She stirred, a quiet dreaming moan punctuating the muted clink of metal chain links under the comforter. She was chained, as always, in Master’s bed, sleeping on her side facing away from him. He was propped up on one elbow with his free hand exploring her body possessively. He brushed his fingers between her legs, pleased to find her smooth cunt wet and dripping as always.
His slave, his property was a marvelous creature he mused. There were many reasons this was so, and one of them was her body’s ability, trough training and conditioning and natural propensity, to remain in a steady and constant state of arousal. There were two purposes to this condition, neither of which were related to her pleasure. No, he had trained her body to be always ready and available to receive his cock (or anything else) in it’s various holes with as little discomfort or effort on his part as possible. Second, a permanent state of need kept his property always eager to serve and obey.
He stroked in slow, wet circles around her stiffening clit, tantalizingly close but not quite touching it. Halfway between sleep and consciousness, her hips began bucking slowly, mechanically and she moaned again, breath quickening. In seconds she was fully awake and panting, tongue out like a dog, and making the most arousing combination of sounds. It was a sound that never failed to delight and arouse him, a mewling moan that came from her throat, somewhere between a whimper and a groan, and he jokingly thought of it as her mating call.
In moments the barely conscious, automatic response of her body had escalated to frantic thrusting and desperate pleading. She begged him to use her, to own her, to let her serve him. He waited and then, as soon as she begged for an orgasm, he stopped.
She felt his fingers stop moving and, though the intensity of her arousal did not wane, she stilled her body save for the breathless rise and fall of her chest and involuntary clenching of her cunt and asshole.
“Good morning, cunt,” he said cheerily.
She smiled and turned her head to face him. “Good morning, Master.”
“Today is a special day, isn’t it?” He asked and gave her hard clit a tap with his finger.
She gave a sharp gasp and smiled again, nodding. “Yes, Master. It’s your property’s birthday.”
“And how old is my slave today?”
She began to answer him and he interrupted as though she hadn’t been speaking. “I don’t mean based on the year of your birth, the years you spent walking around pretending to be a person don’t matter. I mean when did you learn what you really are? When did the inferior, subhuman object emerge? How many years has my cunt existed?”
She blushed and lowered her eyes. “13, Master. Your cunt is 13 years old.”
He smiled and lowered his head, giving her a series of quick kisses all over her face as she squealed and laughed. “There, 13 kisses. But that’s not the only present to mark the day.” He threw back the covers and gave her round ass a mighty smack, “Time to get moving, we’ve got things to do.”
She cried out as the sharp sting landed and nodded as it faded to a spreading warmth just beneath her skin. “Yes, Master”.
They began their morning routine as he unlocked her stainless steel collar from the chain. He sat up on the side of the bed as she knelt between his legs. Expertly she took his semi-rigid cock in her mouth and obediently waited, not using her mouth to stimulate him. Her purpose at this moment was one of utility, not pleasure. Soon she felt the warm stream of his piss filling her mouth and she swallowed repeatedly, well-practiced at ensuring not a drop was spilled.
He finished and she cleaned him with her hair. “Thank you for allowing me to serve as your urinal, Master,” she said with sincere gratitude before rising and padding into the bathroom to start the shower. She stepped in to wash herself while the water warmed up for him, and the shock of the cold water woke her up fully.
Just as the water reached ideal temperature, he stepped into the shower to join her. She stood and displayed herself for inspection and, being found satisfactory, proceeded to wash him under the hot stream. At his command she exited the shower and readied his towel. He turned off the water and stepped out and she began to dry him.
Once dried, he left to get dressed and she went down to the kitchen and began preparing breakfast. She had set the table for one before bed and was just bringing the hot coffee and food to serve as he sat down. Once he had been served, she knelt at his feet and waited to be fed her own breakfast from his hand. She was silent and patient, eating what was presented to her and, after each bite, licking his fingers clean and thanking him for feeding her.
He finished breakfast and instructed her to meet him in the playroom when she had cleaned up breakfast. “Yes, Master,” she replied and began the task. Butterflies fluttered in her belly as she cleared the table, excitement for what may be in store building. She wondered what he might have planned, knowing that whatever torture, torment, pleasure or bliss awaited her, she would endure and suffer eagerly. She relished the chance to show him how utterly devoted she was to his pleasure and demonstrate how deeply she venerated him. This was her purpose, these were the moments and opportunities that she lived for.
The kitchen cleaned, she made her way to the playroom. She stopped short of crossing the threshold and knelt down. She was not allowed to enter the playroom without invitation and performing this ritual. She folded her arms behind her, at the small of her back and spread her knees wide. Tits thrust forward and eyes lowered, she waited in silence to be recognized.
“Speak, cunt,” he said.
She took a calming breath to settle the fluttering in her stomach, though her voice quivered with nervous excitement. “Your cunt offers itself in service, Master. It begs to eagerly suffer and ardently obey for your pleasure. Your property is at your disposal, as always, with grace and humility.”
He reached down and hooked a finger through the ring on her collar and she stood. He led her to the padded table in the middle of the room, bathed in an overhead light that made the black leather padding shine and the metal hardware gleam. She had spent many hours cleaning, conditioning, and polishing to keep it that way.
He helped her up onto the table and arranged her on her back. The leather was warm against her skin and the firm padding conformed to the contours of her body. He moved around the table, speaking as he worked.
“How old are you again?” he asked, securing an ankle.
“13, Master,” she answered.
“That’s an interesting number. Unlucky, isn’t it?”
She smiled and replied, “Some superstitious people consider it so, yes, Master.”
He chuckled and finished securing her limbs tightly. “You’re not superstitious, are you, cunt? Do you believe it’s unlucky?”
“I’m not superstitious, Master. But I believe whatever you tell me. If you say it, it is so.”
“Good cunt. No, it’s not an unlucky number. In fact it’s the opposite.” A buzzing sound filled the room as he turned on a vibrator and touched it to her already-glistening cunt.
She gasped and her muscles tensed, but the tight restraints ensured that she didn’t move. She let out a moan and closed her eyes, the vibration against her sensitive hole resonating through her entire body.
“Can you count to 13, cunt?” He asked.
She nodded her head, somewhat frantically, and answered between gasps, “Yes, Master.” She moaned again, louder, as he pressed the vibrator hard against her swollen clit. “Master, may I please cum? Please, Master, please may your cunt cum for you. Please, Master,” she begged.
He smiled to himself. Less than a minute and she was already desperate to cum. “Not yet, cunt,” he replied and moved the vibrator in slow circles as she whimpered and bucked futilely at the restraints. “You have to count to 13 first,” he said.
She moaned and grunted, feeling the orgasm build, unable to hold it at bay against the relentless buzzing. Just as it was about to crash over her like a tsunami, he removed the vibrator and the waves receded. Her chest heaved and her body glistened with a sheen of sweat.
“Count,” he said.
“One, Master,” she gasped and smiled, joyous in a delerium of submissive bliss. She had wanted to cum, needed so badly to cum, but he had not allowed it. Orgasms were not hers, they were his. Pleasure and pain were his to give or withhold, and she would never wish it to be otherwise.
She was jolted from her reverie by the sudden return of the buzzing and vibration against her trembling cunt. In seconds she was desperately begging once more. Her words pleaded for him to allow an orgasm, but her mind begged him to deny it, to control her.
Again, he stopped. Again, she counted. Again he started. Again and again, until she had counted to 13 and this time, when she begged in a hoarse voice, barely able to form words, he allowed it. Her world exploded in a supernova of pleasure, her vision shattering into a million tiny fireworks and her exhausted body nearly bursting with the pressure wave of release that coursed through her and over and around her.
After the white hot flames consuming her had faded to embers, when she felt her senses begin to return, she licked dry lips and managed to speak, barely above a whisper, “Thank you, Master, for my orgasm. Thank you for my birthday present.”
He smiled wryly and chuckled. “Oh, but cunt, your present isn’t finished. I said you had to count to 13. That was only one orgasm. Now, count.”
Understanding dawned on her and her body sagged, completely spent. She felt herself sink into that blissful place where only pleasing him mattered, where his control was absolute and folded her into it like a warm blanket. She smiled and whispered, “one, Master.”
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/gbzken/birthday_girl_mf_bdsm