Saturday, September 25, 2010

You're Small - Anon

"You're small," you say in your most teasing voice. You are rolled onto your side in bed, head propped up in one hand, looking down at my body.

"I'm really not," I reply. I'm lying on my back beside you and I feel enormous compared to you. I am impossibly heavy, soft in the middle, broad in shoulder, clunky. You wouldn't be able to do a thing to me even if I was unresisting, because of my sheer bulk. My eyes lift to look up into yours and I shake my head. "I'm not small."

You rest a hand on my chest and smooth your palm in circles. So I take your hand and hold it there against my heartbeat, pressing. I feel a pause in your breathing and you say, quietly, "David." I glance up into your face again. Your eyes leave mine, and look at my hands, then look at the space above my head. I feel my cheeks flush with faint heat and I remove my hands from yours and cross my wrists above my head.

"Good," you say. Then, "You are small."

My brow furrows slightly as I catch the second meaning drifting into the word. I shake my head again, but I don't look at you this time. Your hand takes its time, exploring the expanse of my chest, the skin smooth and bare, nipples pale and surprisingly responsive to even light touches and changes in temperature. A flick of a fingernail and my nipple tightens. I shift slightly beneath the touches, physical tension creeping across my shoulders and then setting itself in the rest of my body. The passivity does this, whether I'm made to kneel or I'm relaxed in bed like this while you talk to or touch me. Almost every time I am rendered motionless by your control this tension mounts, and even at my best it is very faintly colored with anger or irritation. Sometimes the dangerous kind, often just petulance at not being able to have, hold, grasp, take what I want.

"David," you say quietly, having seen that tension finally express itself on my face. You were probably waiting for it. You know patterns. You must by now see that my way down involves whatever this is, this resentment of my own obedience. You know that it doesn't compromise the obedience.

"Mistress," I whisper.

You don't say anything. You tease my nipple, catch it with your fingers, squeeze it hard, compressing the nub of flesh until it whitens. The pain bites and then burns, and when you do not let up, when you twist, it deepens to a searing hurt that makes my breathing change and my face collapse into a grimace. My arms shift above my head as the impulse to stop you shudders into my muscles and stops, arrested, becoming tension.

"You can be small," you say quietly.

"Mis-tress," I hiss through my teeth. And then your fingers are gone and my nipple throbs, the burn persisting. I breathe hard, no longer even wanting to look at your face, unwilling to see whatever expression might be there. When your hand smooths across to my other nipple I turn my head slightly away from you in a flinch of anticipation.

You pinch, you twist, my nipple slipping out from your fingers, making you start again and again, hard, until I am gasping from the pulsing, searing pain of it. This is not subspace you are putting me in, not quite, but some cousin feeling, related to the self-control and obedience that creates these long minutes of suffering. You are coming at me from an angle, breaking me down this way, knowing that enough pain (and for me, very little is often enough) will create a detached pliability, will touch the part of me that will respond to you out of a naked desire for mercy.

I feel two small things placed on my chest, two things of some kind, cool and light. I look down at what you have placed there. Oh. Oh no.

You pick up the first clothespin and show it to me, pinching it open, letting it close again, so I am sure to note the metal spring has been distended to keep it from snapping shut. There's no snap to it at all, there's a softness to the way the pin opens and shuts, and the jaws of the clothespin do not touch together. But no matter how gentle it looks, I know better. I shake my head at you, my eyes directly on yours, communicating with my gaze that I am not prepared.

You reach across my line of vision, grab a corner of the blanket, and pull it up and over my head and shoulders. I am in sudden darkness. I feel your fingers tucking the blanket in around my neck, and I am breathing against the fabric, panting softly as the pocket of air in front of my mouth and nose becomes humid and claustrophobic. My eyes are open and looking at the blank, slightly orange colored cave of darkness made by the blanket. I can feel your fingers plucking at my already sore and swollen nipple, teasing it.

Beneath the blanket my breath comes quickly, my oxygen feels like it might be going, but I know in the corner of my mind that it's an illusion, that being blindfolded produces panic, but eventually, if I'm lucky, I will hit that sleepy feeling that will cradle me through the pain. In the meantime my throat is tight and small noises are jerked from between my parted lips as your fingers pluck at first one nipple, then the other, surely engorging them enough to... there's the mouth of the clothespin, brushing across my skin, and when it bites down there is a moment of no pain before it blossoms fiercely, white hot and aching, somehow tracing a zigzag of pain down my chest and into my abdomen. I'm sure I make a sound because my throat hurts, but whether you respond I can not see or hear. I am spinning in the pain, because it doesn't stop. At most the searing starts to settle into a throb which must be my racing heartbeat.

I'm aware of your hand, now to me as cool and as smooth as silk, caressing over the flushed skin of my chest. I can feel the hard thud of my heart against your palm. I can feel how the L-shape of your thumb and fingers frame my other nipple. Now you brush the blunt mouth of the clothespin back and forth over the nub, and with every pass I shudder, distracted from the anticipation only from the low throbbing pain of the other nipple. Almost mercifully you finally let the clothespin bite, and I cry out softly against the thickness of the blanket, my spine arching so much I can feel the cool wash of air against my lower back as I lift off the mattress. I'm sure I can't deal with this pain, but even through it I feel something like irritation at my lack of machismo, and I grapple for that anger, wanting it badly, wanting to retreat from the worming pain into that tough detachment. Maybe you can hear the tightness in my groan, maybe you just guess, but you somehow know that my next step is to power through it, to soldier through it. So you flick the clothespins, one after the other, left, right, left, right, disturbing the steadiness of the sensation until I am almost dazed by its irregularity.

"You can be small," you whisper again. "If I can break you of feeling so big. And I have to break you, every time." You seem to be musing over the idea, or amused by it. "Why do you make me break you every time, David? Is that something you *like*?"

You know that's not true. The implication infuriates me, I feel my face burning with a flush, my jaw setting, my teeth clenched. The pain is so fucking unbearable, I'm not getting my sleepiness, I'm not detaching, and now you're making me angry. I stop reacting, I stop, and this makes you laugh a little because of how transparent it is. And your hand drifs between the trembling clothespins and down my belly, and you pet my soft cock and my balls with an open hand, an open palm, just stroking me between the legs like I'm an animal. I can barely focus on your gentle hand with the searing burn from the clothespins, but apparently my ability to focus has nothing to do with my physical response, because you are wrapping your hand around my erection and I am not feeling 'turned on' at all. Not now.

Your laughter makes me shake my head beneath the blanket, denying what, I don't know, why I don't speak, I don't know, why I don't move my hands and remove the fucking clothespins, I don't know, I stay where I am put, I become erect because you touch me, I am angry, I am in pain and the pain isn't stopping, isn't stopping at all, and then your mouth is around my cock and in the startled moment of that drawing heat I release a low moan and buck my hips, arousal insinuating itself. I want to reject it, I want to deny you this, I see it as your victory. I am not feeling small. No, I will not. And as your head bobs and your hair spills across my stomach, I groan through the throbbing searing pain and pant into the humid cavern beneath the blanket.

You're done in just a minute and a half, done making me hard, done wetting down my cock so that it gleams with your saliva and juts swollen and flushed into the air. Your hands are flat against my chest as you swing your leg over my body and straddle my stomach. I feel the heat of you as you settle, I feel my body jerk as I take the weight of you, my breath heaving, my chest rising and falling, the clothespins wagging. You must be pinching the clothespins with your fingers because I can feel the jaws shift, and a flood of prickling heat bursts into those tortured nubs, knocking the breath out of me. The clothespins bite again, at a slightly different angle, and I am delirious from the pain. You must be twisting the clothespins because I can not breathe from the pain, the blossoming searing heat that makes my chest muscles ache. I barely register that you are positioning yourself against the head of my cock.

"Oh jesus, Mistress," I whisper against the heavy blanket, "Please stop. Please stop." And your small noise of pleasure is the indication I have that you are rocking back on my rigid cock, rocking until I am sliding in and out of you an inch, two inches, three inches. I can feel it but I can't feel it because I am delirious from the pain.

"Stop?" you ask me, coyly, and you rock forward onto your hands and my cock is jutting into midair again, abandoned.

"No," I whisper, acutely feeling the absence of the pleasure that a moment before I wasn't able to register completely. "No, don't stop."

"Don't stop?" you ask, and you flick the clothespins. The insides of my eyes flash white with the pain.

"Oh god, Mistress," I whisper, "Please..."

"Why don't you stop trying to tell me what you want, David," you whisper, cold. "Because I don't fucking care."

My eyes squeezed shut, I am brought to the verge of hysteria by this line delivered while the clothespins rip more pain from my nipples, my whole chest on fire, some sort of deep and throbbing fire. You are handling my cock again, jerking it off just enough to get it harder, to get it at the right angle. And you rock yourself back onto it, and push yourself to a sitting position above me. By the sounds filtering down from above me I imagine your hand between your legs, your fingers busy, a slow masturbation as you move lazily on my erection.

I am not angry anymore. I am not anything. The pain has gone on for so long, been refreshed and reconfigured to make sure I can not become accustomed to it. I am motionless, empty-headed, completely abstract. Your last line cut me open and drained me. I know that I am erect and inside you, I can hear your panting, your little mewls of pleasure as you rock, and fuck my cock, and get yourself off as often as you like. I can hear it, but I am breathing my own breath, I have tears on my cheeks, I am inside my own silence.

I feel your hands crawl almost blindly over my chest, and I feel the tremble of the clothespins beneath your shaking fingers. You are bouncing on my cock, fucking yourself deeply, your voice dipping lower as you breathlessly bring yourself off again. At a certain point you groan, softly, "Oh... god..." And you remove the clothespins simultaneously. I can feel them tumbling loose against the skin of my chest. The moment of relief is barely a heartbeat, because the whitened nubs roar to life as the blood floods back into them, engorging my nipples, making me choke on my own noises, making my body jerk, half a sit-up followed by half an arch, my body bucking beneath you.

Your hand lands across the blanket, across my face, and the heel of your hand presses against my mouth. I am sucking hot, humid air through my nose, silenced by the pressure of your hand, whimpering softly at the throbbing pain. "Hush," you whisper as you lean against your own hand across my mouth and ride my cock, cumming again, your face must be an inch above mine as you groan, pant, your voice shuddering as you climax. I am tiny. I am broken and tiny beneath you, endorphins and sweat and muscular exhaustion and pain and my own orgasm building fruitlessly as you ride me.

When your hand leaves the blanket, I breathe in through my mouth, filling my chest deeply. I have not even thought to cum. I have not thought to speak. I have not thought.

I am your pleasure. I feel quiet. I feel like I barely exist. "How do you feel, David?" I know the answer you want to hear. I can tell you are still touching yourself, enjoying yourself absently, your knees dug into the mattress as you roll your hips and fuck just the tip of my cock in and out, teasing yourself as you continue to play with your clit. "How do you feel?" you ask again, your voice soft, but that edge to it makes me flinch slightly beneath the mask of the blanket.

"...small," I whisper, my voice cracked, hoarse. "I feel small, Mistress."

"Good boy."


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