"A country Orgy"
My Mother's Job
Morning Rituals
The alarm bell on Michelle's bedside timer went off specifically on schedule, as it did each weekday daylight. The recorded sounds of herself being flogged into a deliriously overjoyed and ecstatic state of arousal once again dragged Michelle from the depths of her dreams into alertness.
The recording began calmly, the volume little by little building in mountain bike with the rhythm and the roughness of the thumping. The soft, unsteady sound of her own pronounce, thanking her Master for each cutting lash of the flogger across her spread-eagled body and begging to be allowed to come, never abortive to send a spill out of adrenaline coursing through her sleep-drugged way of thinking, and goad her into awareness. Naked under her satin sheets, she relived the steady, carefully paced, and leisurely torrent of blows; her quantity remembering each delicious stroke, recollection how she had writhed and twisted beneath the anguished assault. Not for relief from the sorrow or the repression that stretched her limbs stiff. No, Michelle's accent was begging for acquiescence to come while her naked, clean-shaven cunt was flogged to a clever red hue.
She had been spread-eagled on the floor that night - ?why not, this very patch in her own family - when this whipping had been administered. Her slut sisters, Katia, Loretta, and Veronica had been there as well. Veronica had apprehended the video camera video recording the intimate fine points of Michelle's drop into the petite, dark corner in her way of thinking; into that particular, secret place where all submissives go when the insistent and nearly more than you can bear pain unlocks and opens the flap for them. When the microphone was not next to Michelle's tackle, it was between her legs, capturing the cute, wet sound of gentle strands of leather smack against her softest flesh – wet, enflamed, aroused flesh.
And Katia, oh that cute, wicked and tainted Katia. When she had seized the candle upright over Michelle's deceased, to let Michelle see what she was about to do, Michelle had sobbed and begged her not to pour the hellish swell onto her helpless, naked flesh. The sounds of her loud, warbling cry was stifled then, as Katia swung her buttress over Michelle and lowered her cunt onto Michelle's countenance to smother her with her pale shiny skin – the cunt with the haunting words tattooed down the length of her labia in an open, cursive script: on one side, the language "Fuck me" and on the other, "Conquer me".
Michelle heard her own muzzled shrieks beneath Katia's bald pussy, grinding against her face; along with the sounds of herself thrashing against the leather manacles. She heard the leather flogger beating against her wet, spasming cunt.
As always, the tape ended right before Michelle had been agreed permission to occur. It cut off appropriate after Katia had bent forwards to splash the candle polish across Michelle's clit, timing each decline so it landed exact before the next blazing blow of the flogger. It always finished with that concluding, gut-wrenching scream of bind as her way of thinking had burst through the ultimate barriers towards the orgasm that had crooked her soul classified out, twisting and soaking wet her body resembling a wet rub having its last decline of moisture wrung from it.
The fasten always ended appropriate there, right before she had, irrevocably, heard the terms she had been so desperately ahead of you for, the terminology of freedom and make available, the words that told her that she had content her Master. Come...now! Michelle was always so frantic and distraught with lust and pain and wanting and needing that she always climaxed the direct her mind registered that distinct, soft syllable... 'now'. The dim, quiet, even-paced manner Master Damien understood the word 'now' was always so powerful, so commanding. No female, owned property or not, could ever resist him when he articulated that word...'now'.
She knew that she was never acceptable to come when she was alone resembling this in the break of day. Master Damien always insisted that she leave for work with her cunt dripping wet with yearn for and throbbing with a thirst for cock, and with an avid hunger for gender.
She had been awakened resembling this for two weeks now. It was the same each break of day. Being catapulted into self-awareness and immediate arousal at the same instance; being led to the knife skirt of orgasm by the recorded sounds of herself being flogged and whipped; and being dragged, screaming and begging, into that dark realm within herself, to the house that she feared yet craved at the same period. The duality of the event – pain/pleasure, concern/acceptance, submission/deliverance – never futile to arouse and amaze her.
Acknowledging to herself that she was a obedient - a slave, a painslut, a fuckslut, and every other kind of slut that her Master hunted her to be - felt so breathtaking that she proclaimed it aloud to the humankind each morning.
"This slut belongs to her Master. This cunt is my Master's cunt. It belongs to him. And this cute, round, smooth ass. Burn my ass with the ferocity of your passion."
Michelle moaned faintly as she caressed herself in front of the mirror.
"Thank you, Master, for allowing me to be your slut. I will be yours, for as protracted as you will have me."
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