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Message-ID: <39536asstr$1038633003@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Toran <toran29@insightbb.com>
User-Agent: NewsPro/3.3.3
NNTP-Posting-Date: Sat, 30 Nov 2002 00:24:03 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} Flower (M/f BDSM)
Date: Sat, 30 Nov 2002 00:10:03 -0500
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

All comments welcome and appreciated.

FLOWER
By Toran

"I'm going to hurt you now.  Do you think you can handle that?"  His voice was 
a bare whisper, in her ear, and under any other circumstances than the one that 
he had put her in, it would have been sexy.  She would have responded, under 
any other circumstance, with a soft murmur and playfully pinch one of his 
little nipples, telling him he was a bad boy.

But that was under other circumstances.  In this circumstance, this particular 
moment in time, this stage of a relationship that had just leapt through 
another threshold, she was unable to murmur anything, or playfully pinch 
anything.  Oh, he was a bad boy, all right.  She just wasn't in a position to 
tell him so.

He pulled her short blond hair back roughly forcing her head back and that 
caused her jaw to flare - there was already a large ballgag buried deep inside 
her mouth.  The thick leather straps the buckled under her jaw and looped 
around her head made sure it wasn't going anywhere.  Of course, there wasn't a 
thing for her to do but grunt, and un-ladylike at that.  But, as she had often 
wondered, how ladylike was it to allow him to tie her and tie her roughly, so 
rough that she would usually have to take shallow breaths, forcing a chest that 
was bound tightly with rope to expand enough to fill her lungs with air?  How 
ladylike was it for her to allow him to spread her legs and play with her pussy 
as if it were just another fleshy thing to exploit - to hurt her?  How ladylike 
was it to allow him to clamp tight clamps to her nipples and dangle the house 
keys from the clamps or whatever else he could find?  How ladylike was it to 
allow him to force her to sit quietly, bound rigidly to a stiff chair and naked 
as the day she was born, and watch football all Sunday afternoon, with only an 
occasional pinch of her bound breasts and a slap on the thigh to show her that 
he acknowledged her suffering?

Not ladylike at all.  And the kicker was that she never allowed him to torment 
her either.  He took her body like he took her heart.  What he wanted he got.  
Just like the moan from behind the gag that was behind the leather straps that 
were puffing her cheeks as he buckled on the five inch leather posture collar, 
forcing her head up and slightly back.  Now she wouldn't be able to sneak a 
peak at what he was doing to her below - only feel the results.  And he'd just 
said that he was going to hurt her, words that started the flurry of activity 
deep inside her.

Of course, he knew that too.  He waited until the flush crept to her cheeks 
before he felt around her engorged pussy lips for the little button that seemed 
to be the center of her being.  He had a little clamp made especially for this 
button and this is what she felt him clip onto her.  She screamed from around 
the gag and strained at the rope that held her and caressed her and made her 
flesh thump and throb and didn't stop screaming until the agony that rippled 
through her body subsided enough for the first frozen tear to escape her eyes 
and streak down her cheek.

He liked that.  Liked making her cry.  It was music to his ears, he'd said, 
many times in that gloating voice he used and she hated.  It was usually 
accompanied by more of whatever had made her cry and then he was liking her 
more and more and the tears were rivers that stained her cheeks and dripped 
salt across her bound and straining breasts.  This time was no different.  He'd 
used the clip with the hook and with a flourish of jingling metal, the house 
keys were dangling from the little button of flesh that screamed louder than 
she could.

"Yes, honey, you like that don't you?"  He was a cat purring in her ear, all 
the while his claws made her flesh betray her with the pain that felt so good.  
She shook her head, no, she sure as fuck didn't like this - this fucking hurt!  
And yet the flower that started as a seed when he crossed the first ropes 
around her wrists and had broken ground when the gag slipped between her lips 
and strained as she had strained when he roped her ankles and thighs together 
suddenly bloomed a fiery red, the flames of the sun, and its petals unfurled in 
a long slow simmer that was close, oh so very close to everything that was 
good...but not close enough.

She moaned around the gag and straps and puffed cheeks and that was music to 
his ears, of course.  More music always meant more pain.  He followed the clit 
clamp with nipple clamps and that was bad, too, because her breasts were 
already wrapped like the ends of sausages and the flesh was already taut and 
super sensitive and her nipples were already nothing but little flattened nerve 
endings.  But he found enough flesh to give the clamps purchase and played her 
flesh like a maestro and her screams were the symphony that brought a smile to 
his face.  And that made the blooming blood red flower's petals grow long and 
lustrous, like comets that sizzled from the head, searing her flesh and it was 
good, so good...but not enough.

She thrashed her head as best she could, frustration fueling the tears as much 
as the pain, but the huge leather collar absorbed the urgent movement of her 
neck and she accomplished little.  He was in front of her now - reading her 
like a book and his eyes bore into hers and he wanted to see, wanted to see her 
pain, wanted to see her frustration, wanted to see her fear at what was coming 
next, what agony would he coax from her body and would that be enough to make 
that fucking flower drop its petals in one fell swoop and send her spiraling 
towards the tiny point of ecstasy that was the only thing that could ever 
account for what she had to endure.

But he would have to get something too.  It was a lopsided deal - she had to 
take the pain and torment, he got to his little slice of heaven.  That was the 
short end of it.  If he was lenient, she would be forced over the edge and her 
slice of heaven would greet the freefall.  Sometimes he was good to her.  
Sometimes not.  And those times would just be mean and she would cry herself to 
sleep that night, not from the soreness of her stretched limbs or the screech 
of her battered nerve endings.  She fell asleep in her tears from the numbing 
sense of total loss, the void that wouldn't be filled.  That she could make her 
fingers the painful lover that would bring her some satisfaction wasn't an 
option.  He was her lover.  He would bring her satisfaction.  Or not.

"You're close, aren't you babe?  What do you want me to do, huh?"  He was 
looking deeply into her eyes, and even though she saw him in watery streaks 
behind her tears, she knew this was a trap.  A trap that was laid with a smile 
from his face and the words from his lips.  "You want me to let you go?  You 
want me to take this clamp off over here?"  He slipped one of the nipple clamps 
off her nipple, not unclamped it - slipped it - and the flesh rolled as much as 
it could before giving way and only pain was left in its wake.  Her eyes closed 
and she shrieked into the ball in her mouth.  And the flower was blowing in the 
wind, weaving and bobbing and holding onto its petals now as it if knew that 
dropping them would mean the end, would mean death.  It was good, the weaving 
and bobbing and it was right, so right...but not right enough.

"I mean, I've got two more clamps left.  I can maybe slip one more off to give 
you something to think about..."  The second clamp set her other nipple afire 
as it slipped off her skin and she thrashed around in her ropes, neck bucking 
the leather collar and spittle flying from around the gag and the leather 
straps.  He was holding the flower - she had always thought that he held it 
just like the ropes that held her - and he was pulling it from the ground and 
there was nothing she could do about it, nothing at all, and the pulling was oh 
so very wonderful and so bad and yet good but what was bad was that the pulling 
wasn't enough, not enough at all and that was just bad, so very bad.

He wiped the tears from her cheeks, laughing at how she replaced the dry marks 
quickly with fresh streaks.  "I have one more clamp left, lady, and it has your 
name on it.  I could just let it stay there and maybe pop in a movie."

Her eyes flashed open.  NO!  She tried to scream it to him.  NO!  The fucking 
flower would take root and grow leather skin like the stiff leather collar 
holding her neck and then that flower would never drop its petals never give 
her what she wanted.  But it would not let her be, not at all.  It would grow 
and grow and maybe turn into a flower vine that spun around her body just as 
the ropes did now, maybe with thorns and those thorns would puncture and poke 
and hurt and do everything but bring her the petals she needed, god she would 
go crazy without the fucking petals fucking dropping.

He turned his head and scanned the video rack by the TV.  "We could watch 
Gladiator again, huh?  Hon?  That one isn't too long."

And then she did scream.  She screamed loud and long and when she was done she 
knew that it would only be hoarse whispers and raspy croaks for the next two 
days.  But right now there would be no Gladiator, there would be no movie, 
there would only be his hands hurting her and making her body do what she 
wanted it to do so very very VERY badly.

His eyes sparkled and at that moment, her heart was caught by him yet again.  
He would.  He would let her.  He would let her come.  She loved him.

"Ok then.  One more clamp.  You want it don't you?"  You want me to hurt you 
now, don't you?"

She sucked in air through her nose, eyes dilating just a little, lost in his 
world, lost in his world where he pulled the strings that bound her forever.  
This would be bad, so bad it would be good.  All she had to do was nod, that 
would do it.  She would nod and he would pull the clamp, and that motherfucking 
flower would give it to her and there would be nothing she could do but let the 
petals take her away, let them fly her to the fiery red sun.

She closed her eyes.  And nodded.  He smiled and kissed her cheek.

And ripped the last clamp off her body.

The flower gave up its petals.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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