard him before I saw him. The confident steps, the quiet creak of leather, and then the faint sound of liquid sloshing as he took a deliberate swig of his drink. I didn’t dare to move, my body still submissively positioned with my head down and my rear exposed. I felt completely vulnerable, waiting for his next move.
He stood behind me for a moment, and I could feel his gaze on my reddened skin. “Your ass looks very red and sore,” he remarked, his tone cool and observational, as if he were commenting on a piece of art.
I flinched instinctively when I felt his hand against my skin, the light touch sending a jolt through me. My entire body tensed, expecting another sharp strike, another wave of pain.
“Calm down,” he said softly, his voice unexpectedly soothing. “I’m not going to hurt you. Not right now.”
His hand moved gently over my skin, tracing the lines of the marks he’d left. The touch was tender, almost reverent, as though he were admiring his own handiwork. My breathing slowed slightly, though I remained on edge, unsure of what to expect. Then, to my surprise, I felt the warmth of his lips pressing against my tender flesh.
The kiss was soft, almost disarming in its gentleness. He continued to caress and kiss my reddened skin, his movements slow and deliberate. I could feel the tension in my body beginning to melt away, replaced by a strange sense of comfort. His hands squeezed me lightly, and I couldn’t help but gasp as he worked his way inward, closer to the center.
When his lips found my hole, I froze, the sensation completely unexpected. He kissed it softly at first, his hands firmly gripping my hips to keep me in place. The mix of gentleness and dominance was intoxicating, leaving me breathless and unable to focus on anything but him. His lips and tongue moved with a deliberate slowness, each touch sending shivers through my body. He gently entered me with his tongue. I longed to be rimmed by him but he kept it short. A tease.
I wanted to speak, to say something—anything—but the words wouldn’t come. All I could do was stay there, head down, letting him take control. And as he kissed and caressed me, I realized just how completely he owned me in that moment.
I wish I had known what was coming next, but the anticipation made it all the more intoxicating. He spread me open gently, his fingers firm yet careful, as if savoring every moment of control. I could feel my breathing quicken as his lips returned, softer this time, teasing my most vulnerable spot.
I felt myself trembling, not just from the sensation but from the overwhelming mix of desire and submission. I was entirely his. Each touch, each kiss seemed to pull me deeper into this world where he was everything.
As he worked, I could sense his breathing growing heavier. He didn’t speak, but the energy in the room shifted, charged with a tension that sent shivers down my spine. I dared to believe he was enjoying this as much as I was, though he remained so composed, so utterly in control.
I started to push back slightly, instinctively seeking more, craving more, but he chuckled low and stopped me with a firm squeeze. “Easy,” he murmured. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
The words, simple as they were, sent a jolt through me. I obeyed immediately, forcing myself to stay still even as the sensations overwhelmed me. I could feel his arousal pressing against me now, unmistakable and growing. It was maddening.
I wanted to beg for him, for all of him, but I couldn’t form the words. My body spoke for me, responding to every touch, every breath he took. And as he continued, I realized that this was exactly where I wanted to be—beneath him, for him, completely and utterly his.
He guided me upstairs, his head firmly pushing against my back, controlling my every step. I stumbled slightly, unsure of where I was being led. Each movement felt deliberate, his pace unhurried but commanding. When we reached the top of the stairs, I could sense a shift in the air—a heavy stillness, colder somehow.
The door creaked open, and the space swallowed us. It was pitch black, the kind of darkness that made you question the solidity of the ground beneath you. I hesitated, uncertain, but he pressed me forward. My breaths were shallow, the air thick with the faint scent of leather and something else—anticipation, maybe, or fear.
As my eyes strained against the blackness, I felt the wall meet my back. He pushed me against it, firm but not rough, and I could just make out the glint of something metal near my wrists. My heart raced as he methodically secured my hands and feet to the leather restraints fixed to the wall. The straps were tight, but not unbearable—more a reminder of his control than a source of pain.
Finally, he fastened the collar around my neck to the wall, clicking it into place with a sense of finality. The weight of it pressed lightly against my throat, tethering me completely to the wall. I couldn’t move, couldn’t even shift my head without feeling the pull of the restraints. I was utterly immobilized, left entirely to him.
“You’ve been a good boy,” he said, his voice low and steady, cutting through the oppressive darkness. “So no more punishment for now. But…” He leaned in closer, his breath warm against my ear. “You need to wait here and think. Think about whether you truly deserve a master’s touch. A master’s caress.”
My voice came out in a rush, desperate and needy. “I do deserve it. I want it. Please, I—”
He interrupted with a quiet chuckle, his tone dripping with amusement. “No. You need to wait. Learn to wait.”
And then he was gone. I could hear his footsteps fading away, leaving me alone in the darkness. The silence was maddening, each passing second feeling like an eternity. My mind raced. Did I deserve him? Did I truly earn his attention? The questions swirled in my head, doubt creeping in with every moment of stillness.
Time became meaningless. My body ached against the restraints, the leather digging lightly into my skin. My cock throbbed, pressing futilely against the chastity device, a constant reminder of my submission. I couldn’t touch, couldn’t relieve myself, couldn’t do anything but wait.
When he finally returned, it was an hour later—or so I thought. It could have been less, or more. I couldn’t tell anymore. I heard his steps before I saw him, the soft sound of his boots on the floor. He didn’t speak, but I could feel his presence, his power filling the room again.
I realized I was whispering to myself, a quiet monologue about how much I wanted this, how much I wanted him. The words spilled out unconsciously, my voice low and pleading. And then I looked down, noticing the strain of my cock, hard and trapped within the confines of the chastity device.
I felt his eyes on me, and even though I couldn’t see him clearly, I knew he was watching, studying, deciding. My heart pounded in my chest, a mix of fear, longing, and anticipation as I waited for his next move.
The door creaked open, and I heard his footsteps approaching. My heart raced as he entered the room, his presence immediately filling the space. It had been an hour—an excruciating hour of silence, longing, and relentless anticipation. I felt pathetic, desperate for his attention, like a neglected little dog begging for scraps.
He didn’t speak at first, but I could feel his eyes on me, taking in the sight of me restrained and vulnerable. Finally, he began unfastening the restraints at my wrists, then my ankles. The collar was the last to go, and as he removed it, I felt the weight lift from my neck.
Without the support of the restraints, my legs gave out beneath me, and I collapsed to the floor in a heap. My body was drained, trembling from the tension of holding still for so long, and I could feel the exhaustion settling in.
“Your time against the wall is over,” he said, his voice calm yet commanding. He knelt slightly, his hand brushing over the chastity device. “And since you’ve been a good boy, you’ve earned the privilege of freedom.”
With a deliberate motion, he unlocked the device, the click echoing in the quiet room. Relief flooded my body as the restriction was removed, but it was paired with an acute awareness of how exposed I now was.
He pulled the collar from my neck completely and then stood, towering over me. “Now,” he said, his tone serious, “you are completely naked. Completely unrestrained. If you want to leave, this is your chance.”
The words hung in the air, and I froze. I looked up at him, at the powerful figure looming above me, and there wasn’t a shred of doubt in my mind. “No,” I said, my voice firm despite the tremor in it. “I don’t want to leave. I want to stay. I want to stay longer.”
He smiled, a slow, deliberate smile that sent a wave of warmth through me. “Good boy,” he said, the words like a reward in themselves. He leaned down, his hand cupping my chin, and his lips met mine in a kiss.
The kiss started gentle, but it quickly deepened, becoming hungry and aggressive. His hand moved to my neck, pulling me up as he stood, guiding me to my feet. My back hit the wall, and his body pressed against mine, pinning me there.
Our cocks were both hard, rubbing against each other with every shift of our hips. The friction was electric, sending shocks through my body as the kiss grew fiercer. I could feel his strength in every movement, his dominance radiating off him.
My hands, unsure at first, found their way to his sides, pulling him closer. I could feel the leather of his pants against my skin, the texture adding another layer of sensation. The world outside disappeared; there was only him, his touch, his scent, his power.
At that moment, I was completely his, and nothing else mattered.
He looked at me, his expression a mix of authority and calculated patience. “Let’s see how deserving you are,” he said, his voice low and steady, a tone that sent a shiver through me. “Let’s see if you’re truly willing. If you’re truthful about wanting this.”
I remained on the floor, my hands and knees trembling as I tried to hold still. My breath was shallow, and my heart pounded as I watched him move across the room. He stopped at a small table, where a large red candle stood flickering, the flame casting a soft, warm glow in the dim room.
He lifted the candle and turned back to me, his movements deliberate, his presence as commanding as ever. “If you please me,” he said, his eyes locking onto mine, “then I’ll reward you. You’ll get what you’re begging for. But first, you’re going to prove it.”
I swallowed hard, my mouth suddenly dry. I wanted to respond, to affirm my willingness, but no words came. I only nodded, my body taut with anticipation and fear.
He stepped closer, and I could see the molten wax pooling at the candle’s tip. The first drop fell, hitting my shoulder. The heat seared into my skin, sharp and shocking, and I flinched, but I didn’t move away. The pain was intense, radiating outward from the spot where the wax landed, but I bit my tongue, forcing myself to endure it.
“Stay still,” he commanded, his voice sharp.
Another drop fell, this time on my chest, and I clenched my fists against the floor. The wax dripped slowly at first, each drop a test of my resolve. The agony built with every second, but I stayed as still as I could, desperate to prove myself.
He moved closer, tilting the candle further, letting a small stream of wax spill over my skin. The heat was relentless, spreading in jagged paths across my torso. I could feel the wax hardening as it cooled, sticking to me like a second skin. My breathing was ragged, and my body shook with the effort of staying still.
The wax dripped lower, tracing a path down my stomach. I tensed, fear gripping me as the heat inched closer to my crotch. My mind raced, a thousand thoughts colliding at once, but I kept biting down the urge to cry out.
Then it came. The first splash of wax on my balls and cock. The pain was blinding, a raw, searing intensity that pushed me to the edge of my limits. Tears welled in my eyes, spilling down my cheeks unbidden, but I stayed in place, shaking, desperate to endure.
He poured more wax, letting it coat me completely. The sensation was unbearable, the heat seeming to last forever before finally cooling. My thighs were next, the wax painting long, fiery trails down to my knees.
And then, finally, it stopped.
The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the sound of my shallow, uneven breaths. My body felt like it was on fire, every nerve ending screaming, but I stayed on my hands and knees, waiting.
I didn’t dare look up, didn’t dare speak. I waited for his judgment, for him to decide if I was worthy of his touch, his time. My tears mixed with the hardened wax on my body, a testament to the pain I had endured.
I had proved myself—or so I hoped.
Master stood before me, his presence still overwhelming. My body was trembling, not just from the lingering pain of the wax but from the adrenaline coursing through me. He crossed his arms, looking down with an air of authority, and said, “Cool down.”
I nodded, unsure if I was allowed to speak, unsure of anything except that I needed to obey. He frowned, and his voice turned sharp. “Talk to me,” he demanded.
The authority in his tone sent a jolt through me, and I immediately responded, “Yes, sir.” My voice was shaky, but it seemed to satisfy him for the moment.
Without another word, he stepped forward, lifting his boot and stomping it down on me—not with full force, but enough to push me into submission. The hard leather pressed into my hair, scraping down my back as he dragged his foot along my body. I didn’t resist, didn’t move, leaning forward into the pressure.
“Stay down,” he ordered, and I obeyed, my face nearly pressed to the floor. He adjusted his stance, positioning himself so that his groin was directly in front of my face. With a firm grip, he pushed my face into him, burying me against his crotch.
I could feel the tension in his body as he prepared himself, and then it happened. The warm stream of urine hit me, spilling over my face, down my cheeks, and into my mouth. The sensation was overwhelming—hot, humiliating, and utterly consuming. I struggled to take it all, the sheer volume surprising me, and it poured over me like a flood.
The embarrassment burned inside me, the mortifying realization that I was being used like this. Memories of seeing him at the Pride event flashed through my mind. I had been drawn to him then, but I never could have imagined this.
And yet, despite the humiliation, I found myself exhilarated. My heart was racing, my mind spinning, but beneath it all, there was an undeniable satisfaction in knowing I was pleasing him. The humiliation, the submission—it was all worth it because it made him happy.
When he finally finished, he stepped back, letting me fall slightly forward, gasping for air. My body was a mess, wet and trembling, but my heart was full. This was not a story I would ever tell, not something I would admit to anyone, but in that moment, I was exactly where I wanted to be.
Secretly, I was loving every second of it.
Master regarded me for a long moment, his gaze firm but approving. “You’ve been very good,” he said, his voice steady and calm, a small edge of warmth breaking through his usual stern demeanor. He turned, opening a nearby door, and motioned for me to follow.
I rose carefully, still sore and trembling, and followed him through the doorway. The room was dimly lit, and the centerpiece was a large bed with a sleek, black sheet stretched tightly across it. The material gleamed faintly in the light, its smooth, rubbery surface unmistakably designed for the kind of session we were having. The pillows were encased in matching satin, adding an almost luxurious touch to the otherwise stark setting.
“Crawl to the bed,” he commanded, his tone brooking no argument.
I dropped back to my hands and knees, making my way to the bed as instructed. The cool, smooth surface of the sheet greeted my skin as I climbed onto it and laid flat, my stomach pressing against the mattress. The sensation of the material beneath me was unfamiliar but strangely comforting, grounding me in the moment.
Master stood behind me, his movements deliberate as always. “Before I give you what you want,” he said, “you need to be ready.”
I tensed at his words, but I trusted him completely. He began working with slow, methodical care, ensuring I adjusted to the sensations as he prepared me. His hands were firm but patient, coaxing and guiding rather than rushing.
“Relax,” he said firmly, his hand on my back as I tried to let go of my tension.
Over time, I felt my body yielding, my mind and muscles both learning to trust the process. His pace was unhurried, giving me the space to adjust as he took me further than I thought I could go. He occasionally paused, giving me time to breathe deeply and let the sensations settle, ensuring that I was as comfortable as possible despite the intensity.
I felt his hand rest on my lower back for a moment, a gesture that felt almost reassuring. “Good boy,” he murmured, a note of approval that sent a warm glow through me despite the challenges of the experience.
With every moment, I could feel myself becoming more open, not just physically but emotionally, as I surrendered fully to his guidance. My trust in him, and my desire to please him, outweighed everything else.
