I really did know how stupid that sounded. And to be honest, I really, really did NOT want to try and explain why it had seemed to make sense for that short, insane semi second. But I couldn’t exactly say “no Sir I don’t care to try and explain.”
I could swear fierce fully and forcefully well under my breath for half a second, and spare a moment to remember the days when I’d probably have lost my temper and thrown something-not at anyone of course, but I’d cost Sir the expense of close to half a dozen of the cell phones he’d bought for me, and gained myself a lot of spankings and even worse, torturous hours spent standing in a corner with my feet and nose touching the wall.
I HATE standing still, and I’m not very good at it, even today. But in the beginning, when he would add minutes if I didn’t stand perfectly still a five minute “timeout” could turn into five hours, and end with me dropping to curl up bawling in my corner when he finally released me.
I’d try so hard to stand still, you see. Because I WAS always sorry when I’d done wrong. It took him mere weeks to break me of my sneaky habit of trying to talk my way out of punishment because I didn’t need that defense with him. His punishments weren’t like the ones in my past, that I’d HAD to learn defenses against.
So when he was finally able to release me from the punishment I’d earned for myself-when I’d finally done my penance and earned my forgiveness, I’d curl up and cry because I was ashamed that it had taken so long, that I was so unable to stand still as told, that I had disappointed and wasted all those hours for Sir. I’d sob out choked apologies and he would come to me in my corner and sit down and pull me into his lap, not minding when I bawled soggily and snuffled against the expensive fabrics of his shirt. He’d hold me and run his fingers through my long, tousled curls, kiss the top of my head and whisper that it was OK, it was finished, I was forgiven.
He’d hold me until I was calm enough to become aware of the hard hunger of his erection stiffening powerfully under my bottom, and then he’d whisper to me.
“Does my bad girl want to make daddy feel good?”
I loved it like that. It was almost worth the punishment of standing against the wall for all those hours-if you could take away the sick, leaden feel that still lingered in my belly, the shame of being a Bad Girl in a way that wasn’t sexual, sensual, playing games.
I don’t like being a for real Bad Girl, not to my One.
What we had, what we did, how it was-it only happened right there, in that corner. It was a “special” kind of sex. It was Bad Girl sex.
I’d squirm my way off his lap, to kneel between his sprawled wide thighs, dressed just in tiny, pretty silken panties and a tank top,or a chopped up, sexily mutilated T, and look up at him,always dressed so impeccably compared to myself and whisper softly, shyly…begging.
“Yes please.”
Turned me on so badly…he always did but looking at him, while I kneeled between his wide spread thighs, gods! He looked every inch the arrogant, confident, successful male and Master that he was, and I knew…I knew that I looked like a pretty little toy made to be used, just a sweet mouthed,owned, fuckable bitch.
He was every woman’s dream-and it was me who had made that luscious cock hard. It was me that his hot, hungry, aroused eyes were glued to. It was me he wanted. His Bad Girl.
He’d let me eat him up with my eyes for a little while…sometimes just a second or two when he really, really wanted my mouth swallowing his hard cock, my fingers flowing over his silken shaft and swelling balls, then he’d growl under his breath and roughly yank his zipper down, not caring if it broke, or tore the fabric of his fine trousers, to release his cock and balls, and his hand would grab me behind the neck, hard, almost hurting…
“Suck me off, you beautiful little bitch-and if you spill even one drop, you’re going right back in that fucking corner!”
He’d pull me down, taking ME, even as I opened my mouth, eager to swallow his swollen, weeping wet shaft deep into my convulsing throat.
He’s big, my One, not porn star hung, but big enough that I can’t really take him all the way. Except when we’re in that corner. Because then he just takes me; he pushes his hips up, and pushes down on the back of my head, and I swallow desperately, fighting against the gag reflex to take him in so deep that my nose is nestled against the smooth skin of his lower belly, and I can flick my nimble tongue out and lick his balls.
When we’re in that corner, he fucks ME. I’m good at giving him oral pleasure. I’m very good at it. I know how he likes to be sucked, how he likes to be licked. I know just what to do with my hands, and how he likes his balls caressed. I know that he loves the way I glide the long nailed fingers of one hand over his belly and hip, while the other strokes his shaft and plays teasingly with his scrotum.
But in that corner…it’s all about his taking; taking me, my mouth, my throat, just using me, and I love it.
He always finishes quickly. He explained it to me once, deeply sated.
“I make you take your punishment half naked because you’re so damn clever about unconsciously trying to move, when you’re in the corner. I know you’re not doing it intentionally-hell kalli girl I doubt you even know you’re doing it, and if you weren’t half naked, I wouldn’t know either…but watching you tense and release that beautiful ass makes me hard enough to fuck a steel wall.”
“Damn it girl, I asked you a question!”
I jolted free of my musing, and my eyes flew up to his, startled, shamed-and aroused.
“You put up with so much Sir. I know how much trouble I must be to you. I know how fucked up I am and you deserve better then someone like me…”
A soft snarl stopped my words cold.
“I see. So you are presuming to suggest that you know better then me what I want, what I am looking for or what I need in a submissive? Is that what you’re saying?”
How was it that I kept digging myself in deeper and deeper? I hadn’t thought it was possible for things to get worse-should have known I’d find a way.
“Oh no Sir, I’d never, I didn’t mean…”
He cut me off with a sharp, slashing motion.
“Let’s just try and keep this simple. You say you didn’t lie out of fear, I’m willing to entertain the idea that you might be telling the truth there. Six months ago you were bloody well chucking phones and books and fuck all what else at my head-safe to assume you’re not intimidated by me.”
I felt he was being a little unfair there. I’d never thrown anything even close to his head! But once again, not a good time to lodge a complaint. As far as being intimidated by him though…
“You intimidate the heck out of me when you’re mad at me! I’m just not scared cuz you’d never for real hurt me you du….”
Awk! I slapped both hands over my mouth so hard I nearly knocked myself unconscious. But at least I didn’t call him the Polish word for dumb ass that he’d inadvertently taught me months ago.
We stared at each other from the twelve feet that still separated-and I fought to keep the welling up tears from spilling down my cheeks.
“Fuck…” He sighed, looking drawn and exhausted. “Kalli girl-just tell me. Why did you lie about it…and when you knew I KNEW, just…why?”
“You…you weren’t gonna be mad.” I whimpered hoarsely. “I could see it…the anger dying when you understood why I wasn’t in bed for you to wake up to. It was gonna be OK that I wasn’t in bed cuz I was trying to do something big and bad and scary that I’d promised you I’d do…but I didn’t do it and I didn’t want you disappointed and I knew it was stupid but that’s why I lied and then I couldn’t take it backkkkkk!” I wailed, collapsing into a hysterical, violently crying heap.
I dragged the comfort of my flannel sheet up and over my head, knowing how ridiculous I was being. If this was my last “hurrah” I was doing a shit job of it. On top of every thing else, I was regressing back to using words like gonna and cuz. He hated it when I talked like that, all fourteen and white trash Cali Valley girl. We’d both hated the months it had taken him to break me of that habit.
Every time I’d used wanna or gonna or cuz…even just OK, he’d immediately stop me.
“Wanna? I think you mean to say want to.” He’d correct.
It got so bad I even started saying “you know” again after every sentence. My mom had hated that one. For a year back in junior high I hadn’t said more then yes or no around her. Not talking meant one less thing for her to attack me about.
I DID hate being corrected by him every 2 minutes, but I knew I talked trailer trash, and I hated that more. I’m not stupid, I’d just fallen into the lazy habit of talking like the people I’d grown up around.
I pulled my sheet tighter around me and fought to choke my sobs back. I wanted to be able to leave with some dignity when he told me to get out of his house and life.
But he didn’t say anything. I didn’t hear him move or even breathe. Hell the only reason I knew he was even still in the house was because I hadn’t heard any doors open.
I whimpered softly…now what? I was starting to feel beyond stupid huddled under my “blanky”. But I just couldn’t bring myself to…
“Get rid of that fucking sheet!” He roared.
I eeped and fought free of the clinging material. Flinging it behind me and staring up at Sir, who was standing, towering and glowering, a mere foot in front of me.
“I’m sorry S…”
“I didn’t give you permission to speak.”
I bit my lip and lowered my eyes…and he dropped to his knees in front of me, still towering and intimidating. I’m not little-but Sir is tall.
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