Page 157 of Dirty Discipline, Vol. 2

I tremble with the sheer effort of holding back. I squirm on the seat which is now soaked with my juices.

"The chair is wet," I say, almost sounding surprised, actually trying to think of something else to think about. Anything other than what your fingers are doing right now.

"So, it is. Who'd have thought it? We are enjoying ourselves, aren’t we? You really are a very dirty girl, Abby. Aren't you?"

My cheeks flame. "Yes, Sir," I say in a small voice.

"Tell me," you say, smiling, knowing I hate that.

"I'm... I'm..."

"Abby," you say, warningly.

"I'm a dirty girl."

"Yes, you are. And whose dirty girl are you?

“I’m yours, Master,” I say, hoping I’ve got away with it.

“You’re my what?” You say, looking straight into my eyes and grinning.

Oh God. At this rate I’ll be able to cook dinner with the heat from my face!

“I’m… I’m your dirty girl, Sir,” I say, gabbling the words as quickly as possible to get it over with.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t quite catch that. What was that, Abby?”

“Oh, Sir.” I squirm again, in protest, then hurry to say it when I see the look in your eyes. “I’m your dirty girl, Sir.”

“Yes, you are. Don’t worry about the seat. You’ve got other things to be worrying about right now. When I'm done with you, you can wipe it. Though you might want to consider behaving or I’ll make you clean it with your tongue."

You slip a finger inside me, crooking it forward just a little, pressing against my g-spot. Another finger follows, and then another. "Hold on, Abby. You're doing so well. Keep going."

Your thumb goes back to pressing against my clit, pressing hard, almost hurting, while you push your fingers in and out of me slowly, so slowly.

I look up at the ceiling. I look around the kitchen. What can I think about? I notice a crack in the plaster near the kitchen door and keep my eyes focused on that. Anything not to think about your fingers touching my— B&Q. That's what we need. A trip to B&Q for plaster. Otherwise known as Bondage Quartermasters for their excellent stocks of rope and chain. No, focus, Abby. Plaster. That's what we want. Plaster. Oh, and paint for the hall.

You remove your fingers and lift a drink of water to my lips. "Here. Good girl. I'm so proud of you."

I beam. Those words mean so much and it helps to hear them, helps to strengthen my resolve to do what you expect of me.

You set the glass down on the table and pick up a crop, gently tapping it against my left nipple and then my right. The taps get harder and harder until suddenly you raise the crop high and bring it down on the soft, smoothly shaved skin between my legs. Again, and again. The pain is exquisite, heating my flesh, turning from pain into pleasure; making me ache for more and ache even more for your touch, your fingers, your mouth. I don't care. I just want you to touch me, hurt me. More than all of that, I want to come. Oh God, I need to. I squirm away on the chair, feeling the wetness of my own juices under my bare bottom. I don't know why I squirm. I can't escape and I know it, but somehow it helps.

You put the crop aside and stroke the hot, reddened skin of my pussy, kneading and pinching the skin, increasing the pain.

"Oh Sir."

"I know, Abby. I really do. I'm going to touch you again in a moment. I'm going to bring you right to the edge. After that I might do it again if I so desire, as many times as I like. Whose is this body?"

"Yours, Master. Yours."

"Yes, it is."

Your fingers slip between my soft folds, with a passing tease on my clit and then back inside me. In and out, in and out; drawing me close so quickly. It takes hardly any time at all before I am holding on for dear life, back on the edge.

What was I thinking about before? Something to do with pain? No, paint. Hold on, Abby. Hold on.

Your fingers tease me inside, then you go back to circling my clit slowly and tenderly with just one finger.

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