Waking


Most nights, you keep me on the floor, next to your bed.

I am accustomed to being awakened by the toe of your boot, pressing into my lips and nose, or by your hands on me, or by a jarring command to wake up and suck your cock…  Or a small kick in my side, or a yank on my leash, which is locked to a ring in the floor.  Sometimes -- rarely -- I awaken on my own, and you’re not there.  It means you’re preparing something awful for me, because your cock is hard and demands that you hurt me.  Sometimes, I awaken in the night -- cold or sore or terrified.  But the norm -- what I can prepare for -- is you, for your pleasure, ushering in my waking hours.

And yet, every time you wake me, no matter how cruelly, crueler still are the unspeakable seconds in which I, having forgotten this nightmare, come back to the realization that I am a slave.  A fleeting human mindset irretrievably sinks away, and I remember, again, and again, who and what I am.  The luxury of a moment’s terror must be stifled then, so I can be clear-headed, ready to serve you.

Today, it is the dawning knowledge that you are at my crotch -- and then feeling the familiar probing of your fingers into my slit -- that ends my sleep.  You chuckle as I awaken.  You are checking my cunt -- “your” cunt, the cunt that belongs to you -- for scientific purposes.  You like to be assured, by empirical data, that I am always wet and ready for you, even in sleep.

I lie still, curled on my side, and open my eyes.  You’re squatting beside me, and when you notice me awaken and tense up, your hand moves from my cunt to my ass.  It’s so quiet in the morning.  Nice, almost.  You run your hand gently over my skin to see if I’ll lower my guard.  You win either way, of course.  If I allow myself to enjoy this touch from your hand, if I am lulled into thinking there is anything soft about you, your impending strike will be that much more crushing.  If I steel myself, tell myself it’s a lie…suffer in anticipation of pain and in shame of being a toy... Well, then you have once again caused me to associate genuinely pleasurable touch with torment and pain.  I am increasingly unable to experience soft human contact as such; I experience it as danger and hold my breath in abject fear.

You move on to kneading my ass, handling it, and eventually slapping it.  Hard, and repeatedly.  I whimper and fight to keep my hands from shielding my flesh.  If I do, you continue on as if the mistake has not been made.  But it has, and you never forget.  You will come back around to a lesson about my hands later, when you’re not busy.  When you’re calm, and can devise a terrible lesson for me to endure.

Today, I am able to keep my hands from flying to where they must not be.  You continue your game, and I hate that I am always -- every time -- taken off guard by how much this hurts, by how it sends waves down the backs of my thighs and up into the small of my back.  I fruitlessly arch and squirm.  This displeases you, which I can feel in the increased force of your hand.

Some strikes are much harder than others, and they cause me to panic.  My mind is not right in these moments.  Not focused.  In a sudden, pulsing fear that the beating may never end, I forget how to take it.

In these instances of unhinged, blinding panic, I do cry out.  It’s not involuntarily, like the other cries, really.  It’s… misguided desperation.  It’s direct.  I am crying out to you.  My stupid, weak brain wants you to hear, to notice.  Maybe this time, the terror reasons, maybe this time you’ll be moved.

Today, in response, you do pause.  You chuckle, smoothing your hand over my ass, and coo, “Oh. That one hurt.”  You say it with pity, as if you really wish you could help me.

So today, it goes like this;  it’s not the beating, but rather your words that cause me to begin to cry in earnest.  I cannot stop it and have no reserves with which to try.  I knowingly, willingly give you the pleasure of my tears, my heaving chest.

My distress feeds you, as always, and I have ensured myself a prolonged beating.

I’m so afraid to believe it when you finally stop.

You check my cunt and make me mind my manners.

“You’re nice and wet for me, aren’t you, slut?” you tease.

I hate myself.

“Yes.”

“You are such a twisted whore,” you respond, feigning disbelief in my depravity, “What do you say to me for making that cunt so happy?”

I am still shaking, catching my breath.

“Thank you, Sir,” I offer.  You slap my ass once more.  It’s the one I can’t handle.  I cry out, afraid that you’re starting over.  Instead, you reach over, careful to lean on a fading bruise on my shoulder, and unclip the leash from my collar, signalling that I should kneel.

My ass feels ruined, and tears continue to stream silently down my cheeks as I force myself to move, to touch my heels to the burning skin of my ass.  I am trying to sit pretty, arching my back for you.

Your cock is out.  You’re going to rape me now.

“Open,” you say, simply.

You want my mouth to be just a hole, or you would have told me to suck it.  As it is, you want me to just do the one thing -- “open” -- and you’ll do the rest.  I open wide, tipping my head back for you.  I feel you grab the back of my head with both hands, shoving me forward, a deep hole for your waiting cock.

I know how to open my throat for you.  You will require getting your big, hard cock all the way into me, so that your balls press against my mouth and chin.  If I do not feel them, I have failed.  You will hit me -- usually the side of my head and my ear.   And we will start again.

You are over me, driving that cock down, down.  Holding my head still so it won’t move back under the force.  I am to look at your face when you do this.  I guess I do.  I try to.  But time and space get so strange when you’re raping my mouth.  I can't breathe much, and my throat, of its own accord, fights and gags against the rape.  I’m not really here.  Don’t know what i see, what I hear, what I feel.  Your body is against my face as you push.  That’s there.  And my gagging.  And my desperation about air.  And your voice is there, vaguely, -- a strained, “Yes, yes, take that cock, whore.  Take it.  Take that cock.”  I know you’re talking to me, ordering me, but I am just a hole.  I can’t affect anything -- can’t do more than endure until you relent.

This time, my hole is not deep enough.  You pull out, thick spit coating your cock and dripping from my gaping mouth.  I cough air out, cough air in.  I need time.  Please, please give me just...just some time.  Please.

“Come on,” you say, thrusting into my hole again, “Take it.  You better take it.  All the way down, bitch… Just like that.”

I feel my eyes tearing, my jaw stretching, spit getting smeared across my face as you fuck it.  I gag and gag; I don’t sound human.  I’m not human.

You thrust deeper and let up, deeper and let up.  I am a good hole for you.  And I am so grateful to my master because this morning, although I am choking like always, you are generously letting me breathe some while you rape my throat; you do not plug my nose.  I don’t know why not.

When you’re almost ready to cum, you pull out and stroke yourself hard and fast while I double over and cough, trying to recover.

You grab my hair and straighten me up.  You hold my face in front of your throbbing dick, lines of spit hanging from my lips.  You threaten me through clenched teeth, “Don’t you fucking open your mouth, whore.  You’re not getting my cum.  You’re not getting my cum.  Keep that fucking whore mouth shut.  Don’t you fucking…”

I don’t get your cum today because I’m a worthless fucking whore.  I don’t deserve your cum.  I get what I deserve.

You release my hair and shoot your cum on my face. I hold still for you.  Sometimes, you say I look pretty with your cum across my face.  But you don't mean that.  You don't mean I look”pretty”; you mean I look like a somewhat useful fuckslut.