I know I've been quiet lately. And I know I keep saying things are going to quiet down soon. Well, 'soon' is a relative term. And it'll happen. Soon.
Today's request was for something special to me. A fun time to be had by all. I hope you enjoy it.
Ballbusting Boots
The pain slammed through my body as if
her knee hadn't stopped. My vision exploded in a fractal, and I
barely felt the floor as it rushed up to me. There was no breath to
be blasted out of my body. There was nothing, nothing at all, except
the pain.
My vision was dim at the edges, and I
could feel the burning of my nerves as they stretched out from where
I used to have testicles. I knew they were still there, I knew the
pain would pass, but at that moment, it didn't feel like it. It just
felt like pain was all that existed, like there was no air to be had,
like there was no world beyond the agony.
Her boot nudged me under the chin,
lifting my head away, forcing me to uncurl out of fetal position. She
laughed at me.
“Oh, I'm sorry,” she said, her
voice a dripping fountain of sarcasm. “Does that hurt?”
Slowly, I feel my world expand again
to include her. My vision clears enough that I can see the black
leather of her combat boots, the pale skin of her legs up over her
knees to the hem of her dress. I take my first deep breath, and even
breathing hurts.
She pushes my head away, almost like
she is kicking me in the face, and I hear the heavy thud of her boots
on the hard floor as she steps away.
“Get a hold of yourself, you
pathetic piece of shit,” she says. “Come on, it can't hurt that
bad.” Yes it does. “Crawl
over to me, bitch. Come on. On your hands and knees. Do it now.”
I struggle up to
my hands and knees, glad she doesn't expect me to stand yet. It's all
I can do just to get up that high. I move towards her, slowly at
first.
“Faster, slave,”
she says. “I thought you said you had a high pain tolerance.”
I take another
breath, and the pain fades away a little bit. It's still there, still
just as sharp, but feels farther away somehow. Not like it's going
away, not like it will ever go away. But like I'm somehow getting
used to the agony.
Soon, I'm there in
front of her, my head a few inches above her beautiful boots. “Are
you having trouble breathing, pet?” she asks. That grin on her face
promises nothing but more suffering if I say yes, and nothing but
torture if I should dare to say no.
I don't say
anything. That is, somehow, worse.
She grabs my
throat, and I feel the hot pink fingernails dig into my flesh a
little bit. I don't know why the color of her nails sticks in my mind
like that. Maybe it's because everything else she has on, from the
boots to the dress to the corset to her lipstick, is black. Maybe
it's because they're stabbing my throat. Maybe it's because she's
choking me, and I only just started to breathe again.
“I asked you a
question,” she says, slowly lifting me up to my knees, making me
stretch out long before I'm ready. She smiles at my wince, licks her
lips when I whimper. She nudges my crotch with her boots, and somehow
it feels good, pleasure lacing itself around the pain. “Are you
having trouble breathing?”
I make a strangled
noise. She laughs at me. Her boot pulls back away from me, and then
slams forward again, clipping my testicle and sending a whole new
spike of pain through my body. She lets me go, and I collapse again,
coughing. How can there be new pain? The old pain still isn't gone.
This new pain runs parallel to it, but somehow separate. Like I can
feel every blow she's dealt my poor crotch individually. Other pain
will run together. Not this. Why not this?
“How about now,
piggy?” she asks. She leans forward as best as the corset allows,
putting her elbows on her knees. “Can you breathe?”
“Y-yes
mistress,” I manage to push the words out between coughs, between
gasps. Part of me feels lucky that she changed the question. Wasn't
she asking if I was having trouble before.
“It hurts,
doesn't it?”
“Yes mistress.”
She laughs.
“Good.”
I
feel her hand in my hair, and her nails scrape against my scalp as
she grabs a good hold. “Now,” she says, “Lick my boots clean.
The boots that have rubbed against your balls, the boots that have
given you so much pain. Lick them, slather all over them. Make them
clean and shiny.” She pulls me up and gives me a hard look in the
eyes. “Do a good job,” she says, “and maybe I'll stop doing
this.”
The third kick
creates a third path of agony through my body, and I collapse to the
floor, landing heavily enough to hear my head hit with a crack,
though the pain between my legs is too intense for me to feel it.
She pushes her
boot against my jaw, pressing it to my mouth. I can barely move, but
I manage to part my lips and push my tongue out, pressing it to the
pitted leather of her combat boot. I slide my tongue across the
leather, feeling every crack, every crease that formed around her
foot. I slip between the leather and the sole, along the frayed
stitching that binds them together.
“That's
a good doggie,” she says. She laughs. “At least your tongue is
good for something.”
I manage to get
back to my hands and knees and slide my tongue against the inner
curve of her foot, around the nubs of her ankle, and back along her
heel. I slide it along the metal grommets, feeling the laces absorb
my saliva as I go. I press my tongue hard against the leather,
focusing on the taste of it, the smell of it. My world focuses down
onto the leather of her boots, the slight change in color to the
boots as my tongue goes across it. The slight darkening, the cleaning
that shows me where I've been, as if I could forget.
The pain starts to
fade as I slide over the padding around the top of the boot, as I
move down and kiss the toe of her boot before moving to the next one.
I start at the toe
again. Start and stop right there, so she can feel the press of my
tongue, the gentle massage on the top of her foot. She lifts her
other boot and rests her ankle against my shoulder, pretending to
relax as she grinds her heel into the nerves on my shoulder, daring
me to stop what I'm doing, to beg her to stop, to react in any way.
But I know better.
It took bruises that refused to fade for a week, bruises that took
longer to heal than the tattoo I got for her, but I learned my
lesson. I keep licking and cover the whimper with a moan. I focus on
what I'm doing, hoping that she will focus on the pressure against
her insole.
I lick up along
the seams of leather, curling my tongue under the lip of one piece of
leather before sliding over to clean the next.
“Can you taste
your cock in the leather?” she asks. “Did your dick sweat rub off
on it? Do you like the taste?”
I slide back down
and kiss her toe. She lifts her foot from my shoulder and presses it
to my chest, lifting me up. She presses the sole of her boot against
my face. “Soles too,” she says. “Worship the ground I walk on.
Make sure you clean out the treads.”
“Yes mistress.”
I push my tongue
around the bottom of her foot, over the little raised circles down
the center of the sole, pressing it between the treads. I try not to
think where she may have walked, what she may have stepped in knowing
that I was coming over to clean them. She gave me a throaty chuckle,
as if she could read my mind. I imagined the worst. Which was, I'm
sure, the point.
Soon the rubber of
the sole is soaked with my saliva, and I kiss it one last time. No
sooner have I done that than she has given me the other sole, to
repeat the process.
This time, when I
finish, she grinds the boot against my face a bit, pushing me off
balance a bit before pulling her foot away to examine the job I did.
“I do love
watching you do that,” she says with a soft sigh. I smile, watching
her as she inspects her boots, turning them this way and that, making
the leather creak. That's a sound I dream of, one she knows I love.
She moves her foot around more than she has to, her pointing her
toes, there curling them up, just to make the noise. That wonderful
noise.
Finally, she puts
her feet down on the floor and looks at me, her eyes grabbing mine,
consuming me with her inner flames. She smirks again.
“I
suppose you did a passable job,” she says. She shrugs. “Good
enough, anyway.” Then she stands up and looks down at me with her
hands on her hips and a smile that makes my blood run cold. “Good
enough to only earn you one more hit.”
I whimper, but
know better than to resist. I'm soon standing again, stretching out
for the first time in what feels like hours.
She puts her hand
in my hair again, pulls me close. She presses her lips to mine, and
her tongue invades my mouth. It's soft and warm, gentle even while
forceful. I soon forget myself in her kiss, starting to melt into the
joy of it.
She pulls away and
graces me with a genuine smile, loving and caring and pleased. Then
the smirk comes.
And with it, pain.
I feel lifted off
the ground when her knee slams up, harder now than any of the other
hits so far. I'm blind from the pain, all thoughts of how to breathe
long gone from my brain. I have no thoughts but agony, and expect to
feel the thud as I hit the ground again.
But I don't hit
the ground. I can't. It takes a few seconds for me to be able to even
wonder about it, to notice the pain in my head where she has a grip
on my hair, holding me up though my knees have buckled, holding me on
my feet through her strength and her total control.
Her other hand
grabs me under the chin. She squeezes when I gasp for breath, and my
jaw opens. I hear her getting ready, and I know what's about to
happen, but when she spits in my mouth, it still comes as a surprise.
She laughs at me again and lets me go.
I land heavily on
the floor and curl up into a ball.
“Having trouble
breathing, pet?”
I don't have the
air to answer her; all I can do is nod. I don't realize the error
when she laughs. I don't have any real awareness of what's happening
when she takes my wrists and yanks them behind my body, when she
slaps the cuffs on.
“Let me help
you,” she says.
I whimper.
The world goes
dark, just for a second, and I open my eyes when the light comes
back. I open my eyes to see the smeared lenses, and I know where I am
before the smell of rubber hits my nostrils, before the taste of
stale air hits my tongue.
“That should
make it easier,” she says. Her voice is muffled by the gas mask.
“You know,”
she says, “you look better with that on.”
I look up at her,
and she's grinning like a maniac. “I wish I could make it
permanent,” she says, “Let it fuse to your face, like in that one
episode.” She shivers a little. “God that would be hot.”
She smiles at me,
then pushes me over onto my back, crushing my arms behind me. “Then
again,” she says, “If I did that, how would you lick my boots?”
She sighs and
shakes her head.
“The sacrifices
I make for you,” she says. Then she tweaks my nipple and laughs at
me.
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