Note: This is fantasy! Do not fuck around with choking to this extent in real life, it is hella dangerous. That makes the fantasy all the more powerful. Enjoy!
Zoe closed the apartment door behind her with a definite ‘click’, and began her journey. Evening was just settling over the city, the light fading, the sounds changing–the outside cafes were filling up, and Zoe caught snatches of conversation. “… up to Tahoe, but it means he’d want to stop at his weird friends in Sacramento,” “… can’t be bothered, I really can’t, but then he was like, I’ll pay you double, so…” These moments, catching little waves from the lives of others, walking silent and smooth through the crowds, always appealed to Zoe, made her feel very herself. She felt like a camera in a movie, floating down the sidewalk and capturing these moments, not even imagining the beginnings or ends of those fragments, just capturing the feeling of the moment. After an arduous week at work, she was ready for her weekend transformation. It began with this walk, from her apartment to his. Or rather, it began by dressing for him, for herself, in the way they’d talked about during the week. This was their fourth assignation, the fourth time she’d set herself onto a path whose end she couldn’t see.
She had tumbled the three previous nights around in her head, revisited images in idle moments to half-tease, half-satiate her lust during the day, and furiously conjured up appropriately climatic scenes as she brought herself to orgasm at night. Now, though, she was clear-headed, the memories retreating to make room for the new one about to be formed. As she stood at a stoplight and took a deep, centering breath, she felt the drag of the metal clips clamped firmly over her nipples–a thick bra showing none of this through the demure turtleneck underneath. When she crossed the street, the heavy chain around the bare skin of her hips felt warm and almost reassuring, like a hand on her, guiding her. She looked unremarkable in the medley of San Francisco early-evening revelers in this fashionable neighborhood, and carried her secrets confidently through the crowd, a gift between him and her.
She took the little brass-cage elevator up to his floor in the old, quirky building where he lived. Her heart felt like it was racing and yet each pounding beat reverberated in her ears. Something rose in her, not a memory, but a limbic response imbued by her last visits, more of the body than the mind. His was the only apartment on the top floor, and she let herself in with the key he’d given her last time. Low music was playing, some electronica artist from his era, and it was well-chosen, background music but not bland, complexity in the background like a bamboo forest in the wind, soothing but not soporific. She took her coat off, revealing in addition to the burgundy turtleneck a very short plaid skirt that nobody in the crowd she’d passed would have guessed she wore, though some may have hoped. She kept her calf-length boots on, but pulled the turtleneck over her head, and reached behind her to unclasp her bra. She ran her hands through her long blond hair, shaking it out in rippling waves, then walked to the bedroom, boots thudding softly on the hardwood floors, the opening percussion of the evening.
He was waiting for her, fully dressed. A blue suit, button down shirt, such an obvious contrast to her bare-breasted, clamped self. He stood just a foot away as she crossed the threshold, and at first he just looked her over, ascertaining that she had prepared exactly as he said. Then he reached out to the chain that hung between her clamps, and slowly, deliberately gathered it into his hand, tugging her nipples, pulling her full breasts to stand out from her body. “This week, Zoe,” he said, conversationally, “I want to explore some of the things you’ve said about pain.” He punctuated the last word with a tug, and a sigh of pleasure escaped her mouth as the sensations from her nipples crested. His eyes were attentive, alert, drinking in the nuances and ripples of sensation as he gave another little tug, then reached out his other hand to rub his thumb delicately over her trappled nipples; the contrast between that soft touch and the intensity of clamping set up a shivering wave along her spine. His bedroom had a long baroque mirror on one side, and she looked there at the sight of her like this, so exposed, breasts on a leash, her body free from its camouflage clearly made for sex. The chain looped around her waist, just above the plaid skirt.
She had a wonderful vantage point on her own face as his hand slapped her cheek with a rapid, quick contact of the flats of his fingertips against her cheekbone. Nothing enough to leave a bruise, but a deft, sharp slap that left heat. The feeling of it rebounded in her, a burst of fear followed, in this room, with this man, by a surge of arousal at the surprise of it. “Look at how amazing you look,” he murmured, seizing her hair in his fist, pulling hard, bringing his lips close to her ear, “Held by the leash in both my hands.” He released both, then, and the sudden lack of sensation was a feeling unto itself, which was added to as he reached out and depressed the clamps, opening them, freeing her jutting nipples. That was always its own rush, and another sigh escaped her, then turned into a quick moan; his fingers had captured her dark nipples, squeezing them just as the clamps had, then releasing.
She kept her own hands down by her sides, but stood up on tiptoes, proudly presenting her breasts to him as he increased the pressure, and she got a thrill of satisfaction at seeing the surprise, the wonder in his face as he saw pleasure, not just the abstract pleasure of satisfying him, but body-pleasure still filling her face even when his fingers gripped her nipples harder than the clamps had. He gave a little nod, “Good girl. You take that so well.” That wasn’t a signal that he was relinquishing, though. He kept his eyes on hers as he dipped his head and sucked a nipple hard into his mouth, took it between his teeth, and there he crossed the border and along with the spike of pleasure came a little burst of true pain along with it; seasoning that made the pleasure have more depth, more penetration. He released it, sucked it hard again, and then recaptured it in his fingers, rolling it wetly between them. He repeated the ceremony on her other breast, his mouth capturing her and releasing her, hands reclaiming her. She swayed a little on her tiptoe pose, but steadied herself. That he still wore his suit,as he manipulated and teased her breasts, rang again in her mind. The abstract reality of her submission and the raw physicality of what was happening to her flourished together, poured into her and overfilled her.
“Look at us,” he said, and for a second she hesitated, remembering the slap, and then turned, seeing the blatant lust on her face, the size of his big hands on her breasts, the little plaid skirt riding her up thighs, carrying with it echoes of schoolgirl, the chain around her waist as a reminder of submission. His fingers tightened over her breasts, pushing them back against her now instead of pulling, but he kissed her jaw softly, her collarbone. He released her again, then reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a shining loop of silver, collaring it around her neck, cinched just tight enough for her to be always aware of it. A D-ring hung from the front of it, and he clipped a long chain into it, gathering the slack in his hand until it was taut. “Come along,” he said, and she obediently stepped forwards until she was at the bed.
His big arms span her around and pushed her back onto the mattress, that quick rush of motion a welcome beat in this music. He’d laid out thigh cuffs on the bed already, and he quickly pulled them tight around her legs, fixing her thighs wide. On her back, the short skirt hid nothing, was more of a frame for the display of her pussy. He stood at the foot of the bed, still fully dressed, looming over her, and she shut and opened her eyes to punctuate this moment of expectation. He took his jacket off, hung it on a nearby chair. He rolled his cuffs up to his forearms, the fabric bunching tight around his thick muscles there. His eyes raked over her, tracing over her legs, up to her face already showing the intoxication of submission, dancing down her laid-out body until he gazed down at her pussy. He reached forwards and adjusted the tilt of her hips just a little, took the leash loosely in hand again, and raised his eyes to her face again as he slapped her inner thigh, a surely-reddening smack of his rough hand into her soft, vulnerable skin. The pleasure of that impact-pain, so close to her pussy, made her mouth fall open; the next smack on the other thigh sent a wave from the other side and elicited a welcoming moan. He lazily, purposefully smacked his hand back and forth, stochastically, keeping her waiting for the next blow.
All throughout, he growled out his lust, “Look at you laid out like such a good little fucktoy. You laid down and let yourself be tied because you know this is exactly what you need. Exactly what you deserve. You’re Daddy’s good little slut.”–The first utterance of ‘Daddy’ of the evening is like a new instrument joining the chorus of arousal–”You have such a beautiful relationship with pain. I love seeing you take this.”
Her thighs were burning, quivering, and she jumped when he bent and blew cool air on them. It brought a smile to her face; she luxuriated in the way the spanked feeling ameliorated and returned under his breath. She’d almost relaxed when his hand slapped down against her pussy, fingers held stiff and spanking down on her already-wet lips with an obscene sound. He repeated it immediately, and she first pulled her hips back away the tiny amount she could while restrained, and then pushed back, searching for the next smack and sighing in pleasure when it came. “Look at yourself again,” he ordered, and she turned, her hands going to her own breasts as she watched his hand descend a tight arc and land on her exposed, vulnerable pussy again and again, “Getting wetter with every blow.”
“Please,” she begged, with no vector to the desire, neither pleading for more or less, just a surge of submission. He pulled her boots off, impatiently, and ran one hand delicately along her calf while smacking her pussy with the other and then holding his fingers against her, a steady pressure that made her squirm. When he lifted his fingers, they were shiny with her juices, and that felt like yet another step, a scene torn right from her fantasy. She pumped her hips up in that small increment to take the next slap, and again he held his fingers on her, then dragged them down, turning his hand, and working two fingers inside her in a quick plunge. Her body sang with joy at this first penetration, his fingers curling inside her, pressing up, an intense sensation made exponentially more powerful when his other hand slapped down on the top of her mound, sending a shock through her clit. He pushed his palm against her little nub there and then slapped in short, potent bursts. Searching fingers inside her, punishing fingers outside her. She pulled on her own nipples, hard, and bit her lip, needing the whole constellation of pains to shine in her at once.
“You’re showing so much to Daddy,” he said in a voice laden with gratification, and that made urgent, happy noises come from her needful throat. Her eyes were still fixed on the image of them in the mirror, and she saw the flush of orgasmic arousal arrive in her face even before she felt the earthquake of it strike her pussy at the exact time as his hand. She showed him even more then, how her mouth opened so wide as she came, how she sang out a note and then went silent, back arching, fingers clutching first her breasts and then spanning out to grip the sheets as the rolling shocks of pleasure turned deeper.
He kept his fingers on her for a long last moment, and then pulled out of her, reaching up to stripe her face with her wetness, to offer her fingers to suckle. She eagerly, happily wrapped her lips around them and tasted herself, so much of herself. She chased his fingertip with her tongue as he pulled out of her mouth. He smiled and unbuckled his belt, undid his shirt. “Even as wet as you are after that,” he said, “There’s going to be pain when I push my thick cock into you as fast as I’m going to.” Her eyes brightened and she felt that change in the music, that arrival at a central theme. Last time, they had used enormous amounts of lube and he had slipped in her with some ease, bottoming out in seconds. This would be a different experience, a harrowing of her pussy.
Naked now, he slapped his cock down on top of her pussy just once. “Reach down and spread that pussy for me while I fuck it so hard it hurts,” He said, and her hands were in motion before he finished speaking, one to either side, pulling apart, stretching herself open in just the smallest precursor of what his thickness was about to do. He lined his cock up with her opening, gripped her still-stinging thighs in his hand, and sank his cock into her, pushing past the resistance of her tight pussy, the levels of pain erratic as inch after inch pushed it, sometimes going past the point of pleasure and then back down to that intense sweet spot that her brain was wired for. When he was finally lodged balls-deep in her, her pussy was still reacting to the invasion, squeezing tight around him as if trying to eject the invader. “Fuck, you look so good filled with my cock,” he said, pulling out just the smallest bit so he could see her pussylips wrapped around him.
His hands moved from her thighs to her ribcage, squeezing, holding her tight as he churned his cock back to the very beginning of her pussy and then rammed back in. He gave her five long strokes like that, each one a shuddering assault on her body, and then moved his grip to her breasts, tugging hard enough on her nipples to make her back arch, “Look at you,” he said, to himself, to her, and she turned her head again and watched as his skillful fingers held her nipples, as her big breasts stood out from her body. He pushed one of her thighs down and shifted her on her side so she could see, for a few wonderful moments, her pussy taking his cock. Then he took her leash in hand as he rolled her flat on her back again, rolling it up in his hand until his fingers reached her throat.
Her toes were curling as he fucked her, her feet wriggling with pleasure, mind a mess of submissive arousal, each claiming stroke of his cock into her another loop of control laid around her. Her pussy was sending every signal it could: fullness, pleasure, pain, ecstasy, and the indescribable feeling that she was pleasing him, that her tight confines were exactly what would make that girthy cock feel good. His fingers left the leash and tightened on her neck, pressing into the sides of her throat, her head swimming. She nodded, still looking at herself in the mirror as she saw his fingers sink into her skin. Time stuttered and caught up, her body floating away from her for a moment and then rushing back; she was astonished to find how aroused that made her, and because he wasn’t cutting off her breath she could say, “More”, as his grip pressed in again and everything span and filled with that delirious, incoherent pleasure. Again and again, her senses so concentrated on just their bodies when she had any senses at all.
When she came to, she realized she’d gone completely under, that his grip had taken consciousness from her and she’d just come back, and her arousal at that thought was an incandescent fountain. He was still fucking her, her body still responding, and she wondered if her pussy had felt different to him when she’d gone limp in his hand. She’d given him that now, herself that, they shared this wild dive through danger and so soon after coming back to consciousness she felt another orgasm gaining force inside her. She fed it, she leaned into it, and looked in the mirror again to see the scene–his hand was off her throat now but the ghost of it remained, the memory, his hands were back on her thighs, pushing wide, his face looking full of something like fury as he pounded into her. He wasn’t seeking her pleasure at all and that was the tipping point of another orgasm for her, a delicious irony of the universe, and she half-wished she could break her bonds and draw her legs around him to pull him deep and hold him there.
But she was bound open, and he fucked her through her orgasm, roughly, losing that fine control as his own orgasm crashed into him and made shout her name as his cock, that cock that had pounded her while she was passed out, that cock that had hurt so good going in, stiffened and jerked inside her pussy, a huge load of cum milked out of him by her glove-tight pussy. She put her hands on his as he gripped her reddened thighs, looked up at him and locked eyes after so much time seeing herself in the mirror. His face changed at the end of the orgasm, the purity of the feral pleasure transforming into something more profound, as if he was gathering in how far they’d gone together.
He lay down on her, his weight on her. There was pain in her body. There was pleasure in her body. There was him, in her body. She was held, contained, his breathing slowing after the massive orgasm she’d given him. They were together here, at the end of that punishment and joy. The fourth night, and she was hoping, in the days to come, more multiples of four.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/vi6i7b/the_fourth_night_we_explored_pain_mf_ds_bdsm