The Surrender

The Surrender

1

“You can forget about safe, sane, and yes, consensual too,” I said.

How did I get here? It is not a long story. Soon after our marriage, Richard and I began to experiment with bondage and S&M. I always got a thrill from being bound, defenseless, but S&M, or rather the masochism part was another story. By the fourth stroke of the cane on my butt I would be screaming my safeword “Bananas” The fucking I would get afterwards was always hot, but all the time I would be cursing at myself in frustration for having stopped the punishment.

Richard loved the D&S sessions, but even he started to become tired of my stopping a session just when he was getting started. He did not say anything, of course, but his sessions became less imaginative, more routine and he stopped buying and trying new instruments. Why would he, if I would stop every session with my safeword. “Bananas” almost as soon as it started.

It wasn’t the same in my fantasies of course. No; when I dreamed, even waking dreams, I was always bound, chained, at the mercy of a ruthless master, or pirate, or what have you.  In jeopardy for my own life, I had to endure nameless tortures, unspeakable violations, and always, always would wake up, sheets soaked in sweat, and the musk of my own arousal redolent in my bedroom.

I tried to fantasize, to imagine me and Richard in the same setting, but it wasn’t just the same. “Bananas” the safe word always hung in the balance. The difference glared: I could stop it, anytime I wanted. And I always wanted.

This brings us to the night in question. After dinner, we watched TV. Richard had a scotch; I knew what I wanted to say, but lacked the courage; I made a pitcher of cosmos, and had four of them, my limit is two. I was so anxious that, even with the four drinks under my belt, I wasn’t sure I would go through with it. When he went to bed, I stumbled to the bathroom and then joined him. We did not make love that night; well, not at first.

“Richard,” I said before he fell asleep, “when you tie me up and, you know, spank or whip me…”

“Huh?”

“You can forget about safe, sane, and yes, also consensual.”

That got his attention. In the dim light, I saw his eyes opening wide; I also saw a different movement under the sheet that covered a certain part of his anatomy.

“But you cannot take, not even five strokes of the flogger!”

Before I lost my nerve, I told him what I needed so badly to say.

“That’s why I have to get rid of my safeword. It doesn’t work for me if I can stop you at any time,” he looked puzzled. “I don’t like pain, that is not my thing, that’s why I always stop you,” He nodded, confused.

I took a deep breath, trying to quiet the butterflies in my stomach.

“I need to lose control, to hand it over to you, but it doesn’t work if I know that you will respect my limits, that you will not hurt me, that you will restrict yourself to what you know I want,” he nodded. “That’s what I mean when I say that I don’t want it safe, sane, or even consensual.”

His cock, under the sheets had risen to the occasion; I slid my hand over his firm belly, down to where his, now erect, member joined the black curls that adorned him; I felt its pulsing between my fingers. He loved this as much as I feared it.

“You can do anything you want to me; I will do anything you want me to; if I don’t, make me.”

Before he could say anything I silenced him with my finger. I slid the sheets off his body and crawled towards his massively erect cock.

“I know you want it,” I said before I wrapped my lips around the bulbous head.

“We could try that for a month or so,” he said, “see how you like it.”

I took my mouth off his member for a moment, “No, that would still give me control and I would chicken out after the month was over. No. It must be forever; until you don’t want me anymore.”

I returned his cock to my mouth; it had grown even larger, it seemed. I took him as deep as I could; the head hit the back of my throat, making me gag for a moment. I could not take him deeper, not in this position. Not that I ever took him any deeper; although I felt that this would change soon, perhaps not tonight, but soon.

His hands moved to my head, playing gently with my long, light brown hair, as I bobbed up and down on his shaft.

“As you wish,” he said in a hoarse voice.

I licked up and down his shaft, cupping his balls in my hand, slobbering my love and devotion all over him. I felt the moisture welling in my pussy. I was still wearing my nightgown; I wondered if I should stop what I was doing to remove it but the vibrations coming from his cock, and the humping from his hips, suggested otherwise. His eruption in my mouth came as a surprise; I had never before let him come in my mouth. Gobs and gobs of sperm filled my mouth. I kept it all, fighting the urge to retch. When he was done, I released his cock and, not spilling a drop, knelt back on my heels, my mouth open, and swallowed the whole thing.

Another first.

2

It had to be on a weekend of course. The townhome in the city was totally inadequate for my plans. For one thing, there was a citizen’s crime watch, which really means a patrol of nosy neighbors that would not react kindly to a woman’s screams in the middle of the night. No, that just would not do.

I had to prepare everything. Later on, I would let Richard handle all the details; that would surely add to the excitement, the anticipation. Not this time; this time I had to do it myself. Not only that but my preparations had to clearly show him that I meant what I said, that all limits were off, that I was his to do as he wanted.

As soon as I got to work I requested the next week off; in case I needed the time to heal from, whatever. I e-mailed Richard a copy of the request, to let him know I was serious. At lunch I started to assemble the required tools.

A good thing about Texas, you can find a tackle store anywhere, and no one thinks twice if you ask for a bullwhip, or a crop. They assume you want to ride a horse, or practice with the whip. If you ask for a length of rope, they assume it’s for a lariat. If you ask for leather cords, they are for your saddle.

Thus, no one asked any questions of me, when I bought all the necessary implements. I wore a short, bouncy, pink skirt and a white cowgirl blouse while doing the shopping. To my surprise, when I visited the restroom, the crotch of my lacy pink panties was sopping wet. I discarded it in the stall and went commando the rest of the day.

The workweek dragged by, slowly. My mind raced to whatever would happen in the weekend. I did not know what to expect and Richard, on purpose, did not tell me anything. I wondered if he went on his own shopping spree, but dared not ask him.

Friday evening finally arrived and I left work early. My purchases loaded on my pickup truck, I drove to the ranch we had in the hill country, outside San Antonio. I seldom went there, it was more of a hunting refuge for Richard, however we kept it fully stocked with the necessities (mostly liquor and wine) of a civilized life.

Richard would not be in for at least another two hours so I had time to prepare everything.

I went to the semi-basement den, where we kept the billiards table, foosball, home theater and other toys. In the middle of the room there was a long coffee table made of rustic wood. It would do perfectly, I imagined, until we came up with something else.

I placed the leather thongs, around each leg of the table, ready to tie wrists, knees, or ankles, as needed; a folded blanket would provide some necessary padding.

I laid the crop, bullwhip and cane on the billiards table. Wafts of my own musk reached my nostrils as I was setting things out. My hands trembled in fear of what was to come but also in excitement of what would be a fantasy, fulfilled; I hoped. It was not just being bound and whipped, of course; there were other things, things I’ve always feared to do, or to have done. Things that I feared, and wished too, that were done to me. I thought about those things as I placed a small container of Vaseline beside the three instruments. I would not tell Richard what those things were, but I hoped, no, I was sure the open jar of thick lubricant would signal permission, if not request.

I drew a bath, dropping some aromatic salts in the tub; the scent of eucalyptus and orange filling the bathroom. I soaked in the tub for a long time; almost too long. I took a look at myself in the mirror and decided to shave off my neat little landing strip. If I was turning a new page, it would be with a whole new me.  The landing strip yielded to the razor easily; I did a quick inspection to make sure there were no stray hairs left. I did not wear any perfume; I relied on my own musk to provide any olfactory titillation needed.

I put on a black, see through, strapless, bustier garter, matching thigh high hose, and lacy thong. The thong left my creamy ass cheeks exposed, neatly framed, under the bustier, and between the garters; a fitting target for the instruments I laid out in the basement. I put on my strongest, waterproof mascara; at some other time, I would want to wear mascara that will run under my tears; tonight was not that time.

I heard his truck on the gravel. By the time he opened the front door, dashingly handsome in his Stetson, ranch jacket and jeans; I awaited him, in the living room, offering him a glass full of Maker’s Mark and ice.

He kissed me, his lips crushing mine with a passion we had almost forgotten. He took the proffered drink with one hand, mine with the other. I led him to the basement door but followed him down. I noted that he carried a paper sack with him, contents unknown.

His lips pursed in a silent whistle when he saw the instruments lined up on the billiards table, his mouth widening into a, slightly sick, smile. He placed his bag beside the instruments.

“We might not have time for all of these tonight,” he said.

“We have all weekend,” I said, draping my submissive body on the coffee table.

He tied my wrists, arms, knees and thighs to the legs of the table. I saw him walk up to the bag and get something from the inside; a ball gag. Suddenly this did not seem like a good idea anymore. I wanted to tell him to stop, that I did not want this to continue but, to my surprise, I restrained myself. Besides, he might have ignored my desires anyway; I told him to.

“I don’t want to hear you scream too much, not tonight,” he said.

Then he said, “Open up.”

Once immobilized and rendered mute, he picked up the bullwhip. He let the thin end of the tapering braided leather trail over my face. I kissed the leather strip at its end.

“Let’s start with a few cuts to that delectable ass of yours.”

His words sounded slurred, not by the whiskey, he could drink way more than that and not feel it, more likely by his own excitement.

He cracked the whip on the air a few times, experimentally. I screamed every time, although it probably sounded more like a moan through my ball gag.

I sensed rather than saw when he was ready to strike the first time.

“I think twenty is a reasonable number,” he said, to no one in particular.

Crack! The sonic boom of the bullwhip reached my ears a fraction of a second before a stripe of fire cut through the flesh of my ass. I screamed into the gag.

“Annannas! Annannas!”

My old safe word, rendered useless, by my own design.

Crack! A new line of fire crossed the old fading one. I tried to struggle, to get free of my bonds, to, at least, rub my ass. It was useless; he tied good knots.

He also took his time, allowing the pain of each cut to peak, and recede, before the next strike. Tears joined my screams of agony to no avail. Sweat covered my skin and beads of the salty liquid burned my eyes when I shook my head in panic. My fists clutched at the old shag carpet with every stroke of the whip. One of my fingernails snapped during my desperate clawing.

He paused, after the tenth stroke, to drink; I heard the ice tinkling in his glass. I felt the air-conditioned air cooling on my skin, while my ass burned. I took a deep breath, and smelled myself. Startled, I sniffed the air cautiously and, indeed, there was a faint odor, the same that permeated my panties, after one such fantasy. The air was also cold in my snatch, where moisture trickled, hesitantly, out of my tunnel. I heard him putting down the glass and braced myself for the next round.

If I had not been gagged I might have screamed the walls down, by the time he was done. He let me calm down; he let the fires on my ass cheeks subside, before releasing me from the table and helping me to my feet. He did not remove the gag, not yet. He took a lariat out of the bag and draped the lasso over my neck, tightening it slightly, but not enough to hinder my breathing. I worried at this, this could be dangerous, but I did trust him. He tied my hands behind my back with a length of leather. I tried to free them and couldn’t. The leather bonds felt good on my wrists.

He led me to a full length mirror on the wall and turned me around. The sight of my ass, covered in angry red welts shook me so much I almost fell to the floor, and would have, had he not held me up. At the same time, inside me, my organs squirmed, moisture welling; my pelvis rocked, once, of its own accord.

He released the garters from the hose and opened my bustier.

“We’ll do your breasts next.”

After the experience I’d just gone through, the thought of the whip on my breasts was unbearable; I shook my head, but he ignored me. He led me by the lariat on my neck to the table. I felt proud of him.

I sat down at the edge of the table and laid on my back on it; my C cup breasts exposed, falling slightly to my sides, crowned by the pink nipples that stood erect, whether from the cold air conditioning, or due to something else, I could not say. He fastened my arms and elbows to the table legs, and did likewise with my ankles. The heaviness on my pelvis, the heat inside me was like nothing I’d ever felt. I began to shiver; not from the cold.

He took a wide belt and put it around my waist, binding me, even more tightly to the coffee table.

I looked at him wondering what he saw in my green eyes. Fear? Submission? Arousal?

All those things were there, and more too. I could open my legs, and separate my knees, and I did so, not sure why; a new whiff of musk rewarded my effort. I wondered if he could smell it too. I could see him now, from this new position, and could tell he was erect, inside his jeans. He kept rolling his back and his hips, trying to adjust his jeans around his erect cock.

“Let’s use the cane this time.”

I was grateful he did not use the whip on my breasts. I shouldn’t have.

“It will be more painful this way.”

It was.

The cane cut like a knife. It swished through the air, to crack against my soft orbs. While the noise of the whip, the supersonic crack would hit my ears milliseconds before the whip cut my flesh, with the cane, the only sound was the cane cutting into my flesh, and being more rigid than the soft pliable whip, it cut deeper.

My head banged on the table, I screamed like a banshee with a gag on; I shook my head, eyes screwed shut as, one after another, in an irregular, interminable cadence, the cane cut into my boobs, once and again; first the right, then the left, then again the right, or left. I could not predict which breast would be the target of the cruel rod, nor how long between strokes.

That’s not entirely true; I could predict, to an extent. When the pain began to ebb, when the reverberations of the last cut began to subside on my chest, that’s when the next one would fall. That’s when my muted screams would join my whimpers.

Until it was over.

I did not notice it had ended for a while. I just lay back there and cried, and moaned wordlessly; always expecting the next cut of the cane. Not until I felt his fingers undoing my bonds I realized this ordeal had ended. When he showed me, in the mirror, the latticework that replaced my formerly soft, rounded breasts, I covered my eyes, perhaps because it hurt to see them shredded like that, or perhaps I just wanted to hide my arousal. I felt the heat, the gushing inside me; I needed him, bad.

He kissed my ears, “Tomorrow, we will do your pussy.”

I shook like a leaf, terrified.

He led me to the billiard table, bent me over it, tender breasts crushed against the green fabric, my arms, unbound, draped over the felt. He caressed my back, as yet unsullied by whip or cane; he caressed my ass, still tender from its whipping. I felt his lips on my ass cheeks.

I felt his finger, coated in Vaseline, against my puckered rear. My fingers clawed with need at the green fabric. I felt the sphincter clench, automatically, against the intrusion. I forced it to relax while in my ears I heard his husky voice:

“Let it happen, relax.”

I knew it would happen today, this entry, that I always refused, and that he always wanted. He would take it tonight. His finger probed deeper, and I tried to relax, welcoming it. I wanted to whisper a word of acceptance, just to say: “Do it” but the gag still silenced me. Why did he keep it there? It was no longer necessary.

A second finger joined the first with my asshole stretching to accommodate its entrance; the discomfort was tolerable. I brought one hand down, to reach my slick pussy, to touch the little pearl. The new spasms of pleasure distracted me so that I only noticed the third finger when it was already in.

It hurt.

He moved his hand, his fingers going in circles inside me. It hurt. I whimpered into my gag. His heavy breathing on my ears, his movements, more rapid; all indicated that the climax of the event was rapidly approaching. His hand came out.

“Hold your ass open,” he rasped.

My cheeks burning with humiliation I held myself open to be violated, there. I felt the head of his cock, at my bud, demanding entrance. I clenched tight again, involuntarily. His cock pushed harder.

The gag was necessary after all.

My eyes screwed shut, I screamed as much as the gag allowed me to. He pushed harder, until the bulbous tip forced my muscle open. I squealed harder as he ripped my ass apart. His hands fell on my hip bones.

Here it comes.

He held on to my hips and gave a mighty push, shoving his whole length into my tortured rectum. I may have passed out, or not.

I felt his fullness inside me, the cramps in my sphincter matched by those in my gut. I felt his hairs against my anus and his pubic bone against my ass. He was all the way inside me; so tight. I inhaled. The worst was over.

It wasn’t.

He began to pull out. I felt my guts following him, I screamed into the gag; he was pulling my guts inside out; and then, he thrust himself inside me, and I screamed once more. Now he began to pound into my ass in earnest. Tears jumped out of my eyes, as he had his way with my bottom. I had no choice but to lie there, draped over the billiard table, clawing at the fabric, and take it. And that’s what I did; I took the pounding, the shredding of my anus, until the pace of his thrusts, and the energy of his movements announced that he was about to climax.

When I felt the first squirts of his hot semen spilling into my rectum something happened. Like a light being turned on or a curtain pulled, I felt different. I felt used, but not in a bad way. His last jerking motions squeezed the last drops of semen out of his cock; what I felt, at that moment, could only be called pride.

There was pride mixing with the pain from every cut of the crop on my buttocks, there was pride melding with the agony of my lacerated breasts scraping the fabric on the table, and there was pride with every spasm of my torn sphincter and every thrust of his cock in my dark tunnel.

Yes; there was pride too when, come spilling from my rear hole, I knelt on the floor, in front of him, removed the gag and, unbidden, took his shrinking cock between my lips and cleaned off his penis with my lips and tongue, tasting his sperm mixed with the contents of my rear entry. I felt so humiliated, sucking on his cock that had just come out of my poop hole and, at the same time, so elated that I had done so, and would do so, so many times in the future.

Tomorrow, it would be my pussy.

I felt no anxiety about tomorrow and what he was going to do to my pussy. None whatsoever. He would do with me as he wanted, and I would endure it; I would have no choice.

Later, in bed, my ass still throbbed in pain, and my breasts and ass were still sore, but I held his hand against my lacerated boobs and pressed my tender ass into his groin, just to feel his cock, growing again between my thighs. When the head pressed against my lips, demanding entry, I separated my thighs to admit him.

“Don’t you want to use the other way?” I boldly asked.

He kissed my earlobe, “We won’t be able to use this tomorrow; I want to take advantage of it tonight.”

Not even then did I worry. I had no fear of being unable to endure it; he would just tie and gag me, and then do what he willed.

His cock penetrated my sopping pussy; I brought his other hand against my breasts and, with my fingers, encouraged him to squeeze them. The pain from my mistreated boobs joined the slick pleasure of his cock, sliding into my sheath melding into a red wave of arousal; into a volcano spouting lava inside my pelvis.

I labored for breath, pushing back against his cock. He thrust harder. I squeezed his hands and he crushed my breasts his fingers digging into the meat of my boobs. Jealousy. I felt jealousy at myself, at my own body that found pleasure in its own ravishing. My body betrayed me, instead of me, giving pleasure, I found myself taking it, reveling in it, erupting like a volcano, screaming with a release that should not have been, a blinding orgasm that I’d never felt before.

I turned around in the bed, facing him; he, straddling my hips, his cock, now flaccid, dripping his come on my mons. I brought his hands again to hold my breasts. His smile told me how much he was enjoying this.

“Squeeze them.”

He did, and I squealed in a mixture of pain from my chest and a new wave of heat from my innards.

“Crush them,” I asked, more urgently.

The pain was exquisite, the heat in my loins, unbearable.

“More.”

He stepped up, off me and left the room. He returned, only moments later; in his hand, a yard size ruler from the office. He smiled at me, his teeth shining wickedly in the dim light.

I held my breasts up for him.

3

They stared back at me, black and blue, from the mirror, in the morning; so big that I could not fit them into a bra. I decided to go bra-less for the day, although that was not such a good idea; my nipples, made even more sensitive by the abuse they’d endured, rubbed against my shirt adding to my arousal the whole day.

I knew, that day, what it was to feel horny, nonstop.  My pussy remained wet the whole day, a new squirt of juice sliding between my nether lips with every rub of my nipples, with every pain filled jiggle of my boobs.

All through the day, at my request, Richard kept the crop or the ruler handy. At random times he would use it on my buttocks or breasts. Since I wore a short bouncy cotton skirt and blouse, the strokes would not be as cruel as they would have, had I been nude, still they stung quite a bit. Sometimes I could not help but to try to protect my sore ass or boobies with my hands. Then, not only would I get a hard whack on my hands, but I would have to uncover the intended recipient of the stroke, breasts or ass, and receive two cuts of the crop or ruler on its proper target.

My pussy was dripping so much I had to put a towel under my bottom when sitting down, if I did not want to ruin the furniture’s fabric.

By the evening, I could come, with just a breath of air hitting my clitoris. I could not take it anymore.

I knelt in front of him, undoing his pants and taking his semi-erect cock out of his shorts. Breathless, I sucked it into my mouth. He watched me, amazed at the slut his prim wife had become.

I felt him growing inside my mouth, his glans filling me, as I tried to devour his length. I gagged only once when the tip of his cock passed beyond my tonsils. I embraced his pelvis with my arms and impaled my throat with his throbbing member. I could not breathe, embedded on his tool, so I timed my breaths, with my bobs, feeling him thicker and longer with each successive entry. His heavy balls bounced against my chin and his pubic bone ground against my nose. I sucked and slurped all over his length, feeling the ridges of his veins with my tongue.

He pulled me off.

I, kneeling back on my heels, looked up at him.

“Let’s do it now,” he said.

Fear hit me, like a leaden ball in my guts. I stood up, pussy dripping slime, and preceded him to the basement.

On the coffee table, I draped my body, on my back.  I began to shiver.

He fastened my arms to the legs of the table, and placed a tight belt around my waist.

I waited to see what he would do to hold my legs open. He had me bend my knees until he could tie each ankle to its thigh, and then he bent my thighs back, trussing me, like a turkey, with a long, thin leather strap that went from one knee, under the table, and up to the other. Once he was done, my pussy was completely exposed, and I was unable to protect it in any way. The cool air of the air conditioned room felt frigid against my wet labia. I licked my dry lips.

He approached me with a bottle of cold water and let me drink from it with a straw. It was not easy to drink, trussed up as I was, but I managed to, only choking once.

“Please gag me,” I asked when I was done drinking.

“Not today,” he brought the crop to my lips.

The leather slid over my soft lips sensuously. I kissed it, as if it were my husband’s fingers. Indeed, that is what it was, an extension of his hands, or of his penis.

He kissed my lips with his own.

“Today, you will scream for me.”

He stood, at the bottom of the table, his crop sliding, teasing, between my pussy lips. I felt the love oils seeping between the velvet curtains. I closed my eyes.

My pussy exploded. I screamed; the pain exploded out from the center of my being, radiating like the light of a thousand suns; it reached my brain in throbbing waves. I tried to breathe, to take in air, but my lungs would not obey, my mouth was open, but no air, or sound, moved in or out. I desperately fought for breath, until it reluctantly came, and I could scream again.

He waited for me to calm down, for the pain to turn into scorching heat, for my tears to reach the surface of the table, before striking again.

My body jumped up, straining against the bonds that held it fast; my mouth, open, shrieked, in vain, and my head tossed and banged against the table.

Yes, I screamed for him, I shrieked for him, I cried for him; until I was hoarse, until no sound came anymore out of my tortured throat, until I no longer pleaded for mercy.

He turned me around and, once more, sated his need in my ass and, once again, between my tears, I felt pride. We would do this again; I was sure. Many times.

The End.