The Treatment

Literotic asexstories – The Treatment by xylometazoline,xylometazoline
I knew you were at the very end of your tether when you walked in. I could hear your voice echoing in the staircase, as you were talking on your phone. The rustling and scratching of your keys against the door went on for almost half a minute, before you managed to unlock it. And when you finally got into our apartment, you failed to juggle your cellphone, keys, laptop bag and thermos as the same time. The later two went down with an infernal amount of noise. Now you had my attention. Clumsy fumbling was so unlike nimble gymnast you, something was amiss here.

You looked as annoyed as a human being could possibly be. Aggression bubbling directly under the surface. This shouldn’t be the case. After all, tomorrow was the first day of your vacation. Of OUR vacation. We both had saved up our annual leave for this. Just two weeks, no expensive flights, no hotels, no amazing scenery. No night shifts for me, no conference calls for you, just the two of us, together. Lazy days, movie marathons, sleeping in, picnic in the park, just getting in the car and driving somewhere to fool around in the back seat, all that good stuff.

And really, on first glance, you had no reason to be so annoyed with your job, either. Your boss called you the best talent he ever hired. The board hailed you as a pillar of the company. Your colleagues relied on you for all the most tricky projects and prestigious customers. And don’t get me started on your bank account. Not bad for someone just a few years out of college.

Of course, that was some pretty short-sighted thinking. The most capable employee is usually the first one to get worked to the bone. And the most reliable coworker is usually the one everyone falls back on, when times get tough and the schedule tight. A great recipe for a burn-out.

You frizzled hair and the giant coffee stain on your pretty white blouse didn’t speak of a great day, either. Neither did the fact that you returned 15 hours after you left at o-dark-thirty. And you were still on your phone.

“No… I… as I said… no. It is not that simple. Ma’am, engineering is all about optimization and compromises, and… no. No. We’ve talked about this earlier. This is how you wanted it. And I would really appreciate if you could stop interru-…”

And this was when you ended the call by launching the device in the general direction of our kitchen. It hit the backsplash, bounced off the cutting board, and with shattering glass and crunching aluminum, ended its life in the sink.

I had never seen you take out your frustration on an inanimate object. Let alone another one’s property, because that was — or had been — your company phone.

“Hey honey, nice throw!”

I had hoped a snarky remark would turn me into a lightening rod for your anger for a minute, after which everything would be okay. But you only stared at me with hollow eyes, looking completely drained. Then you kicked off your shoes, marched over to where I was sitting on the sofa, and curled yourself up into a ball in my lap. I halfway expected you to start sobbing. You weren’t usually someone to cry, but given that I had never seen you so massively stressed out, everything was possible. We just sat there, me holding you tightly and stroking your hair.

After a few minutes, you sighed, and sat yourself upright. I looked into your face. Deep circles around your eyes. Damnit, this was my fault. I knew you hadn’t been sleeping very well, and not just because of this one client who had no concept of time zones and had been calling you at 3 AM. No, you’d been tossing and turning next to me for hours, every night, for weeks. I had chalked it up to temporary stress. I should have known better. I guess the problem with dating such a remarkably tough and resilient woman is that you have a hard time detecting when she gets close to her breaking point. Until it’s too late. I kept silently cursing myself for being too pre-occupied with my own stuff to pay close attention to how you were doing. I was going to make it up to you, I promised!

I started to massage your shoulders. Hard knots and cramped muscles, everywhere. “Care to tell me what this was about?”

You shook your head. “Asshole customer. Unimportant. Just a trigger, not the root cause. It’s just… everyone sings my praise, they all think I am so fucking perfect! Marlene, the Good Witch of the fucking East Coast. Marlene, the fucking prodigy. Marlene, whose projects are never fucking late. Marlene, who helps out everyone. Marlene, who picks up the slack. I… I just wish they’d think less of me, lower their expectations, and just let me fucking do a mediocre job!”

I continued working on your shoulders. “That’s five fucks in a row, honey…”

“And the worst of it is: I can’t fucking stop thinking about it. Every waking minute revolves around work this, project that, stats here, KPIs there. My mind is stuck on a fucking merry-go-round, and the music won’t stop playing! And don’t you fucking dare counting my fucks! I have a request.”

I had seen this coming. “Yes, love?”

“I need another treatment. Tonight.”

I nodded. “I see. Are you absolutely sure about that? This is all about headspace. You don’t want to wait until you are in a better mindset?”

“Another treatment will get me into a better mindset.”

“This is not a replacement for therapy, you know?”

You seemed almost offended. “I know that. I don’t seek therapy. I want stress relief. I need to silence my mind, reset my system, fucking unwind. Pretty please?”

“Got it. So you want it just like we did last time…”

“No. No holding back this time. I can take it. I have two weeks to heal. Please.”

“The last one was already pretty extreme, but I’ll see what I can do. You need to promise me three things.”

“Yes?”

“Remember that I love you, that you are my equal, and that I respect you. It might get hard to believe over the course of the night, but you need to cling on to the thought.”

“I’ll remember.”

“Promise to opt out when I scare you.”

“You have never scared me, just shocked me for a bit. But I promise.”

“Promise that when you get back to work, you’ll grab this manager of yours, whatshisname…”

“Thomas.”

“You’ll get Thomas and force him to have a private conversation. Tell him the stress is getting to you, and starting to damage your health. People need to ease up on you. He makes the big bucks, so he has to figure something out. And this needs to happen immediately, or you’ll go looking for a new job.”

“God, yes. I promise.”

“Perfect. So, you want to start right now?”

“Yes.”

I took my hands off your shoulders. I would get you to relax, alright, but not like this.

“Good. Go to the bedroom. Put fresh sheets on the bed. Then undress completely. Put on my favorite panties, and my favorite shoes. You know which pairs I mean?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, Sir!”

“Wonderful. Put them on, kneel next to the bed, and wait for me while I get ready. And watch your language. No more swearing, or I’ll smack your potty mouth. Any questions?”

“No, Sir.”

“Then carry out your orders, now.”

You scurried away so quickly, I barely had time to stare at your cute little butt swinging in your slacks as you disappeared to the bedroom. The rustling noises through the open door confirmed that you were doing as you had been told.

I was quite busy with preparations, myself. I laid out all the necessary equipment, wiped down the kitchen table with rubbing alcohol, pulled a length of chain around two of its legs, and attached our two favorite pairs of handcuffs to it. It always pays to have your shit together, and I was quite content with how well prepared our toys were for impromptu playtime. The last place I attended to was the bathroom. For that I had to pass through the master bedroom, where you were already kneeling, waiting for me, eager to start.

After I was done with the work, I shed most of my clothes in the bathroom, and returned to my amazing little slut.

“Are you ready?”

You were kneeling on your heels, hands resting on your thighs. Adorned with only your heels and panties, your breasts heaving with every breath. This was clearly a submissive position, but your expression was anything but. You looked into my face, your eyes full of anticipation, and unlimited amounts of pride. You knew exactly what you were; shameless, depraved, masochistic, and easily the most dignified person in the world.

“I have never been so ready in my life, Sir.”

I closed my fist around your ponytail and pulled you to your feet. “Come here, precious.”

You wobbled on your heels as I marched you back to the living room at a swift pace. No chance of walking gracefully. You hated those shoes, which was exactly why I loved them.

I couldn’t see you face, but I imagined you eyes getting wide as we were quickly approaching a major obstacle, and I showed no intention of slowing down. I slammed you into our largest bookcase at full speed, taking great care to make sure you would impact with your chest, rather then your face. Then I threw my full weight against you. We kept our movies on the upper shelf, so you suddenly found yourself standing in the middle of a shower of DVD cases.

“Ugh!”

I ignored your grunting, pressed my crotch against your butt — the heels made you just the right height for this move — pulled back your head, and bit your shoulder. I dug my teeth in, just as hard as I could without breaking your skin. You knew better than to complain.

I placed a whole series of painful bites along the sides of your neck, across your narrow shoulders, all the way down half of your upper arms. Within minutes, they would turn into beautiful, deep, throbbing bruises. Trying to deal with the pain, you wiggled your whole body, rubbing your delightfully tight ass against my bulging erection. I enjoyed this very much.

When I had enough of that, I shoved you into the bookcase again, just to assert my dominance. A last, lone Blu-ray fell from the movie shelf and hit you square on the head. There went my Back to the Future collector’s edition. Oh well.

I grabbed you by the arms and dragged you across the room. I lead you just right to painfully hit your shins on the coffee table, and did nothing to break your fall as you landed on the couch.

“Clumsy girl. Watch your pretty face, and be grateful I don’t have you cuffed, yet. Get up!”

As soon as you were back on your feet, I continued yanking you towards the kitchen island. Of course, you stumbled again and fell to your knees.

“I told you to stand, not kneel.”

“I’m trying, Sir. The shoes are to hi-”

I slapped you across the face. You blinked. Your mouth opened in shock.

“What the-”

Smack. This time from the other side, backhanded. The perfect bitchslap.

“Watch where you put your feet, and stop questioning my orders. Got it?”

A lesser woman would have started to cry, but you barely teared up. “I’m sorry, Sir.”

“You better be.”

“And I’m wet.”

“Again, you better be.”

I pulled you back to your feet and threw you down onto the kitchen table, tits first, immediately followed by, again, my full body mass. We hit the tabletop together. I landed softly, cushioned by your body. Thank god, imagine if I had gone down without something to soften the blow, I might have hurt myself!

You, of course, went down with a brutal amount of force, impacting the hard surface with easily three times your own weight. This completely knocked the wind out of you. This wasn’t just a figure of speech, I could feel your chest deflating, your breath escaping your lungs.

I rested on your body for a few seconds, letting you feel my imposing weight on your back, while your thighs were painfully pressed against the edge of the table. When I pushed myself off, you gaspingly drew in the air.

“Out of oxygen, honey? Did that hurt?”

Gasp. “Yes, Sir.”

“I’m pleased to hear that. Let me see if I can make it even better.”

I removed your underwear within half a second. ‘My favorite panties’ were actually just a whole drawer full of cheap, frilly little lace things I ordered online in twenty packs. Chosen because the elastic was thin enough to simply tear them off you with a bit of force. Both of us appreciated the primal gesture. I threw the useless bit of fabric over my shoulder, and discovered —

“Oh. You’ve put in your big plug.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Without being ordered.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good slut.”

Actually, you had sabotaged my plans a little bit there, as I had definitely looked forward towards using your backdoor. But enthusiasm and preemptive obedience are never to be discouraged. The plug would stay in. I would simply have to work around this. I pushed on the flared base with my thumb, making you wiggle. Nice.

I landed my first slap on your ass. This one already made it clear that this spanking would be anything but playful or romantic. The second one, on the other cheek, even harder. You let out a delighted squeal.

Many more slaps followed. I started with your ass, but I had no intention of stopping there. Slap, slap, slap, over your bum, down to your thighs, up again, creeping across your back, carefully avoiding your kidneys, hitting your shoulder blades, your shoulder, all the way up to your neck, then back down again. Just hard enough that it started to hurt my own fingers. That’s the beauty of using your hands, you get direct sensory feedback on just how hard you are hitting.

When I was satisfied with how red and tender your skin had become, I switched over to using my fists and sides of my hands. You grunted when I punched the back of your thighs. Again, I made my way up and down your body, working you over really good.

Then I reached for the cane. Well, the implement barely even deserved that name. Just a short rattan stick the length of my forearm. It looked harmless, but in the right hands, it was downright evil. Just ask any practitioner of Filipino martial arts.

Thwack. “IHH!”

“Too hard, girl?”

“Nn.. no, Sir. Just unexpected.”

I had placed a wonderful strike diagonally across your left cheek. It had been just hard enough to draw a tiny amount of blood, from the apex of a nice raised welt. Of course, I had to make it symmetrical now. Thwack. Across the other check. Thwack, thwack, thwack. Across the bum, and the back of the thighs. I am a completionist. Thwack, thwack, thwack, legs, back, shoulders. Every place I had just reddened and bruised also got a bloody welt.

And when I was done, I laid down the cane, grabbed you, and nonchalantly flipped you around, bringing your tortured backside into direct contact with the hardwood. Your legs dangled from the edge of the table now, and I separated them with my knee to have full access to the goods.

Then I reached for your tits. I had always liked them. Small and firm, a wonderful handful to play with. I went in with full force, groped, kneaded, then dug my fingers in to pull you up for a deep kiss, in what was probably the most painful and least romantic embrace ever.

Your lips still melted into mine. It was a good kiss. Enthusiastic, hungry, intimate even. I let your tongue play with mine for a bit, then lowered you back down and let go of your breasts. Then I pinched both of your rock-hard nipples simultaneously, clamped down really hard, pulled up, and gave them quite a twist. Almost half a turn, and all you did was whistle through your teeth.

Now you were crying. But that was a purely physiological reaction. I knew that, because I could see the bliss on your face.

“Your beautiful body is in a lot of pain, girl, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it hurts, Sir.”

“And do you like it?”

“Very much”, you purred.

“Nasty little painslut. It is going to get a lot worse. If you want it to stop, say so now.”

“Never, Sir.”

“Good. Put your hands above your head.”

Click. Click. Handcuffs in place. Your arms where not going anywhere. The sight of your slender body, stretched out on the table, restrained and helpless… it was driving me mad with desire. I reached for the sweet spot.

To say you were wet would have been the understatement of the century. It was a frigging swamp down there; your juices had started to run down your thighs and form a puddle on the wood. I parted your slick labia, with two fingers. Your throbbing clit was already poking out its head. I slightly brushed against it with my thumb, just to feel you twitch. Delicious. I considered getting a feather, or soft brush, and teasing your for a while. Then I shook off the thought. I had no actual intention of being so gentle with you.

I roughly shoved my middle and index finger into your love canal, pinched your mons and outer part of your clitoris with my thumb, and proceeded to hit your g-spot with the well known come-hither move. We had come to call this the ‘two-finger salute’. It must have felt really good, because —

“Hmmmmm, fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck…”

I stopped dead in my tracks, and smacked you on the mouth with my left, twice, and really hard. You shrieked.

“I told you that was going to happen if you swore again. I am the one using four-letter words here, do you understand, whore? No, wait, that’s five letters. Slut.”

“Yessir”, you mumbled through your swelling lips.

I pulled out my fingers, and fed them into your mouth to clean.

“When you are done licking your juices from my fingers, tell me, where did that delicious nectar come from?”

Slurp, slurp. “From my… vagina, Sir.” Clever girl, understood the game.

“That’s right. And why did I get to stick my fingers into there?”

“Because you are my Sir, Sir.”

“Correct. And what are you?” An obvious trap. You were too smart to take the bait.

“I am your prostitute, Sir. Your pleasure doll. A perverted, wannabe-promiscuous, easily aroused, hypersexual girl.”

“A lot of big words to say ‘horny slut’, but of course you are right. And even more important, you are my horny slut.”

“Hence wannabe-promiscuous, Sir.”

“Such a technical expression from such a pretty mouth. You are so articulate, even while you’re being tortured to insanity. I’m impressed.”

You were very easily verbally stimulated, I just knew our banter turned you on.

I grabbed you bruised shoulders to slightly reposition you on the table.

A soft, excited moan escaped your lips.

“Are you ready for more, doll?”

“Always, Sir.”

Your front now got the same treatment your back had already endured. Layered impact play, three steps deep. I had perfected this technique over the years, to create the perfect melange of exquisite pain and varied sensations.

Layer one, reddened skin, to sensitize you. I started, again, with slapping. First on your already tortured breast, then your shoulders, ribs, your wonderfully toned stomach, hips, legs. For a good finish, I slapped your crotch to see you flinch again.

Layer two, hard impact for deep bruises, to last you a long time. Just something to remember the night by, and masturbate to over the following days. Fists and karate chops, a whole barrage, all over your. I had to be even more careful on this side of your body, not to cause lasting damage. I still managed to plant a few nice ones on your chest, ribcage — in strategically chosen spots where they would not inhibit your breathing –, thighs and pelvis.

Layer three, sharp, stinging pain to get you off. This was always the best part. Again, I used the cane. I painted a symmetrical pattern of hot, burning welts, leaking just the faintest amount of blood. The last four landed on your beautiful breasts, two per side, one over and one under the nipple.

When I was done, you were sobbing tears of joy. I gently touched the rattan to your pussy, making you recoil in horror, expecting a blow to that sensitive spot. Instead, I just put on an evil smile, and placed the cane between your teeth.

“Hold it there, no matter what happens. If you drop it, there will be hell to pay.”