“Slut, come here,” calls my Master from the other room.
I am my Master’s slave.
“Slut!” he calls, a bit louder than the last time.
I belong to him, body, mind and soul. My tits are his, my ass is his, my mouth is his to do with as he pleases. My skin is his to bruise, to smack, to whip, to hit, to burn. My mouth is his, to fuck, to use, to serve as a receptacle for his pleasure and release.
“In. Here. Now.”
I am his completely. I do everything he says.
“SLUT!”
Except right now. Right now I am ignoring him, because he is annoying.
“Is somebody looking for a bruising?” Master is standing in the doorway.
Uh-oh.
I think I’m about to be in trouble.
There is time, still, to turn this around. My Master is forgiving. I can tell him sweetly that I didn’t hear him, though I wouldn’t because that wouldn’t be true. I did hear him.
I just didn’t feel like answering.
Master is stupid, thinking I should just jump at his command! What about the breakfast I cooked him and the story I wrote him and the foot-rub I gave him when he came home? Isn’t that enough? What does he do for me, huh? Where are my sexy texts? My mind fucks? Master isn’t dominating me. He’s just looking for free foot massages!
If he thinks he can just become all domineering when he wants something, he has another think coming!
Master is still standing in the doorway. He has his *you better behave or else face on.*
I cannot help it, though. It is easy to grow complacent when Master doesn’t lock me up in a cage and I get to sleep next to him in the comfy bed. I am an employee who has finally had enough with her boss; a five year old child who is tired of being ignored. I am…a brat.
“I am not your slave!” I coyly inform him, even while the back of my brain shouts no no no no no, don’t do that Laura, you will only make him beat you! I have dived into the deep end though, and I am not climbing back out. “I don’t do the things you say,” I tell my Master. God it feels so good. I gain courage and continue, “You can’t just boss me around because you feel like it! You are not my Master!”
“Okay,” says my Master. “I guess you did need that beating.” With a relaxed non-chalance, he reaches for his nearest cane. Master started keeping his “punishment canes” around early on when I moved in for just these sort of occasions. He has distributed them about the condo so there is always one within arms’ reach.
Like now. He brandishes it menacingly and gestures for me to approach.
Immediately the cane makes me rethink the error of my ways and I begin to back pedal.
“No no no Master please don’t please don’t.” And still I don’t apologize, because he was wrong and I was right! And because at the end of the day, I am stubborn.
But Master is stubborn too. And he is the one in charge.
There is no stopping him as my jeans curl down around my ankles and my panties are roughly moved aside.
“How many, do you think? Ten?” says my Master sweetly, as though he is counting out pennies, or candies, or anything besides painful stinging strikes to my behind. I simply whimper angrily in response.
“Ten then. Okay. You will count, and you will thank me for each one.”
I have learned to breathe through the pain. To thank him promptly. To pause only a moment to catch my breath before stating the next number, else he will decide I have waited too long and make us re-start the clock.
The lashing is brutal, my sadistic Master doling out sting after lethal sting. Finally, he reaches ten and I let out my breath, relieved.
“That’ll do for that side. Start from ten again.”
“NOOOOOOOOOOO” I cry. I am so so so so mad at my Master. He changes the rules just for fun! And so, and I know this is not a good idea but I can’t help it, I am in the deep end and the shore has retreated, I couldn’t climb back even if I wanted to.
I clench a fist for courage.
I know it is not a good idea. But the voice in the back of my head says to make it count, because he will punish me no matter what. And so I take my hand, which will be restrained shortly after this act, open it wide, and I smack him, as hard as I can, across the face.
This act of aggression will not go forgiven. Indeed it cannot, because in this game of cat and mouse I must forever be the mouse.
And so my Master goes from careful punishment to full-on beating, so hard and so quickly that I immediately regret my insolence. I lose count of the strikes while I writhe underneath him, begging him to stop, the pain intolerable. The cane beats my ass raw and when he descends down to the sensitive flesh of my thighs I shriek so loud he stuffs a pillow in my mouth, never missing a beat.
He switches implements…a ruler, I think, or maybe a belt. I don’t know because I am frantically hiding from his touch but he is stronger and he catches me, pins me down, my face lost in the cushions of the couch but the rest of my body exposed.
Because, now I remember. I am no longer lulled into complacency by TV shows and snuggles and my Master’s cuteness.
I remember, now, that he owns me.
And when the beatings finally subside, so does my bratty-ness, replaced by a peaceful tranquility that beats in my blood. As endorphins flood through me I surrender. I am his. I belong to him, body mind and soul. I will do whatever he says.
And whether I am sleeping on the hard, cold, floor or in my Master’s arms in the world’s comfiest bed, I belong to him completely.
THE END
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Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/54z2yn/when_i_forget_who_owns_me_mf_bdsm_sadism