Admit it

Apparently, one of the biggest problems with torture stories is that they lead to sex. Who knew?

I've actually been accused recently that I always seem to stop before the sex anyway. Not so much accused, really; someone just asked me why I did that. Why not have the 'happy ending'? Why do I limit things to the build up, to the foreplay?

I don't, not always. But I prefer to do things that way. I want the sex to happen in your heads, I want the story to live on in all your beautifully dirty minds. To me, the part that matters is the build up. Admitting that you like something.

Which brings me to today's tale:

Admit you like it.

            The words were so innocent. There was no reason for them to inspire fear, to make my blood run cold, or to even hint at the danger they contained. They were just words. Five simple words, said with a smile that should have been a warning.

            “You talk in your sleep.”

            I smiled at her, at the lazy tone of her voice. “Yeah,” I said. “I’ve been told that before.”

            “We actually had a conversation last night,” she said. “While you were asleep.”

            I grinned, assuming this is some kind of game. She did tell me she liked playing mind games when we first started dating. “Is that right?”

            She nodded. “You answered all kinds of questions. Anything I asked you, in fact.”

            That made my blood run a little cold. Everyone has secrets. What did she ask? From the look on her face, it seemed that whatever information she’d gotten, it was pretty juicy. “What-“ I cleared my throat. “What did you ask about?”

            Her smirk made me break out in a cold sweat, but she didn’t answer. I heard a strange sound, like static or something. Then every muscle in my body jolted into tension, and I passed out.

            I come to with the smell of ammonia in my nose. The movement of jerking back makes me swing a little bit, and I notice my hands are over my head, holding me to my full height. My feet are on the floor, but that doesn’t make me feel as comfortable as I expected it to.

            She’s standing in front of me, looking like she just stepped right out of my darkest and deepest fantasies. Leather pants tucked into a pair of shining black latex boots, heels pushing her ass into a perfect shape, I’m sure. A corset pulled tight around her, laced up in a vibrant red. Black and red are the only colors I can see. Her finger nails are black as pitch, but the fingerless gloves she’s wearing are fire engine red. The boots are black, the laces red.

            “I didn’t give you permission to get erect,” she says, shaking her head. “I’m afraid I’ll have to punish you for that.”

             “What is going on?” I ask.

           She shakes her head. “Isn’t this what you want?” her voice has such innocence in it that I briefly wonder if I’m imagining the whip in her hand or the cruel makeup on her face. “You told me this is what you want.”

           “I- I didn’t mean it.”

           She laughs. “Of course you did,” she says. “You can’t lie to me when you’re asleep.”

           I swallow hard, wanting to disagree, but knowing it’s pointless.

           “Go on, then,” she says. “Admit that you like this.”

           I shake my head.

           “Admit it,” she says. “Admit it and I’ll stop. As soon as you tell me this is what you like, I’ll stop.”

           “Stop what?” I ask, pulling on the chains to see if they’ll come loose. I start to lift off the ground, but the chains don’t move.

           Then there’s a swish through the air and a loud crack, and my eyes dart back to her. She smiled again, the whip flicking around a bit in her hand. Once she sees she has my attention, the whip slices back and then forwards, darting towards me until the very last second. She jerks her hand back, and there’s another snap of sound.

           And then there’s pain. It’s not bad; just a sharp little sting on my leg. She lashes again, higher up this time. The crack of sound is louder, the pain more intense, and the delay between the sound and the sensation a bit shorter.

           “Admit it,” she says, taking another swing, the whip just barely kissing my chest, right over one of my ribs.

           I don’t answer.

           She whips again. Hits again, in the exact same space. This time, the kiss of the whip is more than a sharp sting. This time, it burns a bit. Then she swings her wrist again, once, twice, three more times. Each time, there’s the little sonic boom at the end of the whip. Each time, it hits my skin in the exact same spot. Each time, the pain intensifies.

           There are tears in my eyes when she steps back, her heels clicking on the floor. I’d swear that I was bleeding if I couldn’t look and see that I wasn’t. The pain feels like a knife is buried in my side, the skin already darkening with a bruise. No, not a bruise; a blood blister.

           “You like it,” she says from behind me. “There’s no use in saying you don’t.”

           Then she’s in front of me again. Her hands are bare, and her fingers dance delicately over my cock, which is more erect than I ever remember it being.

           “He likes it,” she says. “That much is clear.”

           “A stiff breeze,” I say, reminding her how easy it is for someone who looks like her to get a man hard.

           She holds up one of her hands, close enough to my face that I can see her nails. They aren’t curved at the tips like normal. It almost looks like they’ve been filed to a point. Those aren’t nails; they’re claws.

           The hand at my crotch shows me just how sharp they are. She isn’t pressing hard, but it feels like knives running up and down my shaft. I jump, and her other hand reaches down and grips my balls tight. I let out a whimper when she squeezes, but hold still.

           “Admit you like it,” she says. “Admit it, and I’ll stop.”

           Her nails press into my cock a little bit, just enough pressure to be complete agony. She slides up my shaft, digging in on all sides, and it feels like my skin is going to peel away. I groan as she moves, trying to pull away but knowing that I can’t. Every movement of resistance, and she squeezes harder. The pressure builds so I feel like my testicles are going to burst. In my mind’s eye, she’s slicing my cock to pieces and bursting my testicles, leaving me a savage mess between my legs.

           I look down and see that she’s barely even leaving a mark. The lines behind her nails fade almost instantly. No damage, just pain. She slips her nails over the tip of my head, and the pain increases a hundred fold. Now it feels like she’s digging in, her talons carving my flesh apart.

           I’m breathing heavily when she lets go, trying to get air into my lungs. My balls are still sore, the pain throbbing quietly but insistently. Then, suddenly, her knee comes crashing up into my groin, and my lungs stop working. There’s no air to drag in. There’s no throb of pain, just sharp blasts of it crashing through my body, the most intense pain I’ve ever felt. My wrists and forearms burn as they suddenly have to support my weight when I try to curl up into fetal position.

           “You like it,” she says. “Most people would be begging me to stop. They’d be screaming in agony.” She puts her hands on either side of my face and lift me up so I can look her in the eye. She smiles at me. “They wouldn’t be moaning and groaning like a horny little teenager being touched for the first time.” She kisses me on the forehead, then pulls her hands away and slaps me across the face, her talons leaving lines of sensation across my cheek. “So admit that you like it,” she says.

           She steps back out of my sight, and I fight back a whimper.

           “Or maybe that’s the problem,” she says, stepping back in to my line of view with a jar of ben gay in her hand. She presses her fingernails into my chest and drags down, carving into the top layer of skin, scratching hard enough to leave little marks, though it feels like she’s peeling my skin away.

           “Maybe it’s that you don’t want me to stop.” She unscrews the jar and scoops out a healthy dollop with one finger. She begins to rub it over the scratches. Her voice never gets any louder or any angrier. “Maybe you already have admitted that you like this,” she says as the burn begins to intensify where she broke the first layer of skin. “Maybe you won’t admit it out loud because you don’t want me to stop.”

           She steps away and watches me, her stance wide, a sadistic smile plastered over her face. The cream on my skin stops burning, then gets intensely cold, the chill cutting into me just like the nails themselves. I begin to writhe a bit. It’s not a huge pain, not something that I’d normally bother with. It’s just there, right on the edge. Minor, but insistent. It demands my attention, and the more I try to ignore it, the more intense it becomes.

           I wriggle around, trying somehow to get it off me, to stop the burning cold. Sometimes, the twist of my body opens up the little cuts, and the burn starts for a few seconds. But it’s not a relief. Every time the burning goes away, the cold feels more intense, like ice seeping deep into my bones.

           She steps close again, running her boot up and down my leg. The vinyl feels good on the way up, and the sharp sole of the boot pulls at my skin on the way back down.

           “Is it that you love the pain?” she asks, her mouth right next to my ear. There’s barely an inch of air between us, but aside from the boot moving up and down my leg, she’s not touching me anywhere. “You love it, and you’re afraid to tell me, because you don’t want me to stop?”

           She licks up my ear, and I moan, the pain of my chest momentarily forgotten. Then she nibbles, and then she bites, and it feels like her teeth are going to slice through my ear, like she’s just going to bite it off.

           And I’m not entirely sure I care.

           She finally stops biting and rubs a warm, wet cloth down my chest, pulling away the cold and leaving me gasping and smiling at the same time.

           “I wonder,” she says. “Do you think you’d like it if I somehow made the sensations even more intense? Maybe some day we’ll get you some Ecstasy, so you can feel everything so much more powerfully. Then, when I beat the ever living shit out of you, the pain will be more severe than ever.” She looks at me, glances down, and laughs. “My god,” she says. “You love that idea. Don’t you?”

           I don’t answer. She reaches into the jar and pulls out another dollop. She steps closer, locking me eye to eye, and she gives me another evil look.

           I feel her hand on my cock and let out another moan before I realize what it means. Her laugh is pure evil as my eyes go wide. The burn is temporary, but the cold starts to spread with such severity that I wonder if it’s going to freeze solid.

            “I won’t stop,” she says. “If you tell me that you love it, I won’t stop. But if you don’t love it, if you just like it, then admit you like it. Admit it, and I’ll stop. Beg me to continue, and I will.”

            She steps back and puts her hands on her hips. “I can do more,” she says. “Things can get a whole lot worse. I could kick you all day. Make you a punching bag. I could use a riding crop, or carve my initials into your flesh.” She takes a deep breath, and I can see how much she’s enjoying the way I whimper, the mixture of joy and pain. “Beg me to do more,” she says, her voice hard and cold. “You don’t want me to stop, do you?”

            I open my mouth to insist that I do, but the words won’t come.

            She smiles. “Beg me,” she says.

            I swallow.

            She picks up a paddle from somewhere out of sight. It’s solid wood, but peppered with little holes to make it slice more easily through the air. “Go on,” she says. “Pick one. Admit you want me to stop, or beg me to continue.”

            I take a deep breath, and do something I never thought I would. I close my eyes and let the breath out slowly. And with the breath, I let out a single word. A word that makes her laugh, that makes her smile, and that damns me to some beautiful suffering.

            “Please.”