The Playboy's Proposition (13 page)

He said, “You can’t have any idea how hot you look right
now. I know you’ve taken a lot tonight, but you’re going to have to give me
even more. I’ve got to fuck you, Nonnie. Now, with you spread out like this.
I’ve got to do it. And I want you to tell me you can take it.”

I thought vaguely, why is he telling me this? Why doesn’t he
just do as he pleases?

I said, “Yes, Master. I can if that’s what you want.”

He growled. “Good, because there’s something else I want,
too. I want you to wear the rest of the hood.”

I stiffened. No, please.

He said, “I want the penis gag in your mouth while I fuck
you. It will please me if you can do this very, very hard thing for me.”

I began to tremble.

He continued, “Sweet, sexy, special Nonnie. Can you give me
what I want?”

Even as I still trembled I whispered, “Yes ... Master.”

He kissed me hard and swift on the mouth. Then he was off
and gone.

I felt a wail growing inside me. I had agreed to accept the
thing that, even if unconsciously and automatically for a while there, had been
a large part of motivating me to manage the punishments.

Now, I was going to be gagged anyway. Not because I failed,
but because he wanted it. Oh God. I was afraid.

Soon Michael was next to me, adjusting my hood and fiddling
about with the fastenings.

He said in a raspy voice, “No preliminaries, Nonnie. I’ve
got have you now. So open wide, as wide as you can.”

I did. He pushed the big round piece of latex into my mouth,
stretching my jaw nearly as far as it would go. The gag filled most of my
mouth, mashing my tongue. It was far worse than holding the dildo had been.

He shoved it all the way home. It reached a good distance
back into my mouth. My trembling intensified while Michael finished fitting the
gag into place and securing the section to the rest of the hood.

I breathed hard through my nose. My eyes teared up and I
thought I would panic. How would I breathe if I started crying again?

Panic.

Michael said, “Breathe, baby. Breathe. You can breathe
around the gag, not a lot, but enough. Just try.”

I did. I discovered that air could travel past the gag, but
only at the corners of my mouth and through my teeth, and only if I kept my
lips pulled back as far as possible. I thought the leather must be vented in
that area as well, to let air flow in and out.

It was horrible, but at least it wouldn’t kill me.

Michael said, “There you go. Breathe. Look at you. Your
pretty head is all swallowed up by that ugly, black hood. You’re all sweaty
under there, aren’t you? Poor thing. You’re blind, can’t hardly breathe, and
now you won’t be able to hear me fuck you.”

With that, he turned on the music.

It seemed I hardly had time to take two breaths, to only
begin to understand how awful it was to be totally confined in this hood, mouth
and all, to realize that the saliva would pool at the back of my throat because
of the way my head was pinned back. I had only managed to achieve one hard
gulp.

And Michael plowed into me. I say plowed because that’s what
it was. The force of him slamming his dick into my pussy sent shock waves
through my body. He had always liked to fuck me hard, but this was different,
probably because my body was so clamped in place, there was no slack left to
absorb any of the force.

He pulled all the way out, then he plowed into me again. My
cries of pain were, to the outside world, likely muffled by the gag and the
hood. But to me, my screams rose high and loud, eclipsing the volume of the
dark thumping music.

I began to cry hard, almost immediately. I regretted it,
because it made breathing all the harder, but I couldn’t stop myself. I sobbed
while he rammed into my poor, aching and swollen body.

Michael dug his hands under the strap that stretched across
my waist, giving him even more purchase. He ground his crotch into mine. I
could feel the leather of his pants rubbing against my tender flesh and knew he
hadn’t bothered removing his pants, had just pulled out his cock to get right
to fucking me.

I cried, and made that funny high pitched keening and
whimpering that was quickly becoming familiar to me.

I tried to remember his praises and how proud he was of me,
how he was doing this to me because I turned him on so much he couldn’t resist
it. It was his desire for me that was driving his hips forward. It was desire
he felt when he looked at me stretched out helpless and profaned, the hood
dehumanizing me, but exciting him.

And understanding this, dwelling on those thoughts, made it
easier. It didn’t dull any of the pain, or the terror of the hood and the other
restraints, but it did make my life easier by reassuring me that all my
suffering was worth it. It was worth it because this was what he wanted of me,
to use me in this way.

I could and would bear this for him.

When he pulled his cock out of me and grabbed the butt plug
and fucked my ass with it, I shook and shrieked, and cried no and no and no,
but I took it and would keep taking it as long as he wanted to do it to me.

Then he was in my pussy again, shoving into me, over and
over. And he slapped a few times at my breasts, and twisted my nipples.

And I could bear it.

Then he shut off the music and said, “I want you to come. Do
you hear me in there? I want you to come.”

He rubbed a finger, or a thumb, whichever, over my swollen
clit. Feather light. Rapid little flicks.

I sobbed. No, I thought, he’s finally given me something
impossible to do. I can’t come for him. The pain is too much. The hood is too
much. The restraints are too much. I can’t come for him. It was impossible.

He slowed the speed and lessened the force of his thrusts,
then pushed himself against me, making a circular motion. And he played with my
clit. Flicking lightly, again and again. Rubbing in light little circles, over
and over.

Thanks to the gentling of his thrusts, which lessened some
of my pain, I thought I might be feeling some stirrings of heat between my
legs. But I still cried. I would fail him. After all this, I would fail him.

He said, “I want to come with that little pussy of yours
twitching tight around my dick. Dammit. Come!”

I focused on finding the pleasure in what he was doing, and
less on simply surviving his onslaught. I fought for it. The pressure grew in
my belly.

I keened, and let the warmth grow between my legs. I could
do this. I could. I would. If I focused hard enough. I would do this for him.

And then he twisted the hell out of my nipples and
commanded, “Come. Come like the hot little piece you are!”

And miracle of miracles, I did.

I didn’t come hard, not like the other times I orgasmed with
him. But I did come. Enough, anyway. It was amazing to find any pleasure, no
matter how small, in all this darkness, pain and confinement.

The music was turned on again, and Michael grabbed hold of
the strap around my waist, returned to pounding into me with full vigor.

I cried. He came.

Chapter 9

It seemed like it took forever for Michael to get me
unhooked and unstrapped from everything. The first thing he removed was the
awful gag. He gave me water, but what I wanted more than anything was to be
released completely.

He chafed my wrists and ankles once they were free, and so
on and so forth. I waited for my tears to stop falling. Finally, I was unbound
from the table and he lifted me off of it, setting me on a chair, or a stool,
nearby.

All the while, the dark music continued to thump and groan
in my ears.

The last thing he removed was the hood. I knew I had to look
like hell under the thing, but I didn’t care. I wanted it gone. It was bliss
when he turned off the music and loosened the laces. He eased it over my head.

The air in the room, which had seemed so hot for most of the
night, felt wonderfully cool on my wet cheeks and forehead.

Michael pushed my sweat- and tear-soaked hair away from my
face. With a wet cloth, he wiped my cheeks and chin, and eyelids.

I gloried in the cool wetness of the cloth, and in being
able to hear clearly again, to be released from the confines of the music. The
sounds around me were sharp and distinct. I hadn’t realized how much the hood
had dulled my hearing even when the music wasn’t on.

Michael had me open my eyes just a little, telling me to
take my time adjusting to the light. Even as dimly as the lights were set, they
hurt my eyes, so I shut them again. Michael chuckled and kissed me, and said it
was okay if I wanted to keep them closed. He’d take care of me.

He scooped me up into his arms and carried me out of the
room. I lay limply in his arms, more exhausted than I could ever remember
being. It took all my energy to continue trying to open my eyes.

By the time we arrived in a huge bathroom, I had managed to
get my eyes most of the way open. I noted vaguely that the bathroom was big,
bigger than my bedroom. It was tiled in earth tones. Very manly, I thought, all
fuzzy and wondering. I noted nothing else.

Michael carried me over to a large shower, so large that a
dozen people could have showered at the same time.

He lowered me to the floor, but kept an arm around my waist
to steady me while I found my footing. I leaned against the wall while Michael
turned on the water and removed his pants. Where was his pirate shirt? Long
gone in the heat of the other room, I presumed.

He helped me into the rear of the shower and held me under
the multiple jets that sprayed about chest high.

Michael kept the water chilly, but not cold, which helped
cool down my overheated body. After gently lathering up my hair, he rinsed off
the soap under a rainfall shower head attached to the ceiling.

My hair clean, and plastered against the sides of my head,
Michael turned off the shower jets then lathered up the rest of my body. He had
to work one-handed because one of his arms remained wrapped around my waist,
helping to keep me upright, safe and steady at his side.

The shower was a comfort, but it wasn’t serving to perk me
up any. I continued to feel removed, sluggish.

As Michael ran his soap-slicked hands over my limp body, I
could tell from the sound of his breathing that he was becoming aroused again.
I glanced down and saw his cock standing out firm and proud in the streams of
water.

He stroked me everywhere. And his breathing grew harsher and
harsher.

He said, his voice gravelly, “I know you’re sore, and
exhausted, but I’m going to have to take you again. You’ll be okay. You can do
this for me, can’t you?”

It didn’t really sound like a question, not the way he said
it.

I was lethargic, without a will of my own. I said, “Yes,
Master.”

It was easy to say.

He made a deep, low sound, then lowered me to the floor. The
floor was covered in some rubber material that was stiff but not as hard as
tiles would have been. He turned me so I lay on my stomach, my breasts pressed
into the rubber, my arms and legs askew, my head turned to the side.

Water from the rainfall shower head poured in a gentle
stream onto me, rolling past my nose and mouth, down the sides of my body, on
its way to the drain. The water ran in my eyes, so I let my lids close, but was
unable to find the energy to squeeze them tightly shut.

Then he was on top of me, spreading my legs apart. He
entered me slowly, from behind, and we were slick from the soap and water.

I was sore. So sore. My insides burned from him, scratchy
and fiery, even though he slid in and out of me with ease, and without hard
thrusts. It didn’t matter if it hurt. Michael wanted it.

He fucked me slowly and steadily. His weight pressed down on
me, pinning me to the floor, and he wrapped a hand in my hair, too. He needn’t
have bothered. I couldn’t have moved if I had wanted. I wouldn’t have moved.

He pumped faster as he went along. At one point, he stopped,
lathered up a finger and slid it into my sorely-used asshole. My muscles were
slack from exhaustion, so there was no resistance this time.

As he fingered my ass, I thought about how this would be the
way of it now, that I must learn to accept the discomfort and embarrassment of
it. He would probably always want to use me like this in the future.

While he pushed his finger in and out of my ass, he said,
gruff in my ear, “I love to hear that sound you make. The whimpering. It’s so
sexy.”

I hadn’t realized I was making any sound. How odd. He was
right. I was making that whimpering, keening sound of mine. Oh well. I warmed
to know it aroused him.

He soon returned to fucking my pussy, a slow and slick
slide. He put his hand under my belly, between me and the floor and found my
aching clit. He rubbed it and asked me if I could come again.

I said I didn’t know.

He toyed with my clitoris some more and asked, “Now? Do you
think you could now?”

I considered it. Maybe. There was some warmth there, bleeding
through the discomfort and general exhaustion.

I said, “Not yet, but maybe. Maybe.”

He said, “Good. Keep it up. Tell me when you’re ready, but
don’t come.”

I murmured that I wouldn’t. It was surreal, lying on the
floor of the shower, the water streaming around me, Michael shoving into my
limp body, his fingers squeezing my aching clit and me trying to clamp down on
his dick, to let the pressure build so I could orgasm for him.

It took some time, but I managed to do what he wanted. My
tongue felt thick and clumsy. I croaked, “I’m ready, Master.”

He said, “Good,” and pulled his hand out from beneath me.
“Don’t come. Take this fucking with no reward.”

I sighed deeply. He could have what he wanted. Why not? This
body belonged to him, to be used as he pleased.

The pressure buzzed in my belly, pressure he had put there
but told me I couldn’t release.

And then my haze was broken and a powerful zing of heat
lanced through my body.

What he was doing, this taking of my wilted body, this
manhandling, denying me anything of my own, it suddenly struck me as sensual,
remarkably sensual. His utter disregard for what I might wish, that I came a
distant second to his desires ...

My muscles tightened and sprang back to life. In that
instant, I was terrifically aroused, wanted to come, could have done so easily.

But I wouldn’t. Because he didn’t want me to. Because it
excited him to deny me.

He took it from me and it was his command that I surrender.
So I did.

I had learned that night how easy something difficult can be,
if you only thought about it in the right way. My muscles wilted back into
limpness, to obey my master’s bidding.

I felt this excite him, the tensing then the release. He
pumped into me, over and over, then he came hard, his growl of release mingling
with my cries, cries that hadn’t stopped for a moment since he first entered
me.

Soon he picked me up from the floor, cleaned me up again,
and held me tight, telling me how wonderful I was, beyond his expectations. He
dried me off briskly then helped me into his big bed.

He lay me on my stomach and rubbed some kind of
herbal-scented ointment onto my aching back and buttocks and legs. Then he
turned me over and massaged the stuff into my breasts and belly, all over
really. It stung a little but had a soothing warmth, too. He said it would make
me feel better, and it did.

When he finished, he pulled up the covers and lay beside me,
spooning against my back. He put his arm around my waist and snugged up against
me.

He whispered, “The sight of you in that hood and on that
table ... I’ll be dreaming of you tonight.”

I murmured something nonsensical. I couldn’t speak or think
anymore. I drifted off into sleep with his fingertips brushing my stomach.

He truly must have been dreaming of me. I don’t know how
long I slept before I woke up to the sharp pang of his fingers twisting their
way into my pussy. He wanted me again? Already?

He couldn’t desire me again so soon. I was too sore. Too
sore.

He said gruffly, “I know it hurts, Sweet. But you’ll be
okay. I know you can take it.”

He told me not to move, then pulled his fingers out of me
and opened the drawer in the nightstand. He closed it again, then lay back down
behind me. He stuck his hand between my legs. It was slick with lubricant now,
and it didn’t hurt as badly when he pushed his fingers past my folds and
entered me again.

He fingered me a few more times, then he guided his cock up
against my opening and groaned as he pushed into me.

He set a slow pace, shoving my upper leg up and out of his
way, giving him greater access to me.

I was groggy from sleep and exhaustion, and from not wanting
him to do this to me. So I cried softly and let the tears drizzle onto the
pillow. My eyes felt scratchy from all the crying I had done that night. But
the tears worked as a release for me, too, and I couldn’t do without them.

Michael shushed me, said I would be okay, that I was a
natural sub, special. So special, and he wanted me so very much.

I let him have what he wanted and I wondered how many times
he had fucked me that night. I counted it up. Once on the table. Once in the
shower. Once right now. Three. Was it really only three? Then why was I so
damned sore?

I remembered when he had fingered me even though I wasn’t
very wet, and I think that had set me up for this disaster. He had chafed the
tender skin inside me, abraded the flesh with his dry fingers. Had he done that
on purpose, knowing that later it would mean discomfort and even some real
pain?

In addition, he had fucked me harder tonight than he ever
had before. The pounding on the table had been particularly painful, and had
left my pelvic bone and the puffy flesh of my mound sensitive to pressure.

So this explained why I was so sore. But reasons didn’t
matter, not really. I let it go.

I knew Michael wouldn’t leave my poor asshole alone, so I
wasn’t surprised when he stuck his thumb in there and fucked me until I cried
harder.

Mostly, he replayed the scene from the shower, with not much
difference. He even brought me to the verge of orgasm again before shutting me
down, demanding I sacrifice my pleasure for him. Again. I did everything he
asked. Again.

Just like in the shower, I became turned on by it all,
somewhere deep down inside myself. Turned on that he wanted me defenseless like
this, that he took advantage of my fatigue, that he was ruthless in his desire
for my abused body.

I couldn’t act on this arousal because I was exhausted, and
because he told me I couldn’t orgasm, but the heat was there all the same,
bubbling below the surface and fueling my submission.

After he came in me, and wiped us both clean, he snuggled
back against me and let me sleep.

He kissed me awake and I grumbled that I didn’t want to.

He chuckled low into my ear and said, “It’s okay. It’s time
to wake up. I’ll drive you home, in your car, then take a cab back here.”

I mumbled, “What time is it?”

He told me it was about seven a.m., plenty of time for me to
make it home and call in sick to work. Then I could go back to bed for more
sleep.

Call in sick? What an excellent idea.

True to his word, he got me dressed, in the car then into my
apartment by eight o’clock. I called in to work. I had dozed in the car all the
way over, and was still drowsy and groggy, plus my voice was rough from my
night of sobbing and screaming, so it wasn’t difficult to sell illness to my
boss.

I stood there in my living room, not knowing what to do
next. I hadn’t gotten much sleep, and I felt the loss of every minute.
Restorative sleep. I desperately needed it. My aching bones, and swollen,
scratchy eyes required it. But I couldn’t seem to summon up the drive to
actually get to the bedroom.

Michael shook his head at me, then chivvied me into my
bedroom, stripped me naked and tucked me into bed.

He sat beside me and looked at me for a while, studying my
face, and lips and the outline of my body under the blanket. He slipped a hand
under the covers and closed his fingers over my breast.

I blinked up at him. And waited.

He thumbed across my nipple, swollen and tender from
everything he had already done to it.

It hurt. I waited.

He said, “There’s something about the way you submit to me,
Nonnie. It’s driving me wild.”

He trailed his fingers down between my legs. I automatically
spread my legs for him and inhaled sharply when he stroked across my abraded
flesh.

His pale blue eyes gazed down at me. A muscle twitched in
his jaw, a jaw stubbled with a five o’clock shadow. It looked good on him.