korrabuse spell checked

She sits down heavily in the special order seal-lion upholstered bucket seat, her sigh is clipped as you cIose the door for her, not quite hard enough to be a slam but enough that you can see her start forward a little in her seat. From this close and at such a high angle the glass doesn’t totally obscure the inside of the car. No one finds this unusual or even seems to take notice and you flash the chauffer a winning smile while flipping him an extra buck. You reach for the driver’s door handle, for the briefest instance concern flairs up. The chauffer has parked too close to the entrance somebody could see in. “Has she started yet?” you wonder. No, she’s been a very good girl lately much better than during the first year. You glance back at the theatre arch, nobody has exited for over two minutes; a few simpering dilettantes are chatting about 20 yards ahead on the walk. Good. You open the door quickly, step in, and close it hard, once again not quite a slam but just enough that you see her eyes dart to you for an instant before returning to her lap.

Her hands are softer now than when you first met, no more calluses mare the slender fingers. Even in the dim light filtering through the tinted glass you can see how pale her hands are, not the creamy brown of her face but a grayish color and almost dirty looking due to the speckling, she’s been wringing them hard again, still is, she squeezes the left one enough that the fingers overlap. You see all this in the instant that you reach up and turn the ignition. Your hand moves toward the gear shift out of habit but you divert to grab her hands and are rewarded when she draws in a sharp gasp and tenses a little. “Now wasn’t that a nice evening?” you grin as you put the car in 2nd and roll forward until you feel the clutch catch. She says nothing. She does nothing but stare at her hands until you are on the main drag and turning onto Water Street.

As you pass the first row of street lamps on the bayside you glace over at her and see a single tear, the first of the night, running down her left cheek. She draws in a breath and nearly whispers “I don't want to do this anymore,” seemingly more to herself than to you. She squeezes her hand so tightly that you can hear little squeaking noises as her sweat causes her grip to slip in small increments.

“I know,” you say simply with a slight smile on your lips, showing no teeth yet. You look over at her and now see the tears are flowing more freely, she begins to sob very softy.

“I,” she begins and then sobbing more loudly, sniffing a little. “Can’t we take a break?” You catch her pleading stare as you stop at the light. “Just…just for a little while? It’s getting cold this time of year and…my condition means we don’t have to go out as much…right?” She seems almost desperate now.

“No” you state without real emotion. “There is a public function in two weeks, we should be at that.” She stops sobbing abruptly and opens her mouth to say something but you cut her off, “You don’t have to make a statement, merely appearing is sufficient. Nobody really seeks your input anymore do they?” At this last bit you show just the barest hint of teeth in your smile. Her shoulders sag as she seems simultaneously relieved and despondent. “They don’t want to bother you,” at this she winces.

“But we don’t have to go out again until January?” Her voice is almost pathetic, her eyes pleading.

The light changes and you return your attention to the road. “If you are good and do well when we go to the conference reception we don’t have to go out until the new film is released. They always give us tickets, it wouldn’t be right not to attend. Can you be a good girl?”

She lets out a final sob and acquiesces “Yes.”

During the remainder of the drive you hear her sniff a few times and once you look over to see her face buried in her palms, drops falling from backs of her hands. When you pull into your stall at home you reach your arm around to her right shoulder and pull her upper body over the gap between the bucket seats as you grasp her hands with your left. She says nothing as you gently kiss her below her left eye, her face is drenched and you easily taste the salt. “You know I love you, even if no one else does, especially when you are a good girl.”

“Yes…”














It is mirror night, every fourth Monday is mirror night, it is one of your favorite games to play with her and you will be a little sad when it no longer elicits the same reaction from her but she still seems as strongly affected by it as the night you first began using it. Being able to see herself seems to impact her more than anything else. You’re not sure whether the best sessions were the first and second attempts when you taught her the rules of the game, when her voice quavered with every word and she was unsure at every step even as you carefully instructed her. Or was it the fifth time just six months ago when she performed without fail, when she seemed to revel in it for the first time?

Mirror night always falls on a Monday because that is the day furthest from any public gathering she would be required to attend and the game tends to take more out of her than her normal routine. Once you even canceled because she had to meet with the mayor the next day on short notice. That had been the last meeting she had with anyone in private, the last time she had been out of your sight and in the presence of an old acquaintance. It wouldn’t have done for her to be unsettled by the previous night’s festivities when she wasn’t under constant supervision. And it was an unseasonably warm early spring, too warm for her to wear the new silk gloves you bought for her; she might have gotten a slight rope burns on her wrists if she struggled too enthusiastically. Since that short meeting, she had only been in the office for six minutes by your count, she hadn’t attended any official consultation and you suspected she would never be again. That was good, you enjoyed mirror night and it was unfortunate to have cancel, but only fools broke rules they themselves had set for good reason. That was the mark of a sloppy craftsman, and you had crafted her so well in such a short time without any suspicion falling upon you. Actually everyone seemed slightly contemptuous of her, at the intellectual level they of course understood that her injuries were crippling and her experiences would have reduced any ordinary woman to an invalid. But still they held her to a higher standard because of her station.

The game was played only every fourth week because of the way you used her on those occasions, it would be all too easy to go overboard and injure her in ways that were impossible to obfuscate. You had spoken with a doctor in confidence, ostensibly in the interest of a woman you knew who had digestive problems and turned the conversation toward the subject. He had assured you that while that sort of activity every night would lead to major problems very quickly a monthly endeavor wouldn’t lead to any obvious problems even over the course of a lifetime.

She was still in the bath when you knocked at the door; it was easy to hear the sloshing when she started at the sound. “Did you clean yourself like a good girl?”

“Yes,” she said with a slight burble, and you knew she was sunk up to her mouth in the bath. You couldn’t help but wonder what she thought about when she was alone in there, taking comfort from the warmth as it dulled the aches in her arms which she always complained about whenever she broke down and lost her composure. Did she think of the people she had once known and now never saw? Did she think of her parents who praised you for your patience with her and the doting care you lavished on her whenever she wasn’t in the room to hear them? Or did she think of nothing, did she simply want to forget it all? Did all the pain and memories of leering faces and beatings just fade away leaving only a pleasantly warm void free from reflection? Is that why she spent the most time away from you in that bath? At first you had been worried that she might take her own life, but eventually it became obvious that wasn’t something she was capable of, it seemed alien to her personality.

You open the door rather gently but she still starts up, raising her head from the water and standing without being told. She knows better than to try and delay what is coming and pulls the tub’s plug as she steps out even as you take a towel from the rack. You have insisted that she exercise with you and her body is still toned and well muscled in a feminine way, you can feel the firm curves of flesh through the towel, not the hard lumps and cords of muscle you have from your days as a dock hand which you have never allowed to fade. Even in her prime she wouldn’t have been as strong as a man let alone one as large as you, but her athleticism is far greater. Her muscles are made for moving economically and swiftly rather than totting barge and lifting bail. You towel her off very well; it wouldn’t do to have her slip in your grip. As you work up to her arms she opens her mouth to say something then bites her lip. “What?” you ask as you lift one arm and begin dry it as well.

Her lips quiver for and instant before she speaks. “Couldn’t we do something else tonight? I…I’m a little tired.”

You raise your head to her own and stare flatly into those pretty blue eyes, you can see a single tear welling up in her right eye, not quite yet ready to fall. “You know that isn’t how it works Korra, tonight is special. And besides I do all the work,” at this last you flash her the same smile that first caught her attention two years ago. “It only hurts for moment then you’ll enjoy it like always, besides you suffer worse pain every day don’t you?” this you say with overemphasized sympathy but you squeeze her arm in your grip and she winces. The tear in her eye falls, but you reach up and wipe it away gently.

She seems ready to blubber but she masters it and merely looks down at the small puddle between her feet. “Yes.”

She stands before the mirror, her hands are tied behind her at the wrists and sit in the small of her back, framing her cute little butt. You don’t really much care for tying her up. It would be better if she struggled but can’t really have that when you are lifting her up, she might fall and be seriously hurt. What would people say then? Perhaps one bruise would be dismissed, but what if she had to be punished for misbehaving in the same week? Two bruises in different places and of differing ages would be harder to explain. You are of course always careful never to punish her during the week prior to a monkey suit event, backless and sleeveless dresses had been the prevailing style for years. Of course you could simply not lift her up while you fuck her. You had done that once, pounding her from behind while her face gyrated about two feet from the glass, just far enough to be safe. It had been enjoyable to confront her so closely with her own face in the mirror but it really hadn’t felt right, she should have see what is happening to her in its entirety.

The mirror is seven feet high and twelve feet long centered in the south wall of the room. Light fixtures are either standing in the corners of the south wall or are heavily shaded and fixed to the east and west walls of the windowless room. Wouldn’t want any glare to spoil the view. She doesn’t look up even as you approach from behind and give her a playful squeeze on the left butt cheek. You continue to caress her kneading slim muscles and pinching the rare bits of flab you can find, and finally she looks up. “C-can’t we just do the first part?”
You look up to her eyes in the mirror, she isn’t crying this time. She seems to have resigned herself to it at least for the moment. You fix a thin smile and stare back at her unblinking, “But honey then it wouldn’t be special would it?” At that she turns her face away and hangs her head low enough that her hair obscures her eyes, but she doesn’t seem quite ready to cry yet, she does however begin to tremble slightly. “Maybe it is too cool in the room,” you think before dismissing the notion. You lay your left hand on her left hip, and with your right you grasp her jaw, not quite hard enough to hurt but on the edge of it. “Open your eyes,” is the only thing you say as you force her head up. She does as she is told. For a moment she seems to look herself up and down, and there is a faint glimmer of disgust and self-pity in her eyes. Then she returns her stare to the reflection of your own eyes, “Who is pretty girl in the mirror?”

“It’s me,” her voice is completely flat.

Is that a small act of defiance or is she just nervous? You only do this once a month after all. Either way the mistake must be rectified, so you squeeze harder, your hand is still calloused from the weight bars and grips her soft skin well. “No, you know this game. Who is she?”

“Korra,” she swallows so hard it is audible.

“And what is going to happen to Korra?” you haven’ even blinked as you stare into her eyes.

Her voice quavers, “She’s going to have se-”

Your left hand releases her hip and goes to her breast where you squeeze hard. At the same time you tighten your grip on her cheeks, pushing them up into mounds and press the heel of your palm into her throat. “If you are going to be a bad girl I’m going to be a bad boy.” She tenses for a moment then relaxes when you speak again. “If you don’t remember that is alright, I can teach you again the hard way. But if you want to be a bad girl then…” you let the threat hang and ease the pressure on her throat so she can speak.

When she does her voice only wheezes slightly before recovering, “Korra is going to watch herself get fucked in both holes and cum from it… because she is just a dirty little whore a-and she needs to remember that.”

Without further warning you lift her up off the floor by her thighs and enter her. She is already wet, this has usually been the case since the fourth time you’ve played this game with her. She tenses up for a second before slumping back against you. Her eyes are staring directly at her own reflection, she has learned that you will punish her for looking away, that lesson had only needed to be taught once. At this point in the game there is only one proscribed punishment for disobedience and that was to continue immediately to the second part of the festivities without preparation. You honestly don’t want to do that more than once since it could permanently injure her if done carelessly, but that has been unnecessary thus far. She is being a good girl and you feel her spasm for the first time after about eleven minutes. And now she does begin to cry whether out of shame or something else you don’t know. So far as you know she has never tried to fake an orgasm, she is naïve in her own way and even if she did find she could successfully feign one it wouldn’t matter anyway, you take a break when you feel you need one not based on anything she does. Just as always she doesn’t scream when she cums, she simply whimpers a little and arches her back but of course you can feel her clenching and it is difficult to fake the uncontrolled feeling of the spasms. You don’t feel her cum again before you decide to move on to the second half of the game but her face and chest are flushed red and hot to the touch, she seems to be enjoying herself well enough.

As you lay her down on her back you look down into her sweating tear-streaked face and think, “Dammit, I should have had her put on her makeup before-hand.” Oh well nothing to be done about it now. The lubricant is in the drawer of a small end table just to the left of the mirror. As you return with it her eyes grow wide, even though she must have known this was coming.

She looks up pleading, “Please don’t…we’ve already…we can just finish like normal, we don’t have to…” Your impassive stare seems to unnerve her and she begins blurting out the usual things you hear when she thinks you’ve gone too far, though after the first few times you heard this you’ve begun to suspect she just doesn’t want to admit what she really likes. You aren’t really listening as she whimpers about how she wants a baby, as if the usual and less than usual sex wasn’t going to make that happen sooner or later. She blathers on about how much she loves you and how she knows you love her too, which is true after a fashion. She spreads her legs and begs for it, something you thought her incapable of. Tells you how much she needs to feel it again, how she wants to stare into your eyes when she cums, and that almost entices you to a change of plans. But that would be showing weakness. When gardening you don’t hesitate to prune a beautiful flower. You cut it in the knowledge that the final bloom will be more beautiful still for the loss. This beautiful, ugly, wonderful, disgusting, admirable, reprehensible woman is all the more beautiful because she is broken. She is a like a fine sword which has been battered against a shield until it is dull and twisted. She broke herself trying and failing to be more than she was. Her pain is as much a part of her beauty as her icy eyes, soft skin, and taunt stomach. And this is a necessary measure to make her more beautiful still.

“You’re acting like a bad girl, Korra. Bad girls get fucked; without this…” you hold up the shallow tin for her to see.

She stares up at you with what looks to be stark terror, and for one instant there is tiny pang of guilt at being so cruel. But cruelty is a necessity for a gardener. She pleads again and this time it is distorted as she begins to sob, “Please…”.

“Please what, Korra?” you try to project all the cruel inflexibility you can through your stare, you don’t want to hurt her in any permanent way. She isn’t exceptionally smart, especially when dealing with people and for a moment you fear you will have to punish her again, that she won’t understand the intonation, that she will scream for mercy in frustrated terror and some of what you have accomplished might be undone.

She stares back at you for a moment, her desperation is written plain on her features, then her face softens with understanding and something else. Resignation, exhaustion, love? When she finally speaks tears are still streaming down her face but she is no longer sobbing. Her voice is slightly cracked but steady. “Please...use a lot of that….” And with that she stands up on her own and turns her butt towards you, it is slightly reddened from being held against your body and then laying on the floor of polished wood.

You unscrew the lid of the tin as you take a knee behind her. “Spread them for me.” She does as she is told, with her tied hands grasping both buttocks. She had cleaned herself thoroughly, always had after you did it for her the first two times. She preferred not to go through that again. You apply the cream with your middle finger. When you reach inside her she draws a sharp breath and clamps down for an instant, but you ignore her. You use up more than half the tin before you place it on the floor out of the way. She has been a good girl, she has cum for you once already, she has understood your intentions without them needing to be spelled out for her, and she avoided her punishment by being obedient when she realized what you wanted. She deserves the extra effort, and of course that also means you can fuck her a little harder this time.

You pick her up and face the mirror again, then slowly lower her onto yourself. At first she lets out a few grunts and clenches, but then she sucks in a breath and relaxes. “Who is the pretty girl?” your reflection nods to her.

“Korra,” she whimpers through clenched teeth as you start.

You grin at her from the mirror as you lift her legs higher allowing her to see, “And what is happening to Korra?”

She is only able to blurt out a pained word between each thrust “She…is…being…ass…fucked.”

It takes nearly fifteen minutes before you feel her clench down, this time her grunt isn’t caused by pain. Her ass is flexed taunt against you as she rears back further onto your chest her nails scratching at your stomach even as they remain tied. You ask her the same question you do every time while watching her toes curl, “Now I’ve told you what you are before, you remember right?” And with that you walk her to within two steps of the mirror, quite safe now that you aren’t actually fucking her. “What are you Korra? Do you remember? Tell me everything you can recall.” Her eyes seem very large in the mirror, swollen and beautiful.

She is crying more loudly this time, not quite wailing but nearly there. She spits out the lines you’ve had her memorize, she never repeats them in the same order but that doesn’t matter. What matters is that she knows them by heart, “I’m your toy because only you will have me. I’m your little buttslut. I’m of no good to anyone but you. I’m unwanted. I’m just a set of holes to fuck. I’m a whore who cums from being raped in the ass. I…I’ve been discarded because they don’t n-need me anymore. I-I failed a… and now… t-this is all I am, THIS!” the last sentence is a shriek, something you had never told her to say. You are almost taken aback for a second believing she is angry with you, but she doesn’t realize that you are staring into the reflection of her eyes because that is also where she is staring. There is self-pity in her stare and self-hatred, but as that fades there seems to be some amount of acceptance if not contentment in it as well. You shuffle backward away from the mirror; wouldn’t want overbalance and fall into it. You begin again.

This time she only holds out for four minutes, but you go on for another two or so afterward, reaming her as hard as you can. As you finish inside of her she exhales and makes a sound which is not a moan but more like a rattle in the back of her throat.  You set her down, let her sit on your lap still facing the mirror, and untie her hands. There are barely any marks on her wrists; she didn’t strain against them very hard. You kiss her cheek and whisper into her ear, “Who could ever love such a dirty little whore except for me?”

You thought she’d have no more tears left, but this still seems to affect her. Buries her face in her hands, you’ve see her cry enough that you can differentiate the causes. This time it is in despair rather than shame.

“You know I love you, even if no one else does, especially when you are a good girl.”

Through her hands you hear a muffled, “Yes,” between the sobs and hitched breaths.



















The night had not started badly, she had been waiting at the bathroom door when you opened it and strode past you to the small den where the mirror was without being told. At first you had thought she had resigned herself to enjoying the game. The last time she had two orgasms when you fucked her ass and you thought that perhaps she had learned to like it to some extent even if he had cried and complained about you forcing it upon her afterward. As it turned out she had plans of her own. She had refused to say anything to you once she as standing before the mirror however she did allow you to bind her arms without a fuss. She also said nothing when you hefted her up and entered her, though she did become wet once you had worked at her for a minute or two. It seemed she had some point to make; that she still had a stay even when in this position.

“Look at yourself,” she doesn’t respond so you hook her right thigh in the crook of your arm and reach up to squeeze her breast painfully hard. “Look at yourself,” her eyes remain closed and her faced turned away. “You will do what I say or you are going to be punished,” still nothing. “Fine,” you pull out of her and set her down on her feet still facing the mirror. As you begin untying the ropes and you see her eyes open then glace at your reflections in the mirror. “You’re being a bad girl today,” you level your eyes at her. The rope slips free and she rubs her right wrist with her left hand. Her face has a triumphant look you can tell that she thinks that untying her hands amounts to yielding to her. She is wrong.

When she speaks it is with conviction. “I know you. You won’t beat me. You’ll pinch and sla-aaaap” her words become a yelp of pain as you punch her in the back, pulling it enough that you won’t crack a rib. You do hate to do it, to hit her with a closed fist. It would be so easy to make a mistake and do more than cause her momentary pain but she has to learn that you will do it when necessary. You reach up and dig the fingers of your right hand into gap between her neck and collar bone. The bone there is stronger than normal. An ordinary woman’s bone is pencil thin here and could be broken with enough pressure or a sharp blow, but she is a bit tougher than most. Still she winces and gabs your hand with both of her own, she never expects it when you left hand clamps down on her throat. You pull her in closer and she reflexively shifts both of her hands to pry at your left even as you dig your right fingers deeper into the cleft of her neck. “W-“ is all she can choke out even as she thrashes about with the entire weight of her body, she is not a big woman even if she is tough and never would have been strong enough to pry both your hands from her neck, but with her strength diminished by her injuries she can’t even loosen your left with everything she has. You allow her to realize this, not squeezing tight enough to cut off all her air just enough to make her desperate, meanwhile you continue to press the first three fingers of your right hand into her hooking them into the sinew below her clavicle. The stingy muscles offer no resistance like the bullish neck of big man might. In fact her lithe and toned shoulders just make it easier to get a grip.  She manages to get out “-r ch-king m-,” she sounds surprised. Tears sparkle in the corner of her eyes even under the room’s soft lighting. You shift you left hand upward moving it to her jaw taking some pressure off her neck which allows her to take a wheezing breath and cough once. Your fingers and thumb are buried in her cheeks, spoiling the beauty of her face in the mirror but her eyes are still defiant even has you push her face to within three feet of the surface. She braces her hands against it, leaving barely discernible prints and streaks.

You keep your voice calm as you look her in the eyes and loosen your grip on her jaw so she can respond. “We can start again if you can be a good g-,” as you say this she spits at the mirror. Your left hand tightens again this time just where her jawline meets her neck. You squeeze as hard as you can and feel her jaw creak a little in its socket as you force her face forward until her nose is touching the glass. “You’ve made a mess, clean it up.” She doesn’t respond though one eye is closed in a wince of pain. You reiterate the command to make sure she understands what you are demanding of her, “Stick out your tongue and lick the mess you’ve made off the mirror.” She still doesn’t acknowledge you so you turn her head to the left then slowly and carefully you wipe her cheek over the spit clinging to the glass. Of course this does nothing to clean up the spittle; it only smears it across the surface. When you pull her head back a single string of saliva extends from her cheek to its reflect in the mirror. She is now officially considered a bad girl for the night and requires punishment. You back off further, you don’t want her too close to the glass in case she struggles, she might be a bad girl but that doesn’t mean you want her pretty face cut open by shards of a mirror.

You put more pressure on her right shoulder as you maintain your grip in the crook of her neck, forcing her to her knees. A second later you also kneel behind her. You move your right hand from her shoulder to her upper arm so that you have something better to hold onto. This pulls her right hand from her throat were she was trying to pry her fingers beneath your grip. Her left hand is still clasped around your wrist ineffectually trying to pull your arm downward to clear her airway.

When your slide yourself between her buttocks she stiffens and lets out a -+choked yelp. She tries to crane her neck around to look behind her but you hold her fast as you begin to press against her unprepared asshole. She clenches and groans as she struggles in your grip but you continue to wedge yourself into her more deeply. When her struggles seem to have temporarily exhausted her you release your hold on her neck and grasp her lower left arm, pulling it behind her. At the same time you slip your right hand down her arm, grip it just above the wrist, and push your hips forward. She tries to groan in pain but is struck by a series of racking coughs before sucking in a breath as she feels you pull back for the first time. You begin thrusting at her. She doesn’t scream, instead grunts escape from the lips she has pressed into a thin line each time you gore into her. “See didn’t it feel better last time? Wasn’t it better to be a good little girl?” She squeezes her eyes shut and the tears begin to stream down her cheeks, her grunts begin to be interspersed with sobs.

You grip tighter while slamming your hips into her ass and continue to pull her toward you. Her back is bowed heavily now but she is isn’t straining against you, on the contrary she is rearing up like a snake letting you force  your way deeper into her ass. Then she reaches her limit and can bow no more as you rotate your arms and extend them behind you pulling hers along, and now she does start screaming. “No! No! My arms! My arms…they. I c-ca… I can’t! Please! PLEASE STOP!” The last scream is loud and sharp enough to echo in the room. Her voice is pitched higher than usual and cracks halfway through the scream. As the silence crashes back you resume thrusting. “You have to stop! Please, I’m begging you! I’m begging!” here she descends into a series of pained grunts as if unable to think of what to say next but still trying to speak. When she regains her composure her voice is even higher and almost hysterical, “You’re hurting me, you’re hurting me! It hurts, huuuuuuuurts!” she draws the word out until it is interrupted by a series of hitching gasps cut it off.

Her arms? You pause to make sure you are not hyper-extending them. Nor are you pinning her elbows behind her back which could dislocate her shoulders. You’ve seen this woman use your weights, and while she never touched the heaviest plates she isn’t delicate by any means. What does she think she is playing at? “Which hurts more your arms or your ass?” you spit this out with as much dismissive contempt as you can muster.

“I don’t know!” she shrieks this while she stares directly into the reflection of your eyes in the mirror. Please, why won’t you just st-ha-ha-op!?” at this point she is unable to talk anymore and just descends into a series of sobs.

You continue to fuck her for about two minutes always careful to not thrust hard enough or pull back fast enough to permanently damage her, certainly not hard enough to draw blood. She says nothing. She merely sobs and whimpers with her head hanging low. You permit her this much since she cannot see much of anything anyway while she is on her knees in front of you.

As you slow your pace her sobs tapper off. When she speaks her voice is more desperate and conciliatory than ever, “If you stop…I. I’ll be a good girl. I promise I’ll be good. I’ll be good. I said I’ll be good!” the last word stretches out into a pained groan as you continue to pound her. The slapping sounds echo during the short silence between her groan and return of her sobbing. Her eyes are averted from the mirror again.

“It’s not enough to say you will be a good girl Korra. You have to be a good girl. Can you really do that for me?” you smirk but she can’t see it in the mirror, her eyes are so tightly closed that wrinkles stand out on her brow and cheeks. “Open your eyes,” you say this with cold detachment as you stop thrusting into her and loosen your grip on her forearms slightly. She opens her eyes, they are red and pleading. “What do you see?”

“Me…Korra,” she sobs.

“I said, ‘what do you see’ not ‘who do you see.’” She is still new to the rules so this kind of leniency doesn’t hurt.

She seems confused for a second before choking out the words as if each was painful “A-a…dirty…anal…whore?” That wasn’t quite right, but it was close, in fact it was a littler harsher than what  you had memorize last time.

“Good enough,” and as you say this she lets out a sigh of relief. “What happens to whores?”

She begins shaking, and when she speaks her voice is piteous because of the fear it holds, “They…get fucked?” the question itself is plea. It’s obvious that she is afraid you will continue; she is afraid she just consigned herself to more pain but she is equally afraid that if she doesn’t say what you want she will be punished.

She grunts again as you withdraw from her completely. You allow let her hang suspended by your grip on her forearms for a moment. “Whores get fucked. But good girls are good whores and they get to enjoy being fucked. Bad girls, well they don’t get to enjoy anything,” you pause to make sure she comprehends.  She says nothing but does sniff once and looks into your eyes as she nods in acquiescence. “The last two times you were a good girl and you enjoyed it, you even the very first time.”

She closes her eyes squeezing out two fresh tears, “I didn’t like it. I don’t like it. I-“

“Stop lying,” you cut her off. “We both know what happened; it just took you a little while for you to get used to it. You were such a good girl the first two times; you played the game even though I had to teach you. Why were you a bad girl today?”

“Because I thought you’d stop. I don’t like this game. I don’t!” she looks terrified for a moment and does nothing but stare at your reflection in the mirror, searching it for a reaction to her outburst, when she finds nothing but your impassive gaze she continues. “I don’t want to this. What we do other nights is fine, even the parts I don’t like are fine b-“

“You didn’t always think the things we do other nights were fine,” you cut her off again. “You are just being a bad girl who thinks she can get her way. You’re wrong.”

“I-,“ she starts.

“What are you?”

“I am…a dirty whore.” Then she begins to open her mouth to say something else but nothing comes out.

“But can you be a good girl for me?” Her reflection nods and that is good enough for now. You carefully  lower her until her chest rests on the floor. Only when you release her forearms do realize how tightly you gripped them. The marks above the wrist are still indented not only into the skin and fat but the muscle. She attempts to raise herself with her hands but in the mirror you can see her gritting her teeth in pain every time she tries to pressure on her palms, and you feel the smallest twinge of guilt. You hadn’t meant for that to happen. “I’m going to clean up a little and get something for you. Don’t move from this spot, I want to see that cute little ass still in the air when I get back.” She does slightly lower her butt to rest it on her legs but otherwise she does as she was told. Her punishment from start to finish had lasted barely fifteen minutes, but it was enough.

You are only gone a few minutes. It wouldn’t be sanitary to continue in your present state even though she cleaned herself quite thoroughly, so you wash up. After all you are concerned for her well being at least in the long term. Anything which could jeopardize her chance of bearing children isn’t acceptable; anything which would make a doctor suspicious isn’t acceptable; that includes infections. You also retrieve the anti-inflammatory cream you picked up at the local drug two months ago when you started to play this game. You hadn’t found need for it until today.

When you return her breasts are still flattened against the floor, it seems she given up on adjusting her position.  You ask her to lift her ass up and for an instant she is frozen with fear but then she sees you’re opening the tin of cream. You apply it to her and she lets out an uncontrollable sigh of relief even as her body winces at the actual touch.

You pick her up and move closer to the mirror before simultaneously sitting down and slipping inside her. She hitches in a little breath, she certainly isn’t ready for this, but some groping and rubbing solves that and in spite of her protests she begins to grow wet. When you hear her start to pant a little at your touch you know she is ready. You bounce her up and down, sometimes thrusting from beneath while you pinch her butt or the meat of her hip.  Occasionally you feel the cool, slippery cream leave a droplet on you as it drips from between her buttocks. Her arms must still be sore because she lets them hang at her sides while you grip her ribs or hips.

After ten or so minutes she begins to convulse and slumps forward looking into the eyes of her own reflection. “No,” it was barely even a whisper. Then louder “I don’t want to.” She grits her teeth and tries to not let out a whimper, but doesn’t quiet succeed. Her face is both beautiful and ugly at the same time as she tenses it and tries to keep any hint of pleasure from showing. She makes little squeaking sounds in her throat as you rock her hips back and forward. At last you can feel her stop quivering and relax, at the same time a breath whistles between her still clenched teeth. You reach down with your right hand and begin to strum her clit just as she leans back onto you. She immediately sits bolt upright and grunts, “Wait, you can’t…I just…I…”

“You just what?” you smile as your hand dips further between her legs and then digs into her. She jumps as if struck then she tries to squirm off of you but you hold her down by circling her waist with your left arm. You slip each finger in a different spot between your flesh and hers before withdrawing it and finding a new spot for another. When you raise your fingers to her face the tips of all four are wet to the first knuckle. She recoils slightly but you grip her neck with you left hand. She looks to your reflection in the mirror as if for confirmation. “Open your mouth,” her lips part slightly before you force your fingers between her teeth and wipe them across her tongue before withdrawing them. You turn her head so that her unfocused eyes are brought in line with the reflection your own as you peer over her shoulder. “Did you like that?” As you watch as a tear traces a line from the inner corner of her left eye to her lips and as it hangs there her tongue darts forth to catch it. Perhaps she did like it. “What do you taste?” you wonder what she will say: tears, salt, or something else.

“A whore,” she says as if it was obvious. You suppose that would apply no matter what she was referring to. Her gaze is completely flat and without emotion, the tears have not quite stopped but they have slowed. You return your right hand to its place between her legs and your left to her hip. But as you are about to begin again she starts to slowly grind and swivel her hips of her own accord. She isn’t looking at you now but at herself and her eyes remain empty. Has she decided to try and speed this to a conclusion or is she enjoying herself, it’s hard to say. You leave her to it, and your left hand wanders to first one breast and then the other while your right continues to pluck and rub at her. It takes her three minutes to cum again, and you barely last any longer than she does. This time has her trembling subsides she leans forward to offer you her shoulders at the perfect height and distance. You grip both to keep her down and thrust into her from beneath; if it is painful this soon after her climax she doesn’t vocalize it with anything more than rhythmic sighs as she continues to sway her hips from side to side. When you finish she leans back and pushes herself more firmly into your lap. You take your hands off her shoulders and wrap them completely around her chest, letting her breasts rest on your crossed forearms. You dip your head to plant a light kiss where her right shoulder and neck meet.  She speaks again, her voice full of sadness but also tinged with hope, “Do you really love her?” and you raise your eyes to the mirror.  She is looking at her own reflection. You consider toying with her for a moment but the time for that passed. Now she needs to be shown she will be loved if she behaves.

 “Yes,” this is more or less the truth. And then after a moment you twist her around and look directly into her eyes as you add “Who else would?” She presses her face into your shoulder. At first you think she may begin to weep again but instead she just lays against you with her eyes closed. When she finally eases off of your lap you see that a little cum has leaked onto the floor, she sees it as well. “You’ve made a mess; you should clean it up.” Her eyes are wide and bloodshot as they look up to you then down again. She conspicuously does not brace her hands on the floor to steady herself as she sits on her haunches, leans forward, and extends her tongue. It flattens against the varnished wood as it sweeps up the wetness and the glob of white at its center. She sits upright and her throat bobs as she swallows while looking you in the eyes. But your thoughts are elsewhere now, “Let me see your hands.” She extends them out to you. Her right hand which would have been in your stronger grip visibly quivers and her face tightens as you take it in your own.

You visited her doctor the next afternoon and learned the truth of it, there was nothing wrong with the musculature or bones of her arms. They were quite well exercised and built after 24 years of activity. The problem was the nerves; she had severe nerve damage in both arms and to a lesser extent both of her legs from acute methylmercury poisoning. This completely baffled you since the doctor said she had no brain damage as you would expect from a whitesmith or tanner exposed to mercury compounds in a lifetime of work. Nor did she carry any significant heavy metal load in her blood or body fat as far as the biopsies and serum tests could tell. The doctor did tell you this problem had been referred to him by other foreign physicians so he was unaware of the exact cause of the condition but that all the symptoms matched their diagnosis.

When he asked if you knew of any trauma which might have aggravated the nerves, particularly sustained pressure, you made up a plausible story of a spirited young lady who tried to impress you by using your military press and had managed to lift nearly half the weight you could before her arms gave out. “That’d do her,” was his only comment. And he recommended that you a keep a closer eye on your wife from now on and try not to encourage her youthful enthusiasm. He gave you a tonic in a plain brown bottle which could be applied topically and left to soak into the skin if the problem grew worse than just minor ticks and a periodic weakness of grip. You made sure to take down the name of the tonic so you could buy it yourself without altering him again, wouldn’t want him to find any bruises or swollen orifices in the course of an examination if he asked to conduct one.

For the next eight days she could barely close her hands and you cut her dinner for her so she could carefully lift small portions to her mouth and feed herself. Drinking was more difficult but grass straws weren’t hard to come by. Once on a particularly bad day she dropped a spoon to the floor splattering soup across the wood tiles. She had snapped a terrified glance over to you before bedding and trying in vain to pick up the fallen utensil. When you walked over to her and took a knee beside her she started as if struck but you merely retrieved her spoon and left to get her another. By the time you returned from the kitchen with a replacement and a wet rag you saw she was crying. You moved your chain from across to the table to a place beside hers. At first she seemed nervous but when you wiped her cheeks dry with a napkin and caressed her shoulder she settled down and allowed you to feed her the remainder of her meal.

The weather didn’t help her condition, it was late winter and though spring promised to break early according to the almanac wet snow continued to fall. You started several fires that week and had her sit in front them in the padded leather chair you brought from your study. You didn’t really care if the heat cracked it.

She spent more time than usual in the bath and you joined her several times, letting her lay on top of you until she fell asleep. She didn’t seem to prune up as easily as you did, which as you thought about it made a strange sort of sense. And when you passed your nights together you were far gentler with her than usual, she seemed to appreciate that. Once you awoke in the early morning to find her straddling you. She claimed the pain in her arms was keeping her awake, whether that was true or she just wanted attention didn’t matter much to you. She slept soundly enough after exhausting herself. As you watched the light of dawn creep across her face its expression seemed peaceful and content, without the persistent tightness you’d noticed when the pain was at its worst.

You had almost used up the pint bottle of nerve tonic by the following Wednesday. That night you rubbed down her arms with it as she sat in the warm water for perhaps two hours. She winced a few times at the pressure but never resisted or said a word. Most time she reclined with her head resting on the back rim of the tub, eventually that annoyed you so much you stuffed a towel under her head. Even this brought no response but her eyes softened at bit we she realized what you had done.

When you finish off the entire bottle of tonic you stand to leave without saying a word but her voice, soft and a little cracked, stops you. “Why?” she isn’t looking at you she is looking down at her arms. You can’t tell if she is referring her condition, your punishment for her misbehavior, or the tonic.

You turn back to face her, “You should have told me it was that bad.” She says nothing in response but a tear lay on right cheek. She must have let it slip the moment you had turned leave, and you wonder why she would try to hide tears from you. It glints under the harsh globe lights of the vanity table. It takes some time to think of an answer to her question, “Good girls shouldn’t have to suffer so badly.”

Another tear joins the first, “Am I a good girl now?” She says this with no inflection as if she had never heard the words before.

“You’re getting there,” closing the door behind with a soft click you as you leave.