Sing for Me

A fragment of a novella-in-process.  Enjoy!


~One~ 

In the blind isolation of the hood, her gentlest touch startled me awake. Her open hand gliding across my belly caused me to shudder; then I gasped as she teased me, her nail circling each nipple before sliding up to grasp my throat. Pinning me with clenched fingers around my throat, she thrust the other hand between my thighs to toy with the thick plug inside me. One stern tug, and I knew she wanted to remove it.

Compliant, I brought both knees to my chest as she drew the plug out. The plug removed left me feeling light-headed and empty, floating there in the darkness as she began unbuckling the wrist restraints.

Lacking opening for a wearer’s ears or eyes, the supple leather of the hood alone would’ve denied sight and muffled sound. But she’d packed my ears with wax-smeared cotton before lacing the hood up from the back of my neck to the crown of my head. With the laces pulled tight, the hood conformed to the contours of my face and skull with a single hole providing access to my mouth.

But having the senses of sight and sound deprived, heightens every sensation felt on the rest of your body. And aside from the leather hood, I was buck naked in the cool room and shamelessly pressed into the warmth of her body as she removed the last restraint.

After lifting me to a seated position, she slipped her head under my arm, then helped me to stand. Upon gaining my feet, she guided me five steps forward before pulling me to a halt.

Light pressure on the back of my knee caused me to bend and lift one leg, then the other, until knelt on a padded surface. Once I was positioned, she pressed between my shoulders, compelling me to bend forward until a padded surface supporting my chest and forehead. Some kind of bondage bench, I thought, as she shackled each wrist and ankle. Soon enough, I was immobile once again.

Then she was unlacing the hood, peeling the leather from my shaved head. Next, the cotton was removed from each ear before she used a wet rag to wash the sweat and grease from my face.  During this process, I was speechless as my long-deprived senses were overwhelmed.

Attempting to crack my eyes resulted in a shock as to how painful the faintest light was. Yet after an indeterminable amount of time suspended in the stifling darkness of the hood, inhaling the cool fresh air was luxurious. And the sounds! The faintest of noises was enhanced and amplified, even the rustle of her jeans sounded crisp and rich.

It seemed as though a week had passed. But I couldn’t really be sure how long it had been. When sleep’s interrupted, senses are cut off, and you’re consistently overwhelmed with pleasure and pain, your internal clock has no references and the mind becomes malleable.

She’d taken advantage of this state to use and train me without speaking. Seldom far away she’d used me often, sometimes without warning, and I soon surrendered to giving voice to whatever I felt. The more I surrendered, the gentler her treatment became.

There’d been begging, whining, and at times, I uttered noises as though I spoke in tongues.

Remembering just how loud and desperate I’d been left me self-conscious. Remembering how she’d fed me, watered me, and even guided me to the toilet – remembering all that and the humiliating details of what followed made me flush bright red.

“You poor thing,” she whispered in my ear.

The return of my hearing was so fresh, her whisper startled me. But my involuntary start became a shiver as the softness of her lips and warm breath grazed my neck before she withdrew.

Her fingertips pressed to my lips was the cue to open and gently suck them in. A lesson taught through the language of pain and rewards. But once three fingers were in, she shoved them deep before prying my jaw open.

“I know what you’re wondering,” she said, “and the answer’s three days.”

Only three days? It felt twice as long. I’d have said as much, but she held my jaw open preventing speech. Moments later, cold steel grazed my lips and pressed my teeth, as she forced my mouth wide. Suspecting some kind of adjustable, steel gag, the metallic click on each side confirmed such a device had been locked in place.

Having been deprived of two senses for so long, I was momentarily angry she’d taken away speech. However, my gratitude to be out of the stifling hood caused my anger to give way to resigned curiosity as I oriented myself as best I could.

She hadn’t moved me far from where I’d been sleeping, and I was certainly shackled to some kind of bench. Anxious to see my surroundings and annoyed at being unable to adjust to the light, I grunted with frustration, cracked my eyes, then winced and immediately shut them again.

“Aren’t you eager to see again?” she asked, running her fingers along the nape of my neck before arching her hand to lightly drag her fingernails down my spine. “I’ve lowered the lights a great deal, so force those pretty peepers wide and take a look around, boy.”

Taking a breath, I forced my eyes open.

After seventy-two hours of darkness, the last thing I expected to see was my reflection. Yet I was most certainly looking at myself in a mirror directly below. The shock was compounded as I studied my features, the bloodshot bleary eyes, my mouth forced  open, pressed obscenely wide by the gag, the shimmer of drool forming on my lower lip. As my gaze traveled lower, I realized my guess at being shackled to a bench was correct. The bench was open right down the center, and kept me bent over, my  knees spread wide.

It took a moment to realize the full-length mirror positioned beneath the bench allowed me to see anywhere my body was visible underneath the bench – it forced me to confront every inch of my humiliation.

“Hi there,” she said brightly, her grin and dark eyes appearing over my shoulder.“Look at the state of yourself!”

Resting her chin on my shoulder, she continued to beam as her hand roamed down my back then between my legs to fondle and squeeze my balls. In all the excitement of seeing and hearing, I’d forgotten just how naked and vulnerable I was, but one touch of her hand sent blood surging into my cock.

It was disconcerting to feel her actions while watching my reactions as she toyed with my pink and overly sensitive waxed scrotum before reaching lower to tug and tease the sensitive skin under the cock head. Stranger still to glance up and find her cool eyes studying my drooling reflection as she manipulated my edged and frustrated state – so achingly close to the edge of an orgasm yet miles away.

Moaning, then shuddering from the uncomfortable pleasure of such vulnerability, I closed my eyes for a moment to gain traction on my emotions. But once my eyes closed, her hand withdrew, and she ceased to press into me.

“If you want to hide in the darkness, I’ll put the hood back on,” she said. “Otherwise, I expect you to keep your eyes open until instructed to close them. Understood?”

An amused chuckle at my gag-muffled reply before she positioned herself behind the bench. Though unable to see her, I could feel her gaze as she examined and evaluated every inch of my flesh.

“It’s time for you to learn a new vocabulary,” she said, spreading my ass cheeks, “A new lexicon, just for you.”

“For example, this is your fuck hole,” she said spitting on my hole before using the saliva to lubricate a finger pushed inside.

Unable to avoid my eyes in the reflection, the mirror further betrayed my humiliation as blood flushed my face and shoulders. Then my shame compounded as drool streaming down from my lower lip began pooling on the mirror’s surface while the precum from my straining cock created a second puddle lower.

Though desperate to close my eyes, the idea of more time spent in the hood sent fear flooding into my gut, and I kept them open.

“Say fuck hole,” she instructed. The sound of her smile radiated from her tone as she pushed her finger to the last knuckle then hooked it inside me before continuing: “Go on, say it. Then keep on saying it.”

My gag-mangled, drooling attempt to say fuck hole pleased her enough to elicit a satisfied purring kind of hum as she slipped a second finger inside me. Each slow thrust of her hand urged me to try and form the words around the metal gag.

I struggled to comply. Though each time I tried to speak, the sight of my tongue moving between drool-slick lips, pried-open and locked wide was as obscene as it was disturbing. Yet not complying meant worse would happen, so I suffered and continued with my garbled chant.

When she finally told me to stop, I was whimpering.

Telling me to hush, she spread my cheeks far apart and kept them spread while inspecting me.

“Fuck hole…boy cunt… I have different names for this hole. As time goes on, you’ll learn all of them. And despite the fact I adore how tight you are, your hole needs to be trained before you can be fucked.”

“Fucked properly at least,” she said, her words trailing off in a whimsical sigh as she stepped away. When she spoke again, the sound was of her returning. The telltale snap of leather meeting leather meant she had a strap in hand.

A beating was coming.

“Before I do another blessed scrap of work, I’m going to indulge in a treat,” she said running a wide strap over the sensitive flesh of my freshly waxed asshole and balls before continuing. “Because you’re so deliciously vulnerable like this, I just have whip this naked little ass before training it.”

My garbled whines only caused more drool to splatter the reflected image of my now-red face. She didn’t seem to notice me or my whining, just kept on talking as though mentally jerking off.

“With your pink little fuck hole exposed. It’s just needs to be whipped red. Naturally, I’m going to have to work that over as well.”

Stepping away, she sliced the air several times to test the strap’s heft before returning.

“Now then, let’s hear just how pretty you sing for me.”

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7 thoughts on “Sing for Me

    1. Oh man – having an editor/proof reader would free me up to write so much faster! If you’re seriously offering, I just might take you up on it. – And thanks for the kind words!

      Liked by 1 person

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