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No More Words

Category: BDMS
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“There,” Master says. I tug experimentally on the cuff she has just locked around my ankle, and that feeling of helplessness and trust washes over me like a warm, gentle wave. She looks at me appraisingly. “You know what happens next, slut.”

I nod, not speaking. She has taken my words for this scene. I am not allowed words, only grunts, moans and whimpers – and of course, screams – to show her what I am feeling and what her touch is doing to me. This is up to me to remember – she is not going to grace me with a gag. If I fail, I know I will regret it.

I am on my belly, spread-eagled across her bed, legs and arms bound down tightly so that I am unable to draw them together. If I try, I could turn my knees inward, but she’s taking care of that as she binds the spreader bar cuffs around my splayed thighs, ensuring that I’ll never be able to close my legs – or my knees. A firm pillow under my upper chest and neck keeps my head up from the bed so that I can breathe. Another one under my hips lifts my ass in the air and forces my cock and balls to hang in the air, not touching anything at all.

She has tied me tightly today. There is no give in the bonds – I am truly helpless. Oh, I can squirm, but my hands and feet will not be moving away from their assigned points on the bed. I can buck – and I know I will, especially if she orders me to do so, she has me trained to that word – and I can thrash, but my movement is limited.

“What happens next” is a blindfold. She slips it over my head, making sure that the padded leather ovals cover my eyes completely and taking my sight away. Sometimes she likes to see my eyes open and staring; other times she loves to blind me, making me turn my head this way and that trying to figure out where she is and what she plans to do to me. I rarely predict it correctly, which delights her to no end as I cry out or gasp in surprise at whatever it is she actually does to me.

Her hand caresses my exposed balls, and I moan with my lips pressed tightly shut. She chuckles in approval, and suddenly her hand closes on my balls with fingernails digging in. I yelp, going rigid under her hands, and grit my teeth together, breathing hard as she pulls, and pulls, and pulls until I think surely she must rip them off. But that’s not her intent, I realize, as the pressure eases and I feel her beginning to add clamps – just basic clothespins – all over my sack. I keep count as best I can, because she sometimes asks me how many she’s put on me, and what happens next would depend on whether I get the answer right or not.

Seven… eight… I think she’s put on a total of twelve, but it might be thirteen. I wince, as the pressure from the clothespins starts a throbbing in my balls that both hurts and feels good. She chuckles deep in her throat and then without warning, her hand cracks against my ass, and I jump.

Her hand falls hard, again. Then, again. Quickly enough I realize that I’m being spanked for her pleasure, because she finds it amusing to see me jump and writhe, and then conscious thought drifts away as the spanking intensifies from moderate to a level that will leave welts when she’s through. I find myself whimpering and writhing despite my resolve to keep from moving and from vocalizing if at all possible, and realize she’s already broken my will, not six minutes into the scene.

I am sobbing hoarsely by the time her hand retreats, having left me reddened from the tops of my buttocks down to the bottoms of my thighs, except where the spreader cuffs are covering my legs, and the blindfold is soaked with my tears. I almost miss her next question. “How many clips, slut?”

I turn my head, questioning with my eyebrows. How does she expect me to answer a question that requires words, when I am not allowed to speak?

“I suppose I’ll have to give you a way to answer, slut.” Her tone is thoughtful. “I know!” she says gleefully. “I’ll hit you with my crop. When I’ve hit you enough times to answer the question, you will scream. Until then, you will remain completely silent. If you make a noise, at all, I will take that as your indication that we’ve reached the correct number. And, of course, if you are wrong – I’ll just have to punish you for not paying attention well enough.”

I’m already trying to quiet my still-sobbing voice as she finishes speaking. When Master says “completely silent,” she means it. Not a gasp, not a word, not a cry, not even so much as a sniffle. And god, I hate the crop! But it is her wish and her will, and that’s what I submit to every time I lie down and spread-eagle myself for her.

“Do you understand, slut? Nod once for yes, shake your head twice for no.”

I nod, one quick jerk of my head up and down. Before I even finish moving, the crop has already cracked across my ass as Master intones “One.” I bite back a cry with effort, counting, hoping that she’s only put twelve clips on me because the pain of the crop is almost unbearable. Two – three – oh god, four – five! Six…

I am biting my tongue nearly hard enough to draw blood when I realize that we’ve reached stroke eleven, and on the next stroke, as she says flatly, “Twelve,” I scream, loudly, trying so hard to expel all the pain of the past fifteen minutes into that one cry that I begin coughing at the end of it. The strokes pause.

“What a shame. You must have counted wrong, slut,” Master tells me, moving the crop to my balls and tapping the tip of it against one of the clips. “Of course, you don’t get to know how far off you were. I’ll be back with your punishment for getting it wrong shortly.”

She leaves the room. I hang outstretched in the bonds, and find myself weeping. The fire in my ass is so painful that I cannot think straight. My cock, traitor that it is, is so hard that its tip is brushing the sheet below me. My balls are throbbing and I can feel all the places on my body that she could torture if she took a mind to do so. I struggle to get myself back under control even as my heart races faster from the images my tortured mind conjures up, and the door opens again.

“What should I do with a slave who can’t seem to count a simple number?” she muses as she circles the bed. “I suppose I shall have to train him better, to learn how to count better. But how ever shall I do this in a way that will be effective?”

Even knowing why she does this, I am caught up in dread, my heart thumping in my ears. I can think of far too many ways that she could enforce her requirement to count correctly.

“I suppose, since it was about the number of clamps and you couldn’t keep track of them, I’ll have to reapply them until you are quite able to count them. As many times as it takes. Oh, and just to keep it fun, I’ll give you one other way to figure it out, if you can.” As she speaks, she is quickly, but not gently, removing the clamps from my balls, which throb even worse with returning circulation.

“Here’s the other way to figure it out, slut.” The crop swats rapidly against my swollen, fiery ass six times. “The number of clamps you had on you was a multiple of one factor of that number, plus four. You have twenty seconds starting now to figure it out before we try my way of teaching you. Hoot once when you think you have the answer.”

And she begins to count.

A multiple of six? No, a multiple of one factor of six. How am I supposed to do math in my head in this state? I think of the factors of six – two times three and one times six, so any of them could be it. I cross my fingers. Six times itself is way more than I had on me, and two times itself isn’t enough. Three times itself is nine, plus four is thirteen.

So it must have been thirteen. Who knew I’d need basic math in order to survive a scene with Master?

Ironically, I hoot as she reaches “Six,” and she sounds almost disappointed as she stops and says “Well, slut? How far off were you from the actual number?”

I realize that I can hold up one finger. I hope I was one off. It was thirteen, not twelve. I hope.

She sighs, the kind of sigh I’ve come to associate with tolerant amusement. “That’s a good slut. You’re correct. Now for your punishment for getting it wrong in the first place.”

I hear the lube bottle squirt and tense, knowing what’s coming next. I think. I hope. She begins to massage lube into my anus, spreading me with her fingertips, and I concentrate on relaxing for whatever she’s going to fuck me with this time. I have gotten somewhat better at it as she continues my anal training, but I’m always afraid that she might try to fuck me with something impossibly thick.

I feel something much bigger than her usual cock enter me. It’s not a plug, because it doesn’t widen much. But my anus is completely stretched around it and I’m filled so deep that I half expect the tip to come out of my mouth. I whimper despite trying not to, and she chuckles as she begins to fuck me with this impossibly huge dildo. Then I feel her press it deep into me, and feel her hands fumbling with something in its base. A thin strap of some kind goes around my hips and I realize she’s belting the dildo into me so that I can’t push it out. She clips the belt together and I feel it press against the base of the dildo as she tightens it down.

“There. Now for your punishment.”

She clamps clothespins to my balls again, far more than she had on me before, and I lose count at around twenty-five. She also applies clamps down the insides of my thighs, which hurts me almost as much, outlining the cuffs around my thighs with more and more clothespins. Then she pauses, leaving me alone on the bed, tied down tightly and terrified of what’s going to happen to me.


I can’t help it. I scream as the buggy whip – a thinner crop, one I hate just as much – cracks across my ass, exactly connecting with the base of the huge dildo and driving it into me just a little bit. CRACK! Again, this time jolting it a little deeper.

Master is pausing for a second or so between each stroke, to let the dildo slip back out into position before she hits it again. I cry out each time the buggy whip connects with my ass, feeling welts laid upon welts and struggling more and more.

And yet my dick is hard as stone, and I find myself pushing back at the whip for the next stroke, and the next, and the next, almost hoping that she will somehow miss and hit my dick instead, because I’m so close that I might cum if she does, even from that amount of pain.

When I lose track of the strokes, when I’m sobbing hoarsely between the screams, and when she’s worn out her arm – for that is how it feels – she stops, leaving my ass thoroughly welted. I hang my head over the pillow, knowing I have shamed her, and reminding myself this is all for her, all for her, and I should thank her for it.

But I can’t. She’s taken away my right to speak. I can’t speak to her with my eyes, either. How can I tell her that I accept this even as I lie here crying in her bonds?

And then she speaks, softly, in my ear. “Slut, I’m going to remove the clamps now. One at a time. And I’m going to use you for target practice to do it. When I’m done, I might even let you cum. But I’ll also give you something to take your mind off the clamp removal. Remember, you do not have permission to cum.”

And with that, the enormous cock in my ass begins to vibrate.

I moan as I feel her snap the tip of the crop against the first of the clothespins, knocking it off my body. God, how many did she put on me? I have no idea. If this was meant to teach me to count, it’s having the opposite effect –

No, wait –

One. That was one clamp she knocked off. I *can* tell when they come off, because a bright pinprick of fire blooms where they were. I will count those… and somehow ignore the vibration in my ass, which is making my cock jerk and dance with the stimulation. And somehow, I will not cum, because she does not wish me to.

It’s even more difficult than it sounds. By the time I have counted fifteen pinpricks of fire, my cock is jerking so hard that if I had had my hand on it, I would have cum already. By twenty-five, I’m screaming with my jaws locked shut against the pleasure/pain she’s inflicting on me. By thirty-one, I am thrashing my head back and forth, my tears sealing the blindfold to my skin, my cock jerking painfully, my balls throbbing as she knocks off another clamp – thirty-two! – and my hips begin bucking desperately before a sharp crack against my ass and a stern command hold me still again, my cock dancing as my ass and balls throb in hellish sympathy with one another…

When the pinpricks of fire stop (forty-three!), so does the vibration. The cock still fills me to the hilt, painfully, my ass throbbing around it, but the vibration has stopped, and I have not cum. I know I have not, because everything still hurts and nothing feels better, and my cock is still as hard as marble.

She lifts my head with her hand under my chin. I am sobbing and gasping harshly, but I am hers, and she has made it very clear. “How many, slut? You may speak.”

I cough and clear my throat before whispering, “Forty-three, Master. And thank you, Master.”

She releases my head and I let it hang between my shoulders, coughing again, licking dry lips, feeling my ass throb in too many places to count.

“Good slut. Cum for me now,” she says, and turns the vibrator back on, much higher than before.

She hasn’t even touched me. I am hanging here, my cock hanging in air, with a vibrating dildo in my ass… and I cum at her command. I cum helplessly, writhing in my bonds, my ass and legs and balls throbbing, still in pain… and my cry of “Oh god thank you Master!” as my cock spends itself on the sheet below me is all for her, for her pleasure. All for her.

When it is over, I hang limp in my bonds as she opens the belt holding the cock in my ass and slides it out of me. Then she takes my semi-hard, spent cock and pulls it down, and I know I must pay for my orgasm. “Silence, slut,” she says, and without any further warning, begins to slap my cock as hard as she slapped my ass a little while ago.

I bite down on the insides of my lips, fighting the cry that I must make, have to make, need to make, as she punishes my cock for cumming at all, even with permission. It is part of what I accepted when I accepted her collar – every orgasm comes with a punishment. There was a time I fought that, but it is all for her, and I will do what she orders me, no matter what I want. Because what I want should only be what she wants. What I want should always be for her.

I do not need words to know that. And even the punishment stops and she strokes my cock back to its required hardness to finish the scene, I know that this silence is just one more way that it is all for her.

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