Don’t Leave a Stain

I know I’ve done something wrong, but I’ve no idea what. You are very busy and focused at the moment. I should not interrupt your work. Still, it spins in my brain. Amends. You need to make amends, but how do you do that without being sure exactly what you did wrong. I glance in your direction. A thought comes into my mind. I bite down on my lower lip. Will it help or will it irritate? I’m not sure, but I must do something before I start to spiral downward and become obsessed with trying to figure out how I messed up.

I glance again your way, Sir. You are very much still hard at work. I reach down and pull my shirt over my head. I fold it neatly and put it to the side. Next, I unfasten my jeans and slide them down my legs. I step out of them, fold them, and place it on top of my shirt. I reach behind me and undo my bra, one hook at a time. Shrugging my shoulders out of it, I place it on the pile. Lastly, I slide my panties down, and with my foot kick them over to land nicely on the stack of clothes beside me. I can feel your attention shift just the slightest little bit. You’ve noticed but I’ve fortunately not distracted you. I think for a minute. Now, knowing you, you would want me either somewhere close to hand or else on display. I find being on display difficult, so I move to the middle of the lounge and lie facedown on the carpet, my toes pointed straight and my hands resting on either side of my head. I chose the Floor pose so that you can see my submission to you. Lowering myself so that you can visibly see that you are above me. That my body is here for whatever use you have of it. I reach out and set the timer for 15 minutes, then quickly lower my head back down, my nose and forehead making contact with the carpet underneath.

At first, I get my breathing under control, breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth. As it starts evening out and my breathing becomes more deliberate, I think of the air coming in through my nose And out through my mouth. I think about how lucky it is that I don’t have the ball gag in my mouth, that would make this much trickier. Wait. Stop. You are not here to be aroused. You’re here to show your submission.

I want so much to look at the timer, but part of the discipline, I‘m sure, is doing this without keeping an eye on the time. I close my eyes. I think of myself there, in your lounge, the feel of the carpet beneath me, the crush of my breasts against the floor, the idea that you could do anything to me just lying there. An image of you, standing above me, a lit candle in your hand. You turn it sideways as the hot wax drips and lands on my back with a quick intake of breath. I close my mouth, and wait for the next drip. Oh, the pain feels so good. As the candle heats up, the wax falls in quicker succession. My breathing becomes laboured and I feel myself starting to grind my cunt against the floor. No! This is not what you’re supposed to be focusing on. I try to shove the thoughts out of my head.

I open my eyes and stare down. This is not a time for coming. This is a time for repentance. I keep my eyes firmly down. Why is this so much harder with my eyes open? Do you see who you are? You are his slave. To do as he wishes with you. If he really wanted to, he could leave you there for an hour, maybe two. Your body is his. Your submission is his. You hand over all that you are into his hands. It is what you want, what you long for. Someone to take up my submission and make full use of it. There’s so much I would like to give to you, Sir. So much I have yet to offer. Please do forgive me. Let me show you what I will hand over to you. My thoughts begin to cycle over all the things I could be and do and take and absorb, again, my hips start to grind against the floor as my thoughts begin to manifest themselves firmly in my imagination.

I hear your chair move, and out of the corner of my eye, I see your bare feet approaching me. You stretch up onto your toes, then come back down and walk around me. Abruptly your foot lands on my ass, pushing me Hard against the floor. ‘Stop that, slut,’ is all you say to me. You keep the pressure up until my hips fully stop their movement.

Contrition, yes, that’s what I need. I try to think through all that has happened. What did I do? Where did I go wrong? Did I say something. Did I do something that displeased him? I can’t pinpoint it, only the definite sense that I’m in the wrong. What can I do to make it right? What will he ask of me in ways of demonstrating my contrition? Anything, really, as long as I am forgiven. My entire being goes still. I feel his foot lift off of me and his footsteps fade as he goes into the kitchen. I can hear him getting a drink.

What could he do? St. Andrew’s cross? Kneeling with my hands cuffed behind me? Nipple clamps weighted and pulling on my breasts, bringing a sweet pain I long for. Maybe the single tail. I love the crack it makes, the sound as it cuts through the air and that delicious burn and sting as it makes contact. I hear him coming back towards me. I start to salivate. Will he try out some of the shibari he’s been thinking about? Something new? Something unknown? Or maybe he will grab a cane. Again I can feel myself thrusting against the carpet. Working myself up. Wanting to come. Wanting to fuck and be fucked. I gasp as your toes make contact with my cunt. You wiggle them about causing me to moan, driving them deeper. As you step back, I hear you say, ’Hey whore, don’t leave a stain,’ with that you remove your foot, reset the timer and step away.