Johnny's Girl: Part I

My collar is on the way and I am really excited. Can't you tell? Johnny finally decided what he wanted my tag to say: JOHNNY'S GIRL. Hope I am able to intercept the package. I'm not allowed to look at or touch my collar when it comes, just pack it up and send it to him. But I ordered my choke chain, too, and so I get to look at that. If I accidently see my collar in the process, can I really be held responsible? I'm just saying is all. Grin.

I knew he was in the room. I knew he was behind my chair. My body got warm around him, heat pouring off my skin and looking for him, wrapping around him. Every part of me wanting to find him, grab him, trap him.

I watched the wind dance through the vertical slats, sunlight pushing through gray-white, nuzzling and burrowing, twisting. The furniture was great silhouetted lumps surrounded by stillness. The television was off because I had been waiting for him, in the low-back chair, the only piece that didn’t face the door. I didn’t need to see him.

The arms of the chair beneath my hands were soft, thick, and my fingers curled around the woven seams. Overstuffed, that’s what they called this chair; it hugged me, cradled me and I sank into its soft back, tilting onto my naked hip. He was almost silent behind me. I felt his eyes on my bare feet, legs, up my thighs, pause at my panties, over my tee shirt, belly, tits, shoulders, long, dark hair, and the crown of my head. It was an inspection; it was an assessment, an inventory.

When his hand brushed my cheek, when his fingers slithered heavy over my lips, I snuck my tongue between them for a taste of him. He clamped his palm heavily over my mouth, making me gasp, lowering his lips to my ear. I couldn’t see him, but I was hot from my thighs to my throat.

I loved the sound of his breathing; louder and so close. I could feel the warmth of his breath against the tender chords in my neck. Each word was painted on his tongue, formed perfectly, delicate and beautifully clear. He spoke each with purpose, wasting nothing on excessive tone or superfluousness. I knew that I would obey him to the syllable; it was not a question of choice. This voice would not be denied.

He was not brutal when he handled me—it wasn’t necessary; he was firm, demanding, but restrained. I purred while he spoke in my ear, “You’ve been a good girl for Sir, cunt. I want to reward my good girl. You want that, don’t you, baby?”

I couldn’t speak through his concrete grip but I nodded, nodded hard, squeaking a little. My hands opened and closed. A good girl gets rewards. He wants his good girl. I was aware that every movement and sound I made would sway him now. I sat up straighter, slid my thighs apart and concentrated my energy on being entirely docile.

“Good girl, baby,” he growled comfortingly, dragging a familiar strip of leather around my shoulder and wrapping my hair up on top of my head, “You know what this means. Can you be a good girl in this, slut?”

I closed my eyes as the collar licked across my skin, rough but routine. It captured me, made me its slave and its whore. I had no choice. It was bright in the room all of the sudden and I flinched, narrowing my eyes, my pupils were shallow pricks in clear gray puddles. The leather was tucked into the ring, the post plunging into its ridged hole. I breathed differently when it was locked around my throat, everything became focused.

My mouth was free and I chose my words, “Yes Sir. I’ll be a good girl, Sir.”

His hands never left my neck, as he kissed me, his lips pressed against again my ear, my cheek. He pulled my lips toward his and he licked my chin, chewed on my mouth. I opened for him and his tongue circled toward my throat. His fingers tucked into my collar and he brought the leather up toward him, stretching my neck taught as he raped my mouth, bit my lips, growled into my throat.

My cunt was saturated, thighs rigid as I fought not to steal a pulse of heat by pressing them together. I wanted to be used, my pussy thrashed and brutalized. I wanted him in my slit so I was very careful; if I move to quickly, if I try to control him, I might be denied. He might fuck my mouth or ass, tits instead. Might not fuck me at all. But he said I was a good girl. Good girls get rewards. I want a reward. I want.

“Please fuck my cunt, Sir,” I breathed. No no! I bit my lip hard. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t. The collar got tight so quickly. He stood, the air around me ice cold like an Atlantic salt wave.

“I’m sorry, Sir, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I wasn’t thinking,” I whimpered, my mind plummeting through regret and fear and dread. I was shaking. I swallowed and tilted my head back, looked at him.

“Why would you ask that, you stupid slut?” he asked, shaking his head at me, “You’re meant to be a smart girl, so why would you ask that? Do you think your opinion means anything to me? It does not. I enjoy taking things you want from you. I enjoy inflicting pain when you ask for pleasure. What you want is less than irrelevant. It is insulting. You would presume to beg some favor of me, slut? How very arrogant of you.”

My neck hurt, my fingers dug into the arms of the chair and I pushed up, trying to alleviate some of the ache. I apologized sincerely, redundantly, begging again, this time for forgiveness, presuming that my excuses mattered.

“And here you have been such a good girl. I wanted to reward you; I told you I would. But clearly, you forget your place. Can you feel this?” his voice climbed and he was loud when he yanked on my collar, snapping at it painfully, “What does this mean? Tell me!”

His face was not delicate when he glared down at me. I stammered, my voice lost, “I-it means, it means that you own me, Sir. It means that I am your whore, your servant, your pet, your toy…. It means that I only need to please you.”

He smiled and loosened his grip on my collar, nodding satisfaction at me. I didn’t risk touching my neck. My pain was not to be lessened, it was not to be recognized save for as it pleased him. He stood straight, pointed at the floor and barked, “Come.”

I moved to my hands and knees, in the exact spot where he had pointed. My hands spread onto the wooden floor and my knees were comfortably parted, revealing a peek at my panties, light pink blushing magenta where my wetness had soaked through. I followed his feet; he did not slow and my knees were scraped sore as I followed him. He went first to the kitchen and reached inside the refrigerator; I was at his side, my hair a shroud with my head bent low. He opened a bottle of juice and poured himself a glass, leaned on the counter.

I waited, my shoulders knotted wingtips as my chest bowed low, my back dipped and then climbed up again to my spread ass. He tapped his foot on my shoulder, pushing against me as I struggled to remain in position, then flicked my hair back over my shoulder with the toe of his shoe.

“Look at me, slut,” he commanded softly, tilting his head so that he could see my face. I raised my head, blinked into the brightness, my eyes climbing up his thick legs, darting over his lap, my slit throbbing involuntarily. I swallowed, moving up his belly, his hands, arms, shoulders, chest, and stopping on his beautiful mouth.

The way I loved his mouth, its shape, size, function. He promised me with that mouth—wicked things, wanton things. He could bite me, lick me, kiss me. I couldn’t go higher than his mouth.

“You thirsty too, baby?” he crooned, his perfect fat lips the model of concern. I didn’t know how to answer. He was in a tricky place and I was meant to be careful, the possibility that I might not eat again, drink again for hours, days even, was very real. I nodded so slightly that for a moment he couldn’t tell. Then he set the bottle down deliberately and pushed my shoulder harder with his foot.

“Answers, Lola,” he growled, “Yes or no. Properly. Answer me.”

I caught myself and shook my hair away from my face, whispered loudly, “Yes Sir.”

He looked at me a moment longer, grunted and then moved over to the cabinet, with clear instructions, “Stay.”

I waited, trying very subtly to shift on my knees, biting my lip hard. He pulled down a bowl and held it under the faucet, filling it half-way with tap water. When he set it in front of me, it splashed over the edge. His grin was less than angelic, he said, “Clean that up first.”

I looked at him but his face was closed. There were no choices here. This collar meant no choices. It wasn’t a question of punishment. There would be no refusal. I lowered my head to the floor and began to lick around his shoe, slurping water from the linoleum.

He moved around me. Before I could finish, I felt the leather band around my neck yanked up hard. My hands reached for it as my back was pulled tight against his front, the back of my head against his lap, water dripping from my whore mouth. I was choking as the strap was held tight, gasping loudly; I heard from between his gritted teeth, “What do you say?”

“Th-tha…th-thank you, S-s…SIR,” I spluttered, my fingers curling next to the collar, hips twisting. He released me back to the floor, kicked the water bowl over, and pressed my face inches from the puddle, the ends of my hair dipping and fanning out into the wetness.

“Don’t make me tell you again, cunt. It is a privilege to get a bowl. It is a privilege to get to drink. You will be grateful or will go without, do you understand?”

I winced, shaking my head, my shoulders fighting to keep my face from the floor, “Yessss, Sir.”

I wanted to cry. How could I have gone from being such a good girl to this disappointment? I dragged my tongue along the floor, while he stood again, took a step back. I felt him kneel, felt him on my ass, his hands splayed across my skin, my panties, his thumbs stroking my cleft, his fingers digging into the outside of my thighs as he parted my bottom, my wet panties stretched tight across my cunt. I shivered, licking diligently.

“Good girl,” he murmured, crawling up to the top of my panties and yanking them down to my thighs.

“Enough water,” he said distractedly, sliding his palm under my cunt and squeezing the inside of my thigh with his free hand.

“Yes, Sir,” I grunted, raising my head, my back dipping farther so that my pussy opened wider, riper for him. I wanted his whole hand inside me. He shoved my thighs apart and began to push two fingers into my cunt, his thumb tapping gently on my asshole, another finger brushing my clit. My arms were shaking and I was hiccupping pleasure, water dripping down my lips, my neck, off the ends of my hair.

He fucked my cunt and teased my asshole; I was trembling, my hips fighting not to push back, not to take what I wanted. It is not mine to take. The collar around my neck reminded me of that. I fell from my hands to my elbows, my ass opening wider, offered to him for his use. I was so grateful that this pleasure was how he wanted to use me; I was so lucky.

He hadn’t given me permission to cum. Every stroke into my pussy, every flick of my clit was torture. I almost rather that he had been beating me as I spread my hips, trying to control myself. I was whimpering loudly, praying, silently begging. But he said nothing; my thighs were jelly and I slapped the ground in frustration. He leaned down and bit my ass hard.

I squealed, popped back up onto my hands, gasping. He moved to my clit and rubbed circles around my swollen button, his hand soaked. He was being cruel; it was amusing him. My mind was not clear anymore. I couldn’t think of anything but the waves of pleasure in my thighs, my dry throat as I gasped, water right in front of me but not an option, trying so hard not to cum. It was a challenge.

I was losing.

I closed my legs around his hand and his fingers stopped. He yanked away from me, spanked me hard, punishing my stretched backside with heavy slaps. I shrieked, pushing away from him, but he had the collar in his hand, caught my hair as well. I couldn’t escape.

“No!” he grunted, bringing his arm all the way up and spanking me hard, pulling me against his palm with his grasp on my collar. I cried. I couldn’t help it. It was too much for me, back and forth, no control, no fairness.

It was all his decision, his whim. I was being punished because I couldn’t resist his stroking. There was no game. I would never win. I was for his use. Entirely. He wanted his hands on my cunt, he wanted to push me, he wanted to deny me, and he wanted to hurt me. I was still understanding the role of whore, pet, toy.

He yanked the collar up and pulled me over the counter, my stomach pressed against the cold tile, my arms and legs on either side, not even close to comfortable. The ledge dug into my hip bones and I was too short to lean over the other side. He grabbed my hair and pulled my face up to him, a look of satisfaction when he saw my puffy eyes and parted mouth, and then, “Stay.”

He let go before I could agree. He headed toward the coatroom and returned with my leash, his leash, affixing it to the ring on my collar and letting it drape down my back. He moved behind me, and then, “Spread your legs, cunt.”

I whimpered, curling my legs back and then opened them about shoulder width, wider when he yanked on the leash. He dropped it then between my legs and I could feel the leather strap against my cunt. I could hear him sorting through drawers; my cunt was dripping onto the countertop and I shifted as much as I could.

I was rewarded with the sharp sting that only a thick wooden spoon could deliver. I squealed, bucking against the tile and twisting. He did it again, the grain of the spoon itching my already pomegranate-stained backside. It hurt a lot, the little weapon concentrating all force into an unforgivable surface and trailing a wicked line down the handle.

I was screaming very shortly. He allowed it. He allowed me to kick my legs against the cabinets, to howl as he punished every inch of my ass and thighs. I was wailing pathetically when he turned the spoon around and whipped the inside of my thighs with its long, thin wooden handle, clamping my hands around the lip of the counter to keep from covering my delicate skin.

He stopped, tapping the dowel on the side of my thigh, tracing up inside my legs, over my pussy lips. I was still whimpering to myself, coughing and writhing. He drummed it rhythmically against my pouting clit and I whined, and then dragged it between my wet petals.

“There is nothing keeping me from fucking you with this, slut,” he told me, teasing my slit aggressively, then pressing the small tip against my asshole, “I can fuck you here if I want, too. Do you understand this?”

I groaned, shaking my head, “Yes Sir.”

“Do you?” he asked, pulling up on the leash and locking his eyes on mine, the handle of the spoon returning to my cunt.

My eyes were wide saucers, my lips wet, my cheeks pink and swollen, but I didn’t doubt what he could do to me if and when he wanted to, “Yes Sir. You own every part of me. I am only useful as far as you can use me.”

“Good girl,” he said, and I relaxed, breathing out loudly. He pulled my collar tight and slid the dowel into my tight pussy. I twisted uncomfortably and moaned as it jabbed into my cunt, far. His jaw was locked and he was focused; he held my collar tightly, his face inches from mine and breathed, “Because I can.”

I closed my eyes tight and nodded. He removed the spoon from me and yanked me off the counter. I slammed into the linoleum hard, but climbed to my knees. He dropped the spoon on the counter and walked briskly. He was taking me to his office.

“Hurry, cunt,” he growled, “I’m not done with your pussy yet. Behave, and you might like it.”