Tolerance

The goal of this session is to make her cry – something that has never happened yet. Something that she insists I will not manage. Yes, she wants it, but she doesn’t think she can. She never cries in front of others, least of all boys she’s fucking.

And yet, still, I’m willing to try.

I begin by making her suck my dick, pushing her down to the point where she chokes extravagantly. I’m hoping for starter tears. An eye-watering response to her own gag reflex. Nothing. Even after ten minutes of both hands in her hair, jerking her back and forth like a ragdoll. She drools, spits, rounds her shoulders as she chokes… but no tears.

I put her on the bed. Fetch the metal cane. I beat her with it hard enough to break the skin on every stroke. Facedown at first, then I have her turn over and hug her knees to her chest so I can look her in the eye as I continue.

She is screaming a lot. Noise is an outlet for her. I know this. I lean in very close. “Keep your mouth shut.” Which she does, thereafter, but still vocalises every time the cane bites her flesh, a squeal pinned in the back of her throat. Not good enough. “No sound at all. You are not to use your voice as a way of dealing with your pain.”

She nods and bites her wrist while I hit her some more. She looks close, but she always looks close to crying when I hurt her. She lets go of her legs, fingers slipping, and I catch them and bend her in half, knees to nose. A moment ago she was holding her own legs in place and taking the pain. Now she has no choice.

By the time I’m done her arse and thighs are a mess of welts and cuts. Blood welling. Still no tears. I put her on all fours and fetch the shock collar.

She’s not worn it before. She’s not seen it before. It’s metal, very heavy. The end of each link is a pair of spikes that curl inward to press into the neck of the wearer. They’re rubber tipped. It’s designed for training dogs.

Spilling the collar onto the bed is pleasurable. The weight of it. The fact that she can see the weight of it. The fact that she doesn’t move. But her eyes do. I see a flicker in her eyes.

I get behind her. Pull the collar around her neck and clip it closed. Hold it like a pair of reins. “This is going to be uncomfortable,” I say. “It will hurt. A lot, maybe. But you are going to tolerate it until I’m done.”

She nods. We don’t speak again until I am done. It’s a brief, violent fuck. One hand pulling back on the collar to keep it tight, one in the small of her back to keep her bent the way I want. No lube. No foreplay. I ram my cock into her and fuck hard until I come, hips slamming into the broken skin of her arse.

She takes it well. Shivering. Grasping hands. A few small mewling noises. But still she doesn’t cry. Not then. Not when I come in her and yank the collar extra tight. Not after I’m done when I pull sharply out and push her down to the bed. Not until, in fact, I lie on top of her. Put my arms around her. Hold her tight against me while we both recover.

That’s when she finally starts. Real, wracking, wailing sobs. She turns over and clutches me. Cries openly. Cries at length, as if everything she held in while I hurt her is now out, released.