Bite Of Pain
And She Is Lust Excerpt by Annabel Jacob
Out Of Print
“All the way down,” he said, when I hesitated to position myself properly. “Don’t make me angrier than I already am.”
I sighed and lowered my breasts into the two curved recesses also sized precisely for me. Beneath these recesses lay a crosspiece with two silver chains screwed into it, and at the end of those short chains, two gleaming clover clamps waiting to be engaged.
This piece of equipment was christened, not fondly on my part, the Boob Bench, because the only restraint point was the excruciating clover clamps affixed to each of my nipples before I was spanked here.
Affixed by me.
Price could have done it, yes, because he enjoyed causing me pain, but I was the one who was made to put the clamps on myself, because it was really fucking hard to cause that kind of pain to your own body.
“Not yet,” he said, when I reached down for them with dread. I waited, my head lowered in penitence. If I was waiting, there was some other torment to come first. I heard one of the drawers open and lifted my head to stare forward at the dark gray wall. Another drawer. The snick of a lube bottle. The only question now was how
big the ass plug would be, and how much it would hurt. Since he was pretty upset with me, the answers were: very big, and a lot.
I received no warning aside from his approach, and his big hand grasping one of my ass cheeks to pull it aside. The plug was lubed enough to go in, but not enough to make it easy. Big plugs were never easy. They hurt, and I let out a cry as he pushed it forward.
“Ow, ow, ow…”
I sighed the words, because I wasn’t supposed to talk in the dungeon unless spoken to. Owwww. Please. I thought you loved me. The ache in my head minimized as the ache in my asshole overrode it with taut, acute pain. Butt plugs started out manageable, then widened and widened and… He pushed it into me, ignoring my whining and trembling, and paused with the plug at its widest point.
“If you weren’t a bad girl, Chere, I wouldn’t have to do this to you.”
It took my breath away, how much it hurt my ass, and this punishment was barely started. I tried to control my breathing and the frantic tensing of my sphincter muscle.
“Do you deserve to be punished, Chere?”
“Y-yes. Yes, sir.” It was hard to get the words out when I was simultaneously holding my breath. “I’m so sorry, sir. I was bad. I-I didn’t obey.”
“What were you supposed to do? What was the agreement for you attending this stag party without me?”
“Checking in. Calling you.” Oh, my asshole. Oww. “Being home on time…”
He finally shoved the butt plug home, so the most harrowing pain was over. Now my sphincter was clamped around the thinner base, though my ass was still stretched around the thick bulb inside me.
He walked around the dungeon for a few minutes, partly to make me lie there with my ass in the air, gripping helplessly on the butt plug, and partly to open cabinets and drawers and collect spanking implements. My eyes followed him as he tested various prospects on his palm. I wanted to know what was coming, even though I didn’t want to know what was coming.
Eventually, a thin whip, a strap, and a rattan cane lay arranged before me. When he put me on this bench, he liked to use implements that swung and dropped. His arm had more range of motion, because I was lower to the ground. He’d explained the physics of it when he revealed the new bench to me, but as his torture subject I knew. I knew.
“It’s time to put on the clamps,” he said, coming around to watch me, to be sure I put them on firmly and squarely, and didn’t try to shirk any of the pain. I pressed open the first clamp, tugging at my nipple with my other hand to prepare it for the contact. A deep breath, and then…
Oh God. Oh help me. Did I mention how hard it is to put biting clover clamps on your own freaking nipples? And any movement, the slightest jerk upwards, tightened these types of clamps with agonizing results. When I could think again, I lifted the other clamp and prepped the other nipple, flicking it to get it hard. Price watched,
unmoved and unmoving. I had to place the second clamp twice to satisfy him.
“Look at me,” he said when I finished.
I did, letting the anguish show in my gaze. He lived for that. He loved it, just as I loved being hurt by him. For us, sex was punishment, and punishment was sex.
He set a timer on his phone. He never clamped my nipples for longer than ten minutes without a break. Ten minutes doesn’t sound like a long time, but when your nipples are squeezed between insufferable pieces of metal and your bare, plugged ass is being attacked with horrific implements, it’s a longggg time.
He started with the small whip first, to make me jump at each biting contact. I tried not to move, but the fiery flicks came at varying intervals, meant to startle me into a reaction. Each jump made my breasts jerk; each jerk tugged the clamps, evoking a burning pain. Be still, I told myself. Just take it. But he knew what he was doing. He
knew all the ways to make my body react.
By the time he put down the whip, my ass hurt with a couple dozen little throbs, but my nipples hurt worse. It was almost a relief to see him pick up the strap.
But the relief lasted ten seconds at most. That was how long it took me to remember that the heavy, thick strap he’d selected really stung. I grasped at the floor beneath me. There was nothing to cling to —on purpose. He wanted me to flail, to punish my breasts as he punished my ass. I tensed my body, trying to process the strap’s solid blows. The impact hurt, but the resulting sting was the worst part as the licks layered over top of one another.
I cried out, my hangover forgotten. This was so much worse than waking up in a strange room with a headache. I kicked my toes against the floor, for all the good it did. Unlike the whip, the strap’s blows came one after the other, offering no respite.
I finally cried, “Please, please stop!” even though I wasn’t supposed to.
The only answer was the hardest blow yet, right across the plug in my ass. It vibrated inside me, reminding me just how much I was at my Master’s mercy, because he was my Master in this space, wholly and completely. This space being the dungeon, my asshole, all my body, really.
When he finally put down the strap, I was crying. Not fun crying. Hard, ugly crying. I hung my head as he picked up the cane. How many minutes had passed? Not enough. The clamps were still on me and--
The first cane strike took my breath away. My ass was already sore, already scarlet and throbbing from the strap, and now it had a burning line across the center. I clenched on the plug as another stroke fell. I can’t… I can’t… Why hadn’t I called as I was supposed to?
Well, because I’d lost my phone. Because I was drinking too much. I should have been more careful.
Owww. Another strike, another line of fire. I couldn’t stop myself from straining against the clamps. I couldn’t bear it. I twisted sideways, as much as the chains would allow, but it still wasn’t enough. He gave one last blow as I clenched my teeth against a howl. I knew it was the last blow because it was the hardest yet, and no one could be expected to survive it. I must have survived though, because I was still alive to feel the lingering line of brutal fire.
Price put down the cane and rubbed my ass. I expected to feel blood gushing beneath his hands, but there was nothing, just sting and ache. There was never blood, somehow, though he left me feeling gutted. How could he touch my ass cheeks right now without burning himself?
I sighed and lowered my breasts into the two curved recesses also sized precisely for me. Beneath these recesses lay a crosspiece with two silver chains screwed into it, and at the end of those short chains, two gleaming clover clamps waiting to be engaged.
This piece of equipment was christened, not fondly on my part, the Boob Bench, because the only restraint point was the excruciating clover clamps affixed to each of my nipples before I was spanked here.
Affixed by me.
Price could have done it, yes, because he enjoyed causing me pain, but I was the one who was made to put the clamps on myself, because it was really fucking hard to cause that kind of pain to your own body.
“Not yet,” he said, when I reached down for them with dread. I waited, my head lowered in penitence. If I was waiting, there was some other torment to come first. I heard one of the drawers open and lifted my head to stare forward at the dark gray wall. Another drawer. The snick of a lube bottle. The only question now was how
big the ass plug would be, and how much it would hurt. Since he was pretty upset with me, the answers were: very big, and a lot.
I received no warning aside from his approach, and his big hand grasping one of my ass cheeks to pull it aside. The plug was lubed enough to go in, but not enough to make it easy. Big plugs were never easy. They hurt, and I let out a cry as he pushed it forward.
“Ow, ow, ow…”
I sighed the words, because I wasn’t supposed to talk in the dungeon unless spoken to. Owwww. Please. I thought you loved me. The ache in my head minimized as the ache in my asshole overrode it with taut, acute pain. Butt plugs started out manageable, then widened and widened and… He pushed it into me, ignoring my whining and trembling, and paused with the plug at its widest point.
“If you weren’t a bad girl, Chere, I wouldn’t have to do this to you.”
It took my breath away, how much it hurt my ass, and this punishment was barely started. I tried to control my breathing and the frantic tensing of my sphincter muscle.
“Do you deserve to be punished, Chere?”
“Y-yes. Yes, sir.” It was hard to get the words out when I was simultaneously holding my breath. “I’m so sorry, sir. I was bad. I-I didn’t obey.”
“What were you supposed to do? What was the agreement for you attending this stag party without me?”
“Checking in. Calling you.” Oh, my asshole. Oww. “Being home on time…”
He finally shoved the butt plug home, so the most harrowing pain was over. Now my sphincter was clamped around the thinner base, though my ass was still stretched around the thick bulb inside me.
He walked around the dungeon for a few minutes, partly to make me lie there with my ass in the air, gripping helplessly on the butt plug, and partly to open cabinets and drawers and collect spanking implements. My eyes followed him as he tested various prospects on his palm. I wanted to know what was coming, even though I didn’t want to know what was coming.
Eventually, a thin whip, a strap, and a rattan cane lay arranged before me. When he put me on this bench, he liked to use implements that swung and dropped. His arm had more range of motion, because I was lower to the ground. He’d explained the physics of it when he revealed the new bench to me, but as his torture subject I knew. I knew.
“It’s time to put on the clamps,” he said, coming around to watch me, to be sure I put them on firmly and squarely, and didn’t try to shirk any of the pain. I pressed open the first clamp, tugging at my nipple with my other hand to prepare it for the contact. A deep breath, and then…
Oh God. Oh help me. Did I mention how hard it is to put biting clover clamps on your own freaking nipples? And any movement, the slightest jerk upwards, tightened these types of clamps with agonizing results. When I could think again, I lifted the other clamp and prepped the other nipple, flicking it to get it hard. Price watched,
unmoved and unmoving. I had to place the second clamp twice to satisfy him.
“Look at me,” he said when I finished.
I did, letting the anguish show in my gaze. He lived for that. He loved it, just as I loved being hurt by him. For us, sex was punishment, and punishment was sex.
He set a timer on his phone. He never clamped my nipples for longer than ten minutes without a break. Ten minutes doesn’t sound like a long time, but when your nipples are squeezed between insufferable pieces of metal and your bare, plugged ass is being attacked with horrific implements, it’s a longggg time.
He started with the small whip first, to make me jump at each biting contact. I tried not to move, but the fiery flicks came at varying intervals, meant to startle me into a reaction. Each jump made my breasts jerk; each jerk tugged the clamps, evoking a burning pain. Be still, I told myself. Just take it. But he knew what he was doing. He
knew all the ways to make my body react.
By the time he put down the whip, my ass hurt with a couple dozen little throbs, but my nipples hurt worse. It was almost a relief to see him pick up the strap.
But the relief lasted ten seconds at most. That was how long it took me to remember that the heavy, thick strap he’d selected really stung. I grasped at the floor beneath me. There was nothing to cling to —on purpose. He wanted me to flail, to punish my breasts as he punished my ass. I tensed my body, trying to process the strap’s solid blows. The impact hurt, but the resulting sting was the worst part as the licks layered over top of one another.
I cried out, my hangover forgotten. This was so much worse than waking up in a strange room with a headache. I kicked my toes against the floor, for all the good it did. Unlike the whip, the strap’s blows came one after the other, offering no respite.
I finally cried, “Please, please stop!” even though I wasn’t supposed to.
The only answer was the hardest blow yet, right across the plug in my ass. It vibrated inside me, reminding me just how much I was at my Master’s mercy, because he was my Master in this space, wholly and completely. This space being the dungeon, my asshole, all my body, really.
When he finally put down the strap, I was crying. Not fun crying. Hard, ugly crying. I hung my head as he picked up the cane. How many minutes had passed? Not enough. The clamps were still on me and--
The first cane strike took my breath away. My ass was already sore, already scarlet and throbbing from the strap, and now it had a burning line across the center. I clenched on the plug as another stroke fell. I can’t… I can’t… Why hadn’t I called as I was supposed to?
Well, because I’d lost my phone. Because I was drinking too much. I should have been more careful.
Owww. Another strike, another line of fire. I couldn’t stop myself from straining against the clamps. I couldn’t bear it. I twisted sideways, as much as the chains would allow, but it still wasn’t enough. He gave one last blow as I clenched my teeth against a howl. I knew it was the last blow because it was the hardest yet, and no one could be expected to survive it. I must have survived though, because I was still alive to feel the lingering line of brutal fire.
Price put down the cane and rubbed my ass. I expected to feel blood gushing beneath his hands, but there was nothing, just sting and ache. There was never blood, somehow, though he left me feeling gutted. How could he touch my ass cheeks right now without burning himself?