*Did I make you happy?*
She always asked this question servicing her master.
There was nothing she craved more then pleasing the man who owned her.
She was his doll. His plaything. His living, breathing piece of meat to use as he saw fit.
So regardless of if when he returned home, he’d gently caress her face, stroking his warm, loving hands over her soft, porcelain skin before sensually exploring every pore and crevice of her aching body with his hot, wet tongue . . .
. . .or if he would slap her in the face before tearing the clothes away from her milky flesh and violently abuse her holes until she was leaking his baby milk from every opening he had torn through . . .
. . . she would accept her masters desires relentlessly.
For the pain mattered not. The pleasure was merely a luxury. The true reward was hearing that word, being told, ‘Yes’.
‘Yes, you made me happy.’
‘You did such a good job.’
‘You’re such a good girl.’
These words were the keys to make her quiver.
So she would endure every ruthless pounding. Every smack in the face. She’d endure the lashes, the bruises the blood. She’d endure being told that she’s worthless, being spat on and humiliated. She’d endure being choked into unconsciousness, being tied up for hours and being abused like she was bred to be.
She’d endure being broken.
Mentally. Physically. Emotionally.
She was broken. But it was okay because she was his to break.
So when one night, master returned home in a bad mood, she accepted his domination and all of the pain and pleasure that came with it; all of the joy and suffering.
He slapped her until she saw stars. He left rouge hand prints embedded into her creamy, plump behind. He lashed her legs, back and booty and made her count every vicious stroke as the raging, merciless leather violated her sensitive skin.
And she reveled in.
She didn’t beg for mercy or wish for the pain to come to an end.
She simply allowed it to engulf her, ensnare her every sense and fill her with the most intense of satisfaction that only being the best doll for her master could understand.
And so when he unmercifully pried open her tiny rectum and invaded her insides with his thick, veiny memvber, burying his cockhead deep inside of her bowels to gift her more agony than she could have imagined possible. When he then only pulled out to force the taste of her tiny, abused hole down her throat until she truly savored musk of her own ass. When he then withdrew from her tear-stained face and coated her broken, bruised, bloody, body in countless thick ropes of his white cream . . .
She gazed up at her master, nothing more than filthy mess of bodily fluids and fuckmeat flesh, and she asked
*Did I make you happy?*
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/bm795y/did_i_make_you_happy_bdsm_mild_violence_short