I Should Have Confessed

       It is Monday, my day off, and I’m indulging myself by spending the morning at his place after he leaves for work.  My body is pleasantly achy from the heavy use he subjected it to over the weekend, the sun is already burning hot and intense, and I have a mug of strong coffee and a pile of articles to read for class.

       I slide open the door to the little balcony with its sliver view of the river and toss my homework on the lounge chair there.  I hesitate a moment—I’m wearing only a thin tank top and panties, but it’s so hot already, as it has been every day this scorching summer, that I can’t stand the thought of putting my clothes from yesterday back on.  What are the chances someone’s going to be looking over here? I think, talking myself into not caring about my state of undress.  While lying down, I will only be visible to people living in the lofts in the neighboring building.

       I make sure the lounge chair is in the shade from the overhang of the balcony above, as I will fry as fast as an egg cracked on the pavement on a day like this if I lie in the sun.  Then I settle in, savoring the press of the heat on my bare skin. 

Almost immediately I realize that even in the shade I need my sunglasses and I have to get up again.  But I can’t find them anywhere!  I’m rummaging through my purse and searching every room, getting more and more irritated, when I spy his pair of Ray Bans on the dresser.  Feeling a little guilty, because I know how he feels about me borrowing his things without asking first, I carefully retrieve them.  I’ll just put them back and he’ll never know.

It’s much more comfortable now that my eyes aren’t streaming, and I make it through three pages of an article about program evaluation before I doze off.

Some time later I’m ripped out of my slumber by the sound of shouting.  “Bruno!  You fucking mutt!  Goddamn it…”

Ready to leap to the rescue, if necessary, if it turns out someone is abusing his dog, I jump to my feet and fly to the balcony rail, leaning over to see whose voice I’m hearing.  The sunglasses, which are too big for me, slide right off my face and go plummeting four stories to the sidewalk, where they land with an audible clatter.

I freeze, Bruno’s plight temporarily forgotten.  From here, it looks like one of the lenses has popped out of the frames, but I can probably fix that, and maybe that’s the only damage.  But now I’m torn between racing downstairs and outside to snatch the sunglasses back and monitoring them from here to make sure nothing happens to them.  Plus, I’m still not wearing any clothes.

Dancing with anxiety, I start dashing back and forth from the bedroom to the balcony, throwing on one item of clothing at a time, constantly checking to make sure the Ray Bans are still there, that no one has stepped on the vulnerable right lens where it’s lying in the middle of the sidewalk.  Wearing only a ridiculous short skirt and one of his t-shirts, but still barefoot, I finally go for it.  Grabbing my keys, I sprint for the stairs and tear down them.

Unbelievable.  It probably took me less than two minutes to get outside, and his sunglasses are GONE.  I feel my stomach sink.  I scan the area for the dirty thief, but no one seems to be in sight. I check the gutter, the grass and bushes next to the sidewalk—I even look up to the sky in bewilderment, as if I’ll see the shades dangling there just above my head.  How does this happen to me? 

My steps are heavy going back up to his apartment.  I’m considering my options, but there is really only one that makes sense.  I can try to replace his sunglasses before he gets home, but even if I had an extra couple of hundred dollars to spare, I doubt I could pick out the exact pair I had just managed to lose for him.  I can say nothing about it and hope he doesn’t notice right away that they’re missing—or assume he lost them himself.  Yeah, right. 

I’ll have to tell him.  There’s a knot in my stomach already just thinking about it.  I hate confessing something like this to him—I hate seeing his disappointment; it makes me feel miserable and small.  It’s unfair, too, since I’m already always at such a disadvantage with him—something like this makes me seem even more flawed in comparison to his competent, responsible, organized self.  Oh, hell.

I’ll stay here until he gets home, I decide. Just get it over with.  Just blurt it out. 

But a friend calls me a couple of hours later and asks for a ride to the airport, and I miss his return home from work.  When I speak to him on the phone later, he’s buoyant from an exciting development at his job, and I abandon my intention to confess my mistake that evening.  He’d want to hear it from me in person, anyway, I rationalize.

One thing and another keeps us from seeing each other for several days, and it’s Thursday night before we’re able to go out for dinner.  I have been thinking about those damn sunglasses non-stop.  I even started several emails to him, ready to type out a full confession, apologizing and asking him to punish me if he thought it was appropriate, but I kept changing my mind and discarding them.  I’ll tell him if we go back to his place, I decide.  I’ll just say, By the way, in case you’re wondering what happened to your Ray Bans…

At the café, I’m uncomfortable for the usual reasons, because I’m wearing a short skirt and no panties, to please him, but my stomach is also knotted with nerves and my heart rate won’t calm down, and that’s because I’m worried about later.  Chill out!  I keep telling myself.  Why is this such a big deal?  You’re just going to tell him and get it over with.

But he ruins my plan.  I’m midway through a sip of gazpacho when he looks me directly in the eyes and says casually, “Have you seen my sunglasses?”

I swallow the soup and a hefty gulp of air along with it.  I wince as it makes its way painfully down my throat and suddenly, quietly panic.  “No, why?”  I hear myself say.

“I can’t find them—I thought maybe you’d seen them somewhere.”

I shake my head and shrug, taking a long sip of water and excusing myself to the restroom as soon as it doesn’t seem obvious I’m escaping.

Shit!  What had I just done?  So much for confessing!  I had just lied to him!  In the restaurant bathroom I shut myself in one of the stalls and lean against the metal partition in despair.  I am so fucked.  He doesn’t tolerate dishonesty.  He might have gone easy on me for losing the sunglasses, maybe even for not telling him right away, if I’d just told him about it like I’d planned to.  But him asking me about it like that over dinner had taken me by surprise—I’d reacted instinctively out of self-preservation, and in this case, my instincts were entirely wrong.  Because now I am really in for it.

It is completely unrealistic to think the issue is now resolved.  Even if by some microscopic chance he’d believed my lie, I know myself.  This will weigh on me until I finally do admit the whole stupid, horrible thing to him, and it will be evident things aren’t normal until I do.  I feel a little nauseated.

Back at our table, I mumble, not quite looking at him, “Do you mind taking me home?  I don’t feel very well.”

“Are you getting a migraine?”

“Maybe…” I fudge, not wanting to add another outright lie to my record.

He’s not stupid.  He knows something is going on.  He probably knows exactly what is going on, in fact.  But he’s going to wait me out, see what choice I make in the long run.

       

It turns out I’m a miserable coward.  The choice I make for the next three days is to avoid him.  He ends up having to take matters into his own hands next Sunday night.  I’ve responded to his texts to tell him I’m not sick, so he doesn’t hesitate to leave me a message telling me he’s picking me up at 7, that I’ll be spending the night, and to be ready for him.

I doubt we’re going out, but I dress up anyway.  It’s unlikely that looking particularly cute this evening is going to help me, but I’m going to give myself every possible advantage.  I’m watching for his car and run out when he pulls up, meeting him on the sidewalk.  He walks me around to the passenger side door, but instead of opening it, he pushes me against it and kisses me hard.  I instantly go weak, as always.  I wonder if he can tell there is something other than lust and the usual nerves making my heart flutter and my breath come quickly.

The drive is short and we don’t bother with conversation.  We are both letting the anticipation grow, although I can’t quite assess his mood—he might be angry, though if that’s the case he’s concealing most of his feeling.  He keeps one hand on me on the way up to his apartment.  I’m not considering bolting, but it increases my anxiety significantly to think that he considers I might have reason to make an escape attempt.

Once inside the door, he locks it behind us, murmuring, “Stay here,” then moves to sit in the wing chair near the balcony, facing me.  “Take everything off.”

I swallow hard, feel my body give a little shiver.  He knows I’m uncomfortable being totally naked outside of bed, especially when he remains fully dressed.  Glancing at him from time to time, I slip out of my light summer dress and step out of my heels.  I’m wearing nothing else.

“Crawl to me.”

Dammit.  This is still hard for me, too.  Feeling my face heat, I drop to my knees and move slowly towards him on all fours, trying to keep my ass and head up and do it gracefully, but feeling awkward, gauche and self-conscious.  I try also to maintain eye contact, but I keep failing and looking down.

“Kneel up,” he says when I’ve arrived at his feet, and I sit back on my heels, my back straight, hands clasped behind me, and knees spread wide.  I’m in enough trouble without getting things like this wrong.  But I can’t look at him.

“I’d really like to fuck you right now, little one, but I think we have a problem to deal with first, don’t we?”

I close my eyes.  “Yes, Sir,” I whisper miserably.

“Well, then, is there something you’d like to tell me?”

I can feel his eyes scorching me as I stare fixedly at the floor between my knees.  Infuriatingly, my pussy starts to heat and moisten even as my throat dries up.  I squirm, wringing my hands behind my back, without breaking position.  A half a minute goes by.

“Sweetheart, if I have to force it out of you, this is going to be much worse.”

At his words, my flesh heats even more and my nipples harden visibly.  I’m terrified, remorseful, sorry for disappointing him, and yet still I manage to get achingly aroused at his threat.  Not for the first time, I think I must be truly warped.

“Your sunglasses,” I finally mutter, wishing the earth would swallow me.  Of course it’s his sunglasses.  He knows it; I know it—this is so humiliating.  He just waits for me to elaborate.  “I…borrowed them, last week.  I couldn’t find mine—I don’t know how I lost them…”  Shut up, idiot!  Don’t make it sound like you’ve lost multiple pairs of sunglasses.  “I dropped them off the balcony,” I finally choke out.

“You dropped them off the balcony.” 

“I heard someone being mean to his dog,” I try to explain, feeling a little defensive.  My eyes flicker up to his—they are hard, giving away nothing.  “I—I leaned over without thinking.”  I shift my weight, feeling sweat pooling in the crease behind my knees, though it is cool in the apartment.  “I went to get them, but they were just gone by the time I got outside.  It—it was really incredible…” 

Well, he knows what happened now, but I know the worst is yet to come and my heart is pounding.

“So.  You borrowed them on Monday, without asking me, dropped them over the side of the balcony, and lost them.”  I wince as I realize he knows exactly when his sunglasses went missing.  My stomach clenches, knowing what he’s going to say next.  “So then why did you lie to me when I asked you on Thursday if you’d seen them?”  His voice, suddenly sharp, cracks over me like a whip.

“I don’t know,” I say helplessly, and to my utter chagrin I feel tears well up in my eyes.  “I just panicked.”

He is unmoved.  “Were you lying about being sick, too?”

I can’t answer that—but I’m shaking, and blushing, and he puts two and two together.

“I can’t believe this—I’m extremely disappointed.  Let’s review.  First, you borrowed something of mine without asking, and proceeded to lose it.  Then, instead of telling me, you kept it a secret.  When confronted, you lied to my face.  Finally, rather than admit you were wrong and face the situation like a mature adult, you avoided me for days until I forced the confrontation on you.  Did I leave anything out?”

“I’m very sorry, Sir,” is all I can manage to say, knowing it won’t do any good.

“You will be,” he says grimly.  “Because this is your first offense, I’m going to give you a second chance to earn my trust.  But I’m going to punish you first.  And I expect you to demonstrate a very contrite attitude until I’m satisfied you’ve learned your lesson.  Now.  Do you agree that you deserve to be punished?”

My tears had spilled over during the course of this lecture, and my voice is watery when I reply quietly, “Yes, Sir.  Please p-punish me.”

“Don’t move.”

He disappears into the bedroom and I am left to contemplate my hideous fate.  But I feel more at peace now than I have for days, and I have that sense of security and comfort I always get from knowing that whatever happens now, it’s in his hands. 

My comfort is not to last long.  I can hear him moving around behind me, dragging a stool across the floor, the sound of rope sliding through his hands and dropping against the hardwood.  I’m to be bound, then, probably to the exposed beams below the ceiling.

When he lets me get up, he does bind me, but not in the way I would have guessed.  He ties my arms first, folded wrist to elbow behind my back, my forearms bound to each other along their length.  This is more comfortable than having my wrists tied together, but I am just as helpless, my breasts just as vulnerable to abuse—which, as it turns out, is what he has in mind.

I do start to protest when he next approaches me with the clover clamps.  I hate those things; they’re vicious.  He usually only uses them for negative reinforcement, to motivate me to do something I’m hesitant about.  I take a couple of evasive steps and he reacts immediately, lunging for me and grabbing me by the hair.  He controls me that way, holding me still while he plumps my nipples with his free hand, then snaps the clamps on one at a time.

I cry out, dance from foot to foot, wiggle instinctively as if I could shake off the clamps and their sharp bite.  Still gripping me by the hair, he reaches down to the couch where he’s tossed a large ball gag.  I’m preoccupied by the pain in my clamped nipples, but I obediently open my mouth, and he shoves the gag in roughly, making me stare up at him in surprise and dismay as I realize the extent of his anger.  He buckles it very tightly—I will be able to grunt and moan, but make no intelligible sounds.

Just as I’ve decided he’s probably going to whip me very hard, and am praying I can stand it, I find out he’s planned something much more complex.  He positions me in the middle of the floor near no furniture, under a horizontal beam.  I start to really worry when he threads a long piece of rope through the chain connecting my nipple clamps, and then throws it over the beam.  “No, no!” I try to shout through the gag as I watch him pull on the rope, watch the chain rise, begin to grow taut.

Our eyes meet then and I see with sudden, total clarity how much power he has in this moment.  I can do nothing to stop him from pulling on that rope.  He’ll make it hurt exactly as much as he wants to.  I have trusted him not to damage me, which is what stops me from panicking, but this realization that I’m his to punish now, that all I can do from this point on is endure, continues to crash over me, bringing its rush of fear and, yes, that damning arousal.  My knees feel weak.  I can tell he is reveling in the same knowledge, in his power, in the way I’m already begging with my eyes.

But he keeps pulling, until the connecting chain is pulling on the clamps.  My nipples start to burn, the pain in them intensifying, and I do the only thing I can, shuffling on my feet and rising up on my toes to try to put some slack in the chain.  Just then, when I’m struggling to stand on my tiptoes and there is the slightest amount of slack in nipple clamps chain, he steps on the stool and carefully ties off the rope to the beam. 

I should have figured this out, but I didn’t expect it, and I’m aghast, realizing what he’s done to me.  If I don’t stay up on my toes, I’ll put an unbearable amount of tension on the clamps, stretching my nipples, my breasts—I won’t be able to stand it, I think.  I stare up at the unforgiving rope as he steps down from the stool, searching for some weakness or flaw, but there is none. 

“I want you to think about how you got yourself into this mess,” I hear him say from behind me.  “This is for keeping secrets from me.”  Then I hear his footsteps receding.

How long is he going to leave me here?  My legs are already weakening—I can feel the muscles in my calves straining with the effort to stay up on my toes as I shift on my feet.  It’s hard to maintain my balance with my arms bound behind me, but I have to concentrate—falling is not an option, not when I might tear my nipples off.  Fortunately, the burning pain in my breasts makes it hard to think of anything else.  I feel a trickle of sweat start from under my arm and run down my side.

Moments pass and I know I am going to have to stand back down on my heels unless he rescues me.  My legs have started to tremble violently with the effort of staying on tiptoe.  I experimentally lower my heels a fraction and the resulting tug on the nipple clamps makes me cry out involuntarily into the gag.  I start to whimper.  But there is no hope for it.  I feel my legs giving out and brace myself for the shock of new pain.

When it comes, it’s even worse than I expected—enough to make me gasp hard through my nose and lurch right back onto my toes.  But I can’t hold that position so I fall back within seconds.  I repeat this stupid, painful dance a few times before I’m settled on my feet, petrified to move as my nipples are pulled towards the ceiling—even breathing sends little waves of pain through them—with tears running down my face.  I wonder if he’s been watching this humiliating, predictable performance.  I feel a surge of anger at him for making me torture myself this way.  Doesn’t he know what I’ve been going through this whole week?  Constant stress and worry—

Suddenly he’s there in front of me, and I wonder if he can tell I’m not feeling particularly contrite.  He climbs up on the stool and my heart sings with relief as I assume he’s going to release me from this nipple clamp hell.  But he only loosens the rope slightly.  There is slack in it now, and I groan with relief as my breasts return to their normal shape, but I am still undeniably tethered to the ceiling by my nipples, unable to move more than a few inches in any direction without pulling on them again.

He moves behind me.  “Spread your legs.”  I shuffle my feet apart, feeling, as always, an answering throb between my legs at the sound of those particular words, and moaning a little.  “If you close them, I’m starting over.  This is for lying to me.”

I realize he’s going to whip me just before the first blow lands on my ass.  It’s the strap, and I would like to think he put all his strength into that one, but I’m not sure.  I squeal with the impact, which drives me up onto my toes.  The next one falls seconds later, in the same place, right across the middle of both cheeks.  I can only grunt, still trying to catch my breath from the last swat.

I am realizing I have bigger problems than just remembering to keep my legs spread.  When the strap lands, my instinct is to wiggle, writhing as I absorb the stinging pain.  If I’m not bound, I’ll eventually try to get away.  But in this case, I have to stay still or I’ll be punishing my own nipples again.  I can’t cringe away from the strap, can’t double over to try to protect my body.

Several more times he hits my ass, till I’m crying freely again, and I know my face is a mess of tears and snot and drool.  I wish I could see him—I hate that he’s standing behind me, just coldly administering the strap like this.  It scares me—how will he know if I’ve had enough, if I’m about to collapse?

The strap lands on the backs of my thighs, four times in quick succession, and I lose it and jump away from him, as far as the nipple clamps will let me.  I dance in place, wishing desperately I could rub the lines of fire he’s left on my legs.  He waits until I’ve settled down a little bit and then says only, “Open.”

His voice works on me—the order causes despair and renews the flickers of my desire at the same time.  “Please,” I try to say, but I spread my legs again.

The strap comes up from the floor and crashes into my defenseless sex.  I scream, snap my legs closed and would probably cause some damage to my nipples, forgetting all about them, but he must realize that, because he is suddenly there, holding me up and still, his arms firm around me.

The embrace, though it is not meant to comfort, affects me and I start to weep.  “I’m sorry—” I mumble, though it doesn’t sound like words, but he cuts me off.  “Shh.  Not yet.”

He lets go of me and unties the rope still holding me to the ceiling beam, but to my dismay, he does nothing about the clamps.  I’m momentarily crushed—I desperately want them off.  As he grabs my arm and pulls me into the bedroom, I also feel like bursting into fresh tears to see that he’s bringing the strap.

Maybe I can show him how sorry I am already, I think, so he knows he doesn’t need to punish me anymore.  I’m trying frantically to come up with a strategy—maybe if I get down on my knees and—

But he gives me no chance to influence his plans for me.  As soon as we’ve entered his room he pushes me over to the bed and gestures for me to climb onto it.  When I’m on my knees on the mattress he says, “Put your head down facing the wall.”

I know what he wants and I plead with my eyes, shaking my head no.  I see his eyes narrow a split second before he pushes my head down himself, and sure enough, with my arms bound behind me still, my chest falls unsupported against the mattress, crushing my clamped nipples under my weight.  I howl.

He arranges me, yanking my hips up to raise my ass, spreading my knees wide, and pulling me towards the edge of the mattress.  I love this position, normally—I know if it weren’t for the nipple clamps I’d be panting in lust right now, imagining the view he has, anticipating the delicious shock of his thick cock plunging into my pussy or ass, made so totally available to him.

But he’s not going to fuck me yet.  “This is for avoiding me,” he says, and I feel the strap again.  It comes down straight across my ass, falling across both cheeks and nipping my delicate pussy lips in between.  The blows start to come without pause and I am suddenly frantic to have this gag out—it’s not fair—how I am supposed to tell him I’m sorry, I’m more than sorry?  I try to say it anyway, heedless of how stupid I sound.  I can’t get away from the strap but my hips are rolling and jerking lewdly, out of my control.

There’s a pause—the strap is still for a moment.  My ass throbs.  I can’t hear him over the sound of my own crying, but I think I know what’s coming and I start shaking, my thighs quivering.

Sure enough, a split second later he swings the strap up between my legs.  He can’t get as much leverage as he could when I was standing, but it still feels like a thousand bees have stung me there all at once.  I start to collapse to my belly on the mattress, but his arm goes around my waist, holding me up, and before I can even attempt to close my legs he swats me again, and then a third time.  The intensity of the pain rips through me and I lose track of my senses, feeling nothing else.

I don’t know how much time has passed—perhaps only seconds—when I feel his hands on my body again, adjusting my position once more.  He pulls my ass up higher, spreads my legs even more, brings me to the very edge of the mattress, dragging my trapped nipples along the bedspread, reigniting the pain there once again.  His strong hands grip my hips.  “Don’t cum,” he orders.

Is he kidding? I think.  My nipples hurt, my ass is on fire, my pussy feels like it’s swollen to three times its normal size—an orgasm is the last thing on my mind!

He drives into me in one smooth, merciless thrust.

I give a shocked, strangled scream into the ball gag as I’m overcome by the feeling of his cock filling my pussy all at once.  It hurts, as it always does at first, but what really surprises me is how incredibly good it feels, the realization that I’m wet, that I’m now, suddenly, within a few strokes of orgasm.  I’ve stopped crying, and started babbling—or trying to.  He reaches down and unbuckles the ball gag, and I barely waste a moment on working my sore jaw before I give vent to my primary concern.

“Oh, God, please, please, fuck me, Sir!  Please, I’m sorry, just—”

His next stroke slams the breath out of me.  The nipple clamps catch and drag against the bed as my body jerks forward with his powerful thrust.  The wiry hair on his legs and groin is irritating the enflamed skin on my ass and thighs as his hips pound up against me.  None of it matters.  In fact, I’m rubbing my ass shamelessly back against him, trying to get closer, gasping, “Yes!  Do it—”

He thrusts again, and it almost sends me over the edge.  My pussy spasms around him, trying to get there.  “Beg me,” he says.

“Please, Sir, fuck me till I cum,” I manage to plead.  “Please, you can do anything you want to me—you can p-punish me—” I break off with a shriek of pleasure as he fucks me hard, sending me into a spiraling wave of throbbing pleasure.  Dimly, I’m aware that he’s cumming, too, grunting as he explodes inside me.

When he pulls out I go limp, unresisting as he rolls me over.  He pulls my sweaty body further up on the mattress and straddles my hips, looking down at me.  His mood seems to have changed, but I’m not taking any chances.

“I’m sorry I lied to you,” I whisper, meaning it, but still finding it hard to look at him in this moment. 

“And?”  He’s leaning down, brushing hair out of my eyes, stroking his thumbs over my cheeks and lips.  Unbelievably, I feel tears spill over my eyes again.

“And kept secrets, and avoided you.”

“Do you want these nipple clamps off?”

I look at him nervously.  He’s smiling a little bit.  Is this a trick question?  “Only—only if it’s what you want, Sir,” I say hesitantly.

He looks supremely pleased with himself.  His hands go to the clamps and I feel a rush of fear.  “Will you—will you please rub them, after, Sir?” I hear myself beg, the humiliation making me cringe, my pussy throb again.  But he hasn’t untied my arms, and I know from experience this is going to be excruciating.

“Oh, yeah, baby,” he says, and I’m not sure I like the look in his eyes as he finally opens the clamps and removes them.  It takes a minute for the pain to hit me, but when it does, I’m a mess.  True to his word, he gently massages my nipples with his palms until the worst of it has subsided, but, as I feared, he’s a little too fascinated with them afterwards.  My nipples, which are dark red and hard as rocks and will stay this way for a couple of days, are unbearably sensitive and sore, and he can’t resist tormenting them a little, watching my reactions.

He looks at my pussy next, pulling my thighs apart and kneeling on them, holding them open.  “What did it feel like, when I strapped you here?” he asks, running his fingers over my swollen, red labia.  Everything between my legs is sore, aching, inside and outside—it feels decadent.

“It—it hurt a lot,” I mumble, my breath catching as I watch his face.  Looking at him looking at my spread and vulnerable pussy is so breathtakingly erotic that I’m having trouble concentrating on what he’s saying.  I can feel my flesh heating down there and I know I’m adding new moisture to where his cum is still leaking from me.  His cock is once again impressively erect, hovering over me, tantalizing me.

“I like the way this looks, your well-punished pussy,” he says next, and his words set me on fire.  I moan, squirm, and, if he weren’t holding my legs down, would be humping my hips with abandon.  He spreads my pussy open and rests one finger against my hard clit, still oversensitive from the strap and from the recent orgasm.

       “Please, I want you!”

       “Such a needy, well-punished little slut.”

       “Yes, Sir...”