Well, I was only going to post Part 1 (blush). But Part 2 started itching at my fingers, and what’s a scribbler to do when his fingers itch?
He scribbles, that’s what :-).
Well, this one does :-)).
So my apologies for bringing Part 2 here – but, um, here it is, for whatever it’s worth. I have a path to Part 3, 4 and 5 in my head – but feel free to tell me you’d rather they stayed there :-))). Over to y'all...
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DOCTOR'S ORDERS - Part 2
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The stripes on my back burn white hot. He kept the whip on my back tonight so my ass wasn’t too sore to sit on. Not that me being sore would bother him – or me. But he said tonight I had to carry on what I’d started . And I can’t see him, but I can feel him behind me. He’s sat in the chair, and he’s got that grin he has, and his hand is slowly stroking up and down his cock. Not to make himself come – that’s my job. But just because he’s still hard from whipping me, and he’s contemplating what he’s going to do later. Of course, I don’t know what it is. What he’ll do to me – how he’ll use me. I mean, I know it will hurt, or some of it will. And I know it will feel good – feel right. All of it. The bits that hurt, and the bits that don’t. The bite of the crop, the bites of his teeth. The hard, sharp slaps of his hand, and the hard, so fucking hard thrusts of his cock into whatever hole he wants to take, however he wants me to take it. And I know something else. Because I know that if none of that makes sense to you, if you’re sat there, whoever you are out there, wishing like hell you knew who I was, where I was, so you could call the cops to come ‘rescue’ me, I’d never be able to explain why ‘rescue’ is the last fucking thing I’d ever want – something I’d never want. Because if you don’t get it already? There’s not a chance in hell you ever would.
Or maybe not never. And maybe not ‘no chance’. Because once? Once, I was you. I was you – and now I’m me. Now I’m me, and the center of my world is the man behind me, stroking his hard cock. The man who’s going to whip me, and bite me and bruise me – and fuck every hole in my slut body whatever way he wants.
And I fucking love it. You hear me, you out there? I. Love. It. I’m not under the power of some alien mind ray, some weird magic hypnosis. He’s not threatening the lives of my kids – he never would. Even if I had any. And I’m not chained to the wall of some dungeon, with killer guard chihuahuas roaming the grounds of some vast estate on a secret island.
I’m here. Where I want to be. Where I need to be. I’m here, with the stripes of his whip on my back. I’m here, naked apart from my stockings, and garter belt, my heels and ankle cuffs – my wrist cuffs and collar. I’m here, and here is just exactly where I want to be, thank you very much.
But that’s not what it’s about – tonight, I mean. Because he’s what he is – and I’m what I am. And he’s given me an order. And good girls know what to do when they’re given an order. They do as they’re fucking told. And if this isn’t an order to get down on my knees and suck his cock, or an order to get over his knee for a spanking, or an order to seduce the cute girl in the lingerie shop, and bring her back here so he can watch us fuck – it’s still an order. An order for me to carry on telling you (whoever the fuck you are) about The Day – about how I got here. Even if it wasn’t a single Day, and even if ‘here’ isn’t really a place.
So how did a gorgeous, twenty eight year old doctor get ‘here’, wherever ‘here’ is? Like I said last time. It was Mom’s fault. Or maybe Dad’s. But really it was both of them. It was both of them when they went out on the highway, because they’d got Dad’s test results, and neither of them was going to draw one breath without the other one being there to suck it out of their mouths. It was both of them, whoever did whatever they did to the brake line, and it was both of them when they slammed the car into gear, and held hands tight all the way to the end of their road. Because that’s how they were. Dad and Mom – Mom and Dad. Pretty cool, right?
Riiiight.
But if I’m going to try to tell you – try to explain – how I got here (and I have to, because he ordered me to), I can’t start from here. I have to start from there – from then. From me I their house, the one they’d left me. The one I was going to sell. Me in the bedroom – and me tripping. Tripping and reaching out to the wall to stop me falling. So I hit the wall. But it didn’t stop me falling. Because my hands went right through it. Because the wall wasn’t wall. It was a fake panel. And I stood there, looking at the handcuffs and the chains, the whips and the paddles, the blindfolds and the other shit – the shit with sharp points and oiled leather, the glass and metal plugs. And I looked at the photographs, all neatly hanging on the real wall behind the fake panel, pictures showing in detail just how Dad used every one of the things behind the used-to-be fake panel on Mom – and I knew. I knew I’d never really known them at all. And I knew something else. I knew I could either walk away – well, take everything out of the damn panel, scour the house for – well, for whatever else there might be of shit I never knew. Then sell the damn house, and every memory in it, including the ones it seemed I never had. Or I could try and find out who the fuck Mom and Dad had been. And the – well, damned if I knew. But it was pretty much door A or door B, and nothing in between.
Yeah. Like I could choose door A, right? Riiiiight.
So I gather all the stuff from the panel, but I don’t go looking for the furnace to see if it’s lit. I sat on the bed and started to check the shit out, like it was a new delivery of equipment at the practice, and I had to make sure I knew how to use it. And some of it was easy. Or maybe I just thought it was. The handcuffs. For, um, cuffing, right? I was almost tempted to try them on, but I wasn’t quite that crazy. I mean, on? Probably easy. Off? Maybe not. Hmmmm. I imagined getting stopped by a traffic cop, and trying to explain. I wondered if they maybe had a charge for it – ‘driving under the influence of handcuffs’. So no. The vicious looking short-handled whip, it’s long strands tipped with tight leather knots? I picked it up, and swung it at my other hand. The strands just curled round my wrist. So I pulled my skirt up and stretched my thigh. Then I swung the cat down on the length of my leg. Fuck! It fucking hurt! I looked at the red stripes on my leg, the white spots on the end where the whip knots had bitten into me. I wondered how Mom had felt, the first time Dad had whipped her with it – how it had happened. Some long, earnest discussion? A bottle or three of wine and some giggles? For a crazy moment, I closed my eyes. I imagined Dad standing there, in front of me – in front of Mom. I was sat on the bed and he was holding the whip in his hand. I heard him telling me to spread my legs, and I felt my thighs moving apart. They stop, my skirt tight spread between them. Dad raised an eyebrow, and I – Mom – I pull my skirt up so I can spread my legs wider for him. He nods, and tells me to slide my hand into my panties. So I slide. I wait – and he tells me to touch my clit. I touch. He asks me if my clit’s hard, and I tell him it is. He asks me if my pussy’s wet, and I tell him it is. He tells me to take my panties off. I close my thighs and slide my panties down, then off. I spread my knees wide again. He tells me to finger my pussy, so I look down and slide my index finger in between my cunt lips, starting to stroke. He tells me to look up – to keep my eyes on his as I finger fuck myself. So I do as I’m told. I lift my eyes to his, and my finger fucks me. He tells me to push two fingers into my slit, so I do. He tells me three – and I push. He tells me four, and I stretch my thighs wider, wrap my fingers together and spear them into me, like his cock has speared into me so often. He smiles, and tells me to get my thumb inside me as well. I wonder if my eyes are as scared as I feel – I’ve never done that before. But he tells me to be a good girl, to do as I’m told and get my fist in my pussy for him. So I slide my thumb along my palm, straight like my other fingers. I slide it – and my hand is so wet, and my cunt so stretched – and it slides in. Four fingers and my thumb, fucking my cunt. And I fuck and I fuck – ramming my hand-cock into me, so very hard. And my thighs burst into fire, first left then right, as Dad swings the whip down hard onto me…
What the fuck!
I remember. To this day. That, like, ‘what the fuck!’ Because I wasn’t imagining it, the fingers and thumb, the fist in my cunt. And I wasn’t imagining the fire on my thighs. Because I opened my eyes and looked down. At my hand – my fist – deep inside my pussy. At my hand lifting, the whip ready to hit me again. I saw the red stripes on my thighs, the white kisses of the knots. Like, what the fuck?
So I got up, right? I got up and I ran from the house, and maybe I poured a tank or ten of gasoline on the lace and lit a match and…
No. Of course I didn’t. I didn’t do any of those things. I ran my fingers over the red stripes on my thighs – and it hurt. It hurt just to touch them. Which didn’t stop me touching them again, my fist moving in my cunt the whole time. Then I picked up a ball-thing on a leather strap. Hey, I’m not a total blonde. I was top of my class in med school every year. I could guess what it was - what it was for. So I went to the mirror, stood in front of it, and opened my mouth as wide as I could. Even then, I could barely fit the damn thing in my mouth. But the outside of the ball was just a little bit squidgy. So it went in between my teeth when I forced it, the front of the ball pushed out from where my lips stretched round it. Then I lifted my hair, and buckled the leather strap tight round the back of my head. And I picked up a big glass tear-drop shaped thing. I guessed what that was for too, but I didn’t know if it was meant for the front or the back. I figured maybe there’d be something else using the front, so I lifted my skirt higher and bunched it round my waist. I bent forward, with my back to the mirror, and looked back between my wide open legs. Then I put the tip of the glass thing up against my anus. Or rather, I didn’t. ‘Anus’ was for the doctor I most definitely wasn’t being right then. So I put the tip of the glass tear-drop against my asshole. Put it there – and pushed.
Fuck – it hurt. The damn thing was so big! But even while it was hurting, I kept pushing, feeling my asshole open to it – to take it. But my ass was so tight. So I pulled the plug out. Without standing, looking back through my open legs so I could watch me, I pushed the glass into my cunt. In – and out. Out – and in. I covered it in me - my wetness. Then I put it back on the entrance to my ass. And I figured it was maybe like a sticking plaster. You could spend ages trying to pull the damn thing off without it hurting – or you could just pull. So I pulled. Or rather, I pushed. I pushed the plug as hard as I fucking could – and rammed it hard into my ass. And as it went in, stretching me and opening me – I screamed. I screamed louder than I’d screamed when Dad whipped me – I mean, when I’d imagined Dad whipping Mom. And it was crazy, and it was weird, and it hurt like fuck in my ass – but I knew. I knew I didn’t want to take it out.
So I got my panties, and pulled them on, over the thing in my ass. I straightened my skirt and gathered up the shit on the bed. I took the gag out of my mouth because of, like, the whole traffic cop thing. Then I took everything out to my car. And I told myself the only reason I’d left the thing in my ass was so I could maybe work out what Mom had felt like – but I knew I was lying. And I drove home, back to the city. Because I knew there was something I had to find if I was going to find out anything at all, and the city was the best place to find it. So I… I hear him get out of the chair. He grabs a handful of my hair and pulls me up from my seat. Then he pushes on my head, bending me over the table. I don’t need him to give me an order for me to spread my legs – they’re already wide apart for him. And I feel it. The tip of his cock at my anus – my asshole. He pushes my head down flat on the desk, and I dip my back to raise my ass higher. Then he pushes – and I scream. He pushes – and I love him. He pushes – and his cock fills my ass as he begins to ride his fucktoy – his slut. His me.