The morning of our second meet I am a mess with nerves. I am excited to be seeing him again but I know my trial will be more extreme than last time and I wonder if I am up to it. I shower and dress in the kitty knickers, pink bra, long socks, black skirt and blue sweater he wants me to wear; no make up, no perfume, hair in a ponytail. He has not seen this sweater before and I hope that he will like it. I had said that if it looked like rain I would wear boots: he had said that I was allowed to wear heels so long as they did not make me taller than him: as he is well over six foot and I am only five foot six this is hardly likely. In the event I choose a pair of patent shoes with a small heel over boots or flats. They had not been pre-approved so I hope he will like them. I leave for college where he will be picking me up later, but I cannot get any work done. All I am thinking about is when it will be half past twelve and whether he will be late or early. When it gets to half twelve I realise I have forgotten to go to the shop to buy chocolate. He had told me to get some because we will both miss lunch; it will not do that I forget the one small task he has asked of me so I race to the shop and buy three bars of chocolate, and a sandwich for him in case he is hungry.
I don't go back up to my office but wait outside because it is getting late and I am sure he will be here at any moment. He phones me to tell me that he is in a taxi, and I tell him that I am waiting outside. A few minutes later he calls again to say that he is at number fourteen….number twelve….he sees me: I turn and see the taxi, and he waves from inside. He motions for me to get in, and I do. He is dressed in a grey suit, he looks amazing. I can't stop looking at him, at his hair and suit and face and hands. I had forgotten how attractive he is, or fooled myself into thinking I'd made him up. I steal glances whenever I think he is not looking. He gives me a gadget for the computer and some disks with bondage films on. I show him some photos that he'd asked to see. He asks if I have brought a letter for him; I tell him that I have and that it is in an envelope and everything, and he says he is glad to see that I am taking the court rulings seriously. My knickers are getting damp and I can't wait for us to reach the hotel, but we get stuck in a massive tailback that adds 45 minutes to our journey. I am getting impatient and frustrated; the interminably long cab ride means we will have only two hours instead of three, but at least we are travelling there together. I am sitting so close to him, it is torture not to be able to touch him, torture that he does not touch me.
We arrive at the hotel and he tells me to wait outside; but I have been left no instructions as to how long to wait or where I am to go. I text him to ask but the message does not deliver; I phone him but his phone is switched off. I don't know how long to wait and I need a wee. I always need to wee when I'm excited.
I enter the foyer; he is still at the reception desk: it is taking a long time. He spots me and asks if I am looking for the ladies; I tell him I am and the receptionist points the way. He is still at reception when I come out and I am unsure of what to do: I still don't know what room or even what floor to go to. I study the monitors by the door detailing flight departures and arrivals, but he still is not finished. I walk over to the lift and press the button but the lift comes immediately and I have to get in; he is still not finished at reception. I press for the first floor and it goes up; now I really don't know what to do. I get out, then get back in again and press for the foyer. To my relief I see him coming to the lift when the doors open at ground level; he gets in and stands with his back to me until the doors close and we are alone. I hope that he is going to kiss me in the lift, but I am disappointed.
We reach the second floor and enter the room. I unpack everything I have brought while he uses the bathroom: vibes, bands, pegs, scarves, string, scissors, tape, lube; the chocolate and sandwiches I brought for him; and the collar. He returns and I give him the letter for the court, outlining the terms of my sentence. He lays a small square of white plastic on the floor, before the window, and orders me to stand on it. I am wearing the mask, with the eye holes covered over so that I cannot see out of it. I know that I must not step off my square but I cannot see where its limits are; I wonder how I will be punished if I lose my footing. I hope I do lose my footing.
Next he orders me to undress: he informs me that he has opened the curtains and that anyone outside will see me. I don't believe him: I don't think that he has really opened the curtains, I don't think that anyone can really see me, but I cannot see to verify this for myself. I imagine that it is true; I want to be seen like this. I hope he never tells me whether the curtains were open or not.
I remove my sweater, unzip my skirt, unhook my bra. I am standing in just my kitty knickers, heels and over the knee socks. My nipples are hard and my knickers are damp. I wonder how I look to him and hope he likes what he sees. He is standing behind me, so close I can feel the warmth of his body. I grow wetter. His presence thrills me. He strokes my bare skin; kisses me. His kisses are soft and I am delighted.
He tells me to cross my arms behind my back, then he secures them there with scarves. My balance is shot; I will surely step off the square now. He plays with my nipples, pegs them: I hardly make a sound and think to myself how much better I have coped with this compared to last time. I hope he notices this too. Then he slaps me hard across my backside; I am unprepared and cry out. He peels off my knickers, removes my socks and shoes. I stagger, without sight or my arms to give me balance. The first sting of the cane makes me cry out again; he stuffs my knickers in my mouth to gag me. I am very wet. The caning is short but sharp. I think I take it well.
I am sat on the edge of the bed. He slaps my tits, but it is the slaps to the side of my jaw that make me cry. It is not so much the pain - they were not hard slaps - but the shock, like a child who wasn't expecting it. I feel stunned; I am betrayed: I never expected him to strike me in the face. I am humiliated: it is demeaning. I am cowed: my actions before the court have disgraced him as much as me, and have led to my punishment and his anger. I am ashamed: I liked it. Behind my gag I choke and sob like a child, behind my mask fall tears of shock and hurt.
Still bound, he lies me back on the bed, where he has arranged pillows to raise my hips and pussy. My breathing is wracked: partly because I am still hiccuping sobs and partly because he has told me that this session will be much more intense than last time, and the mandates of the court will only increase the severity of my punishment. I am scared; I do not know if I can withstand what I know I must endure. He explores me and remarks on my wetness.
I am subjected to a pussy flogging and intensive banding. I am unsure whether he is using the spoon or the spatula for the pf; the first few strikes are intense and make me thrash and moan behind my gag. He asks me if I have been counting, but through my pain I have forgotten. He says, 'Oh dear, then we will have to start again from scratch,' and I moan and begin to cry again. But he seems to show mercy as the rest of the pf is much lighter and I am relieved, although I hope the court will not discover his leniency and order that I must be subjected to a harder trial.
The banding, too, is intense. My thighs, calves, stomach, arms, ribs and breasts are covered with criss crossed markings: no inch of flesh is spared. He intersperses his labours with soft kisses to my breasts and throat, to calm and soothe me.
My head is hanging backwards off the end of the bed: it is perfect for him to slide his cock into my throat. It is easier for me to take his length in this position; I barely gag, and after a few thrusts he surprises me with a sudden, copious squirt of cum. I can feel it shooting out of him, landing on my tongue, sliding effortlessly down my throat and I savour it. He asks me if it tasted sweet like last time and it did. I love the taste of his cum.
He unbinds my arms, wriggles me back up the bed, so that I am once more lying with my hips raised against the pillows. He hands me what I can recognise by touch alone as the larger of my two vibrators; he is trying to make me take it in my right hand and I try to take it in my left, because I am left handed. But he forces me to grasp it in my right, and I don't understand until he puts the smaller vibe into my left. The larger vibe slides easily into my soaked pussy; I use the smaller, more intense vibe on my clit and I understand that I am to orgasm for him now. As I work the vibes he gives me random flicks with the bands; at some point I feel his hand at my cunt and I am aware that I am stroking the back of his hand with my fingers and I don't even care if this is not allowed. I like to feel his hand there, I like him to watch me as I use the vibes on myself. I can feel my orgasm building and then ebbing away, time after time, and then suddenly I jerk upright: I have entered a new state. He asks me if I have cum and I shake my head, no; I have not cum, there were no pulses, but I have shot from the pre-orgasmic to the post-orgasmic state without anything in between. It feels like a sacred mystery, impossible to describe, so I do not even try to to explain.
I am led, still masked, and folded over something soft. He has arranged large cushions over the back of a chair, and he binds my wrists to the front legs and my ankles to the back legs. He ties the scarves roughly, pulling the knots tight: it hurts and chafes and makes me gasp, and the position stretches the muscles in my legs painfully, but the cushion is soft against my stomach. I understand that I am to be caned like this, and I am very excited. My position exposes my tenderest parts, both to his eyes and to the cane. He removes my mask long enough for me to see that he has laid the rulings of the court on the seat before me: my punishments, listed in detail, swim before my eyes. How many have I completed? How many still to go? Can I really endure 200 from the cane? My legs are shaking, and not just from the strain. He makes me kiss the rod before the mask is slipped over my eyes once more. I am about to find out how much I can stand.
The caning is intensive. I sob from the first stroke to the last. My ass, my thighs, my calves, even my back and shoulders receive the stinging lash of the cane, although its attentions are hardest on my ass and thighs. The pain is searing; I am lightheaded; my tears flow freely. If I was not tied I would fall.
It is over. I have no idea how many I have taken. He strokes my hair and tells me I have done well and I am pleased and proud. He removes my mask and I am not ashamed that he can see my tears even though I have told him that I do not cry from pain. He unties me and tells me I may now admire my marks. My legs are wobbly but they carry me to the mirror and I am surprised to see that my decoration is far less than I had expected. At our first session I was astonished that there could be so many marks on my behind: the caning that time had not seemed severe enough for so vibrant and detailed a pattern. Today the caning had been far more severe, and yet, the smattering of welts across my ass looked less to me than what should have been there for all I had endured.
We sit on the bed and he feeds me some chocolate. He tells me that he may be coming back to my city soon and I get so excited, bouncing happily up and down, that he tells me to calm down. But I can't calm down, because I had thought that he would not be able to come back to see me for a very long time, and this is very good news. It is not so very far away, and we have had so little time together today. I am excited like it's Christmas.
He lays me back down on the bed and winds scarves around my shoulders and bends my knees back, securing them to the scarves and spreading me wide open. This causes me to start whimpering and sobbing again, because I know I am going to be caned on the inside of my thighs. I am right, but what I do not expect is that my pussy, too, will feel the sting of the cane. He is gentler with me here, the sting of the fibre glass on my wet lips is nothing compared to the searing of my inner thighs; the crack of the cane against my opening exciting me even more. He asks if I want the band across my nipples or across my clit; a nod for clit and a shake for nipples because I am still gagged by my knickers. In my confusion I almost shake my head for no, not nipples, but I manage to gather my wits and nod firmly because I know I can not take the pain of the band across my tender nips again. The first crack of the band on my clit makes me cry out behind my gag; I choke behind my knickers on the second.
He tells me to kiss his balls and I do so joyfully, because I feel this to be a special privilege. I lick them and suck them and take them into my mouth. He pushes his cock into my mouth and fucks my throat, holding me by the hair. He withdraws, and rubs his cock in my face, which I love, then returns to fucking my mouth. He tells me he is going to cum and he floods my mouth; I do not want him to take his cock away so I continue to suck, swirling my tongue over and around his length and into the small opening on the tip. When he withdraws I am unsure of whether I should swallow, but there is a small pearl of cum just squeezing from the tip which he tells me I must not miss; my mouth is full of cum and if I open my mouth I will spill it, so I have to swallow before I lick the tip of his cock clean. Afterwards he unties me and asks me what it was like, and I tell him it was lovely. My answer seems to surprise him but I spoke the truth. I want him to use my mouth for his pleasure. I love the feel and taste of his cock on my tongue, in my throat, and I want him to fuck my face even harder. I am no longer merely a cock worshipper; I am his worshipper.
I watch as he opens the pack of latex gloves and smooths one onto his large hand. He lies me back down and lubes his fingers; the feel of his fingers sliding over my swollen clit and pussy lips is indescribable. He gives me the vibes and tells me I may use them however I want as he does this. I grasp the smaller vibe in my fist but I don't use it; I am enjoying the feel of his fingers sliding over me, watching as he slips two fingers, then three, inside me, and then I throw myself back onto the pillows, still clutching the superfluous vibe, surrendering myself to my pleasure. I feel my pussy being filled, stretched; he works slowly but firmly; I can feel an orgasm building alongside the pain. It hurts; I can feel it like bone against bone; I am split; I am not sure how much more I can take. I cry out, and it is a mixture of pleasure and pain, and they are both intense.
He slides his hand out of me and he is smiling. He tells me I have done it but I am incredulous; he shows me how much of his fist I had taken: past the knuckles he says. I don't quite believe him but he looks very pleased; I collapse back onto the pillows, satisfied, exhausted, and I feel the tears spilling again, for sheer joy at my achievement. I am floating.
He asks me if I want an orgasm; there is time. I tell him that I don't need one; I have had so much pleasure this afternoon and I feel like I have orgasmed many times: I have been perpetually in that state that follows orgasm, that post-orgasmic glow, without once having cum, but I do not know how to explain this to him.
He asks if I want to shower; I glance at my hair in the mirror and decide that it looks ok. I will shower when I get home, I do not want to waste precious time here today.
Then he seems to remember something. I am blindfolded again; he helps me to stand and I am pushed forward over something soft, my ass in the air and my toes and fingertips just brushing the floor. I realise that I am lying across his knees; he is sitting on a chair with a large soft cushion on his lap. I am incredibly excited, and I can't believe that I had forgotten all about the OTK I had so wanted. I wonder if the cushion is for his comfort or for mine, and I regret that I cannot feel him beneath me, but I do not have much time for thoughts before the first smack lands across my raised cheek. Slaps rain down on my ass and thighs, and I raise myself each time to meet them. I would like them harder but I know that it hurts his hand as much as it hurts me so I must not complain. But all too quickly it is over; he tells me I have had the 75 ordered by the court. I want more, so I deliberately speak out of turn and tell him I do not believe that was 75. He gives me another 20, counting them out loud - I like to hear him count my punishment as he delivers it, but it is still not enough so I give him more cheek. He responds with something that might be the cane or it might be bands: whatever it is, it stings and cuts far more than the hand spanks, making me sob although it silences my rebellion. When it is over he tells me I have taken 110, and I feel immensely proud.
It is time to go. I feel both sad and happy. I tell him that I do not believe that the curtains had been open when he told me to undress. He leads me naked to the window and shows me the parking lot outside, I cannot see if there is anybody there who might be able to see me, but I do not care because I am proud to be standing here next to this man.
I wash my face and dress; we pack away all the things and then he kisses me once more, deeply, and I respond as if he is not my Master but my lover; my hands slide around his shoulders to the back of his head and I grip him to me and he lets me do this.
I remember the collar: we had both forgotten about this. He stands behind me and fixes it into place. I lean back into him as much as possible; I love the way it feels to have him standing so close behind me, so tall and powerful and handsome. Time to go. I descend in the lift first and wait for him outside. We find a taxi and it is only seconds to the airport where he is going to fly away from me. He kisses me quickly and I watch him leave until I can no longer see him, swallowed up by the terminal building. As the taxi pulls away I feel tears pricking my eyes again; perhaps I have opened a well.
For the rest of the day I feel like I am high. My mind keeps spinning only one thought - Mmmmmmm - and occasionally I even say this out loud, without meaning to. I fall asleep on the sofa at half past nine, exhausted. When I go to bed I am still thinking 'Mmmmm'; the events of the day and thoughts of what is still to come still racing through my head. I am wet; I touch my pussy gently: I am still very swollen and sore. I can't lie on my front because my nipples are still too tender; the slightest touch even from my sheets feels like razors on them. It takes a long time to reach orgasm, because I must use only the gentlest of touches on my poor abused clit. The orgasm produced twelve strong pulses, but couldn't even begin to compare with the pleasures I'd felt throughout the afternoon.
Several times throughout the session, he teased me with his cock, putting it to my lips, sliding it into my mouth and over my tongue and then withdrawing, not letting me have my pleasure, not letting me have his cum: not yet. I liked this very much. Even more than this, and unlike at our first session, he kissed me frequently on my neck, my throat, my jawline, while I was blinded and tied, in between the strokes of the cane and the pings of the bands. This was ecstasy.
I no longer need him to fuck me. That is to say, my desires are no longer governed by my own will. I am happy to submit my desires to his: what he desires so I do also. If he wishes to fuck me he will, and it will be for his pleasure, and therin will I find mine.