You were already displeased, I now realize. From the text.
You: cunt
Me: Yes, Sir.
You: That was 2 minutes late.
Me: I’m sorry.
You: Is three minutes not long enough to reply to your Sir? Do you have important slut things to do?
Me: It’s long enough, Sir. I don’t know why I didn’t respond sooner.
You: You don’t know why. I want you dressed when I get home. We’re going out.
Me: Yes. Thank you, Sir.
I choose the black dress. You like the way that one fits, my breasts more than sufficiently holding up the bodice, and a “v” notched into the front, framing my cleavage. The hem, hitting at mid-thigh, covers what’s yours, and shows off what’s also yours. Going out is always a dance; you want to show off your slut, but you don’t want her to draw inappropriate notice. You want men to view me, to like what they see, and also to know I am your property. I keep my pussy bare for you, under the dress. You will tell me if you want me to wear panties. I remove my black leather collar with the ring in the front, replace it with the choker necklace you require. It’s to remind me when we’re out — as if I would forget — that no matter where we go, what we do, what anyone says, I am yours. The breasts, though they may be dressed up for “public,” are taken; the pussy, always within your reach, naked or clothed, is owned. The thighs, the feet, the wrists, the hands, the tongue, the lips. Yours. The ass, wrapped snugly by this dress, yours. For your pleasure, Sir.
My legs are still tan from a summer of running, and I keep my feet nice for you. The skin is soft and smooth, and the nails, polished in deep red. I slip the heels on, their thin, delicate straps inviting attention to the slender curve of my ankles. My hair, parted on the side and pulled tight, is wound into a sleek bun at the nape of my neck, and I fix my face the way you want it. Classy. Thick mascara, brown eyeliner, contoured cheeks, and plum, shining lips. It is a good mask; no one would know what I really am.
I prepare myself by the door for your return. Kneeling, dress hiked up to allow for spread knees, elbows clasped behind my back, riding crop in my mouth. You like me to have it ready for you, in case the house is not clean, the slave is not presentable, the day has been frustrating, the mood strikes. You like, also, how the crop acts as a bit in my mouth, makes me drool a little.
“Look at you,” you say, when you arrive. You squat in front of me, wipe some drool from the corner of my mouth with your finger.
“Are you a pretty girl for me?” I pause because I don’t know the right answer. You know I don’t know the right answer. That is why you have asked the question. I feel my face flush and hate myself for it.
“Yeth, Thir…?” I venture.
You chuckle, take the crop from my mouth, and stand. I look down, but I begin to squirm slightly as I hear you idly tapping the crop at your side, against your leg.
“Stand for me. Let me see this pretty girl I’m taking out tonight.”
So I do. I feel my heart and pussy pulsing together. I am frightened and aroused by your tone. There is toying in it. And menace. I hate that I love it so much.
“Turn.” I do it slowly, gracefully, as you have taught me to do. I want so badly to please you. To be pleasing for you. I keep my head down, but when I have made the full circle, you come close and place the end of the crop under my chin, nudging my head up. I look at the floor, still, and feel a rush of relief when it appears you will allow it. You chuckle again, brush your thumb gently over my lips. Instinctively, my tongue comes to meet it. Next, your touch is not glancing lightly; you begin to press firmly against my parted lips, and then, with one stroke, smear my lipstick onto my cheek.
“Classy,” you say flatly, “Right?”
With the question, you reach in, feel between my legs. You probe hard, your face close to mine, your gaze making me weak, jamming your fingers in roughly enough to shake me, to further intoxicate me.
“Answer me. Are you such a classy lady with your pretty little dress? Hmm?”
You pull your hand out and press your middle finger into my mouth. I suck and taste myself, and then tell you, “No, Sir, I am not classy.”
“No. Your makeup is smeared. There’s drool on your chin. And coating your whore thighs. Are you the kind of cunt who wears pretty dresses and goes places?”
“No, Sir.”
“No. Take that off. You look ridiculous. Leave the shoes on.”
The chair at your desk is a simple wooden one. Low back, plain chair. Once I am naked for you, you position the chair in front of me, its back at my hips.
“Bend over, cunt.”
I obey, leaning myself over the back of the chair, placing my hands on the seat. My cheeks and my holes are so exposed for you now. I feel my legs shaking in anticipation and focus on staying pretty in these heels for you. I want your pain. And I don’t want it. I want to provoke you to hurt me. And to beg you not to. My sex throbs in the conflict, and in my submission — at existing at your mercy and your whim. And you know it.
Quickly, your finger is in my ass. I let out a moan of wary delight as my two holes react to you there.
“Ohhhh… thank you, Sir.”
But you pull out and hit my ass hard with the crop. The cruelty of the shift from pleasure to pain, as well as the hateful sting, bring tears to my eyes, cause my elbows to buckle, my position to falter. I scramble back to a nice stance for you, ass out and back level, and manage a “Thank you, Sir.”
You pleasure my hole again with your finger, leaning in and breathing into my ear, “You want something in that ass, cunt? Or you want more of this?” You hit me again, in exactly the same place, causing me to cry out, to fight for breath.
“Sir! Sir, I… I want something in my ass, please.”
“You do.”
“Yes, Sir, please…”
“You want it now, or two minutes from now?”
I am too stupid to remember. Too fucking dumb to know. You come around to the front of the chair and tap the crop against my lips.
“Answer me.”
“I… Sir, I want something in my ass now.”
“Not two minutes from now,” you press.
“No, Sir.”
“Say it.”
Don’t think; just submit. He has said what he wants.
“Sir, I want something in my ass now, not two minutes from now.”
You’re behind me again now, running the crop lightly between my legs and up my ass crack. Brushing my swollen lips, teasing my skin, taunting my naked holes.
“You don’t know why,” you say.
“Sir?”
“You don’t know why.” WHACK. I yelp, my ass on fire, and you keep the crop there, tapping.
“You don’t know, slut, why you were two minutes late answering my text.”
Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/bn2f43/two_minutes_part_1_f4m_bdsm_fsub_mdom_punishment