He released his grip on my throat and I gasped, trembling, letting my head fall against his chest.  I could almost hear his smile as he stroked my tangled hair and let me recover.  A minute passed; my breath steadied and I lifted my head to meet his wolfish gaze.

"Dear heart," I murmured gently, "Where do you think I got these?"  I convinced one of my hands to relinquish its death-grip on his shirt and lifted it to my shoulder.  With one finger I traced a set of three shallow slices just below the strap of my tank top, then two more along the curve of my bicep, and another along the veins of my forearm. "I didn’t do these myself, love."  I’m not sure if it’s a curse or a blessing of being a known cutter who’s also into blood- and knife-play, that when mysterious wounds show up on my arms, people assume they know the story behind them and don’t ask.

       He followed my finger with his own, hovering above my skin as if afraid to touch.  The question in his eyes was unmistakable when he looked back at my face.  Oh, this was going to be fun!  I love the man, but he’s got quite an ego, and I enjoy poking at it from time to time.  And this time I had a nice sharp stick to do it with.

       "No," I continued, my voice a low purr, "I didn’t do these.  But I held very, very still as he –" my boyfriend "– dragged the point of his knife over my skin…across my throat, my lips…while he held it so close to my eye my lashes brushed cold steel…and I fought to control myself and not writhe and struggle when he chose a spot and stopped teasing me, pressing until my skin parted for him and my blood welled up, while I stared at him and nearly came just from seeing the intensity and power in his eyes as he hurt me."

       By the end of my dramatic recitation, my voice had become a breathy pant, trembling slightly, half with the actual arousal provoked by the memory, half an affectation to put on a show for Cal.  And it seemed to be working, too.  His lips had parted slightly, his pupils were dilated, and I was certain he was imagining himself in my boyfriend’s place, exerting that same power and control over my flesh.

       I waited a moment for him to come back from the fantasy I’d woven between us.  After a half dozen heartbeats, he stopped looking through me and his gaze sharpened, fixing me under a glare that seemed to be hovering on the edge of true anger.  My heart skipped a beat, but I raised my chin defiantly.  Not that I can’t be taken down by a competent Dom willing to meet me head-on and overpower me, but I like to make them work for it – and I like to taste my helplessness at being truly overmatched, which I don’t get the same feeling of if I surrender right off the bat. Besides, Cal's good in bed, and he can play a little bit rough with me because he knows I respond well to it, but he's not a real sadist, not a real dominant.

       I held his eyes, proud and defiant, waiting to see if he would push past my resistance and force my surrender.  Still, for all my careful watching, he took me by surprise when he suddenly caught my freshly-marked shoulder in a bruising grip.  I know how strong his hands can be – I’d just finished feeling them around my neck, after all – but it startled me anyway, the direct pressure to still-healing wounds wringing an involuntary sound of pain from me.  He smiled a little, but didn’t back off, squeezing the tender flesh even harder instead.  I tried to control myself, tried to breathe through it, but he just kept increasing the force until I cried out. 

       He held me in place with that hand while his other hand slid under my thin shirt, pushing my bra aside to squeeze my breast in a grip nearly as tight as the one on my shoulder.  I was gasping with the intoxicating mix of pain, and pleasure at his forcefulness, but I managed to hiss at him, "Cal!  We’re in public, remember?  Someone might see!"  I’m all right with a little bit of subtle play in public, like the bit with my shoulder, but his hand under my shirt mauling my tits was a little too much.

       But he didn’t stop.  He just shifted his hand to pinch my already-stiff nipple and pull it toward him, so hard I had to lean with it, struggling to scoot myself along the bench toward him. 

       "Good," he growled.  His voice was rough with a combination of need and temper I’d never heard from him before, and I suddenly wondered if maybe I’d provoked him a little too hard, if things were about to slip totally from my control.  I whimpered, not daring to make any more overt moves to stop him.  Not when it already felt like my nipple was being crushed between his fingers.  I didn’t know whether defiance would stop him, or push him even harder, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to find out just yet.

       "Good," he repeated.  "Let them see what a fucking slut you are."

       My whole body jerked at that.  I like to play rough, but I had never been spoken to that way, not even in the throes of passion between the sheets, much less in the semi-public park at my apartment complex in broad daylight.  The insult burned through me, but it was clear from his demeanor that I had no right to protest. 

       "That’s what you are, isn’t it?" he taunted me.  "A filthy fucking slut.  A cock-teasing bitch who likes to tell stories to one man about what she does with other men, and expects it to make him hard enough to have fun with, but never expects him to dare take real control of her."

       I…I…no, I thought.  Only he was right, and we both knew it.  I liked to play with him, teasing and taunting, always assuming I could keep him under control and only let him be as rough as I wanted him to be, even after all the teasing.

       He jerked on my nipple sharply, forcing my attention back onto him.  "I asked you a question, bitch.  Isn’t. that. what. you. are?"

       A soft moan of humiliation slipped from my mouth.  I closed my eyes and gasped, "Yes."

       He laughed with fierce satisfaction.  His hand left my shoulder, and I felt the absence of pain as if it were its own kind of pain, until his hand slid up the back of my neck, under my hair.  He slid his fingers into the thick red curls and gripped a fistful so hard I felt as if he would pull it out.  I made a sharp involuntary sound, eyes still closed, as he used his handful of my hair to pull my head back.  I was dragged further and further back until I was arched so far I wouldn’t have been surprised to feel the top of my head touch the bench behind me.  He let go of my nipple and pulled my shirt up to completely expose both tits to the hot summer sun – and, of course, the gaze of anyone who might be walking by, or looking out their windows from the buildings on this side of the complex. 

       "Please, Cal," I begged quietly.   "Please let’s not do this here.  I don’t want anyone to see.  Please."

       "Too fucking bad, slut," he replied, as he pulled my bra down until my pale breasts spilled out, completely visible to all and sundry.  "You should have thought of that before you decided to play cock-tease with me in public for the hundredth time."  His mouth closed over my left nipple, sucking and swirling his tongue over it in an obscene mockery of the pain he’d given it only minutes before.  I shuddered and my hands closed convulsively over the sides of the bench. 

       I don’t know why it never occurred to me to physically resist at all.  I suppose something about this abrupt surge of real dominance from him had switched off that part of my brain – all I know is I was completely helpless to oppose him.  I could beg for mercy, but I couldn’t make him stop.  And even my will to beg was quickly eroding; my body was already pliant and obedient in his hands, and my mind seemed to be quickly following.

       As he continued to lavish attention on my exposed tits with his mouth, his free hand was sliding up the leg of my shorts, peeling my soaked panties away from my skin.  He parted my lower lips with a finger instantly coated in my wetness and began to stroke in slow circles across my clit.  I made desperate little noises in my throat, and my hips moved of their own volition to grind against his hand.  But as soon as I moved toward him, he pulled his hand away.

       "Greedy little slut," he said, lifting his face from my breasts to laugh at me.  I heard him take a breath to speak again, but suddenly both our attention was caught by an appreciative whistle and some hooting and laughing. 

       My eyes flew open and I tried to turn my head and see who had seen us, but all I got for my trouble was a sharp yank on my hair to keep me in place.  Cal was laughing, though.  One of the voices that had interrupted us called over "Nice tits!"  I groaned, shame and humiliation washing over me. 

       But then I knew I hadn’t even begun to feel humiliation, as I heard Cal call back "Thanks!  Wanna come check ‘em out closer up?"

       "What?" I yelped.  His other hand, still between my legs, abruptly grabbed my throbbing clit between two fingers and pinched hard enough to freeze me in place.

       "Shut the fuck up, bitch," he snarled, leaning over me so I could see his face clearly even in my bent-back position.  "You stay exactly as you are or I will give you cause to regret it, understand?"

       I was in over my head, I finally realized.  Really and truly.  I had lost control over the situation, over him, and all I could hope to do now was ride it out.  I tried to nod, pulled my own hair again, then whispered shakily, "Yes, sir."

       He didn’t respond except to release my clit as the boys belonging to the cheering voices got close.  They clustered around me.  I didn’t recognize any of them, thankfully.  Just some random teenagers who lived in the complex.  Three of them, all looking to be about fourteen years old.  Was he really going to share me with these boys only half my age?

       "Go ahead, touch ‘em," he invited the boys.  "Don’t worry, she likes it.  Don’t you, slut?" he added.

       I felt like I couldn’t draw a breath, much less speak.  I managed to gasp out, "Yes," at last, which was all the permission the boys needed.  Suddenly their hands were on me, squeezing and lifting my tits and pinching my nipples.  Cal’s hand returned to stroking my clit, prompting a helpless moan from me.  I think the boys took it as encouragement, because suddenly one of them leaned over me and took my right nipple into his mouth, and another, finding his access to my tits blocked, took the opportunity to push two fingers into my mouth.  I whimpered, my mouth automatically closing around his fingers and starting to lick and suck them.  There was some quiet conference I could half-hear between Cal and the third boy, then I felt Cal’s hand leave my pussy entirely, replaced by an unfamiliar hand that bypassed my clit entirely and shoved three fingers inside me.  As wet as I was by this point – who knew public humiliation and being shared with strangers like a common whore would turn me on? – he had no trouble penetrating me, and the combination of the undeniably pleasurable sensation of sudden fullness with the frightening feeling of violation and shame as Cal allowed these teenage boys to molest me overwhelmed my senses entirely, and I came harder than I ever have before, shuddering and grinding my hips and moaning into the hand that claimed my mouth.

       As the waves of pleasure receded, the boys slowly – reluctantly, I thought – withdrew from me and stood there staring down at me.  Finally, one of them uttered an awed-sounding "Nice!", another told Cal that if he ever wanted to share me more to give them a call, and they all three walked away.

       I was hardly aware of anything as he pulled me upright, tugged my shirt back down over my breasts (though without pulling my bra back up, so my hard nipples poked visibly through the thin fabric), and used his grip on my hair to bring me to my feet.  I followed obediently as he switched from using my hair to holding my wrist, and led me back to my apartment, still mentally reeling from the humiliation, domination, and amazing orgasm.  Not until he had me inside, had stripped off all my clothes, and pushed me down to lie naked on my bed, did I begin to register anything happening around me.

       As he sat down beside me on the bed, still fully clothed, he ran an idle, proprietary hand over my bare skin, not as a man caressing a woman, but as a person stroking the finish of a particularly beautiful piece of furniture, or lovingly touching an expensive car.  I shivered under his touch, and he leaned over me.  Holding my eyes with his, the intensity of his gaze transfixing me and keeping all my attention on him, he whispered, "That was a good start.  But I think it’s my turn to mark you up and send you back to your other men with dark, sexy stories to tell.  What do you think?"

       I stared back at him like a trapped animal, heart racing, and knew two things:  one, that I was utterly helpless before him, no matter what he chose to do – and two, that I was in way over my head.

       "Yes."

Part 2

"Yes," I breathed, unable to look away from his dark eyes.  His lips curved in a wicked smile at my surrender.

       "I have a few ideas," he told me, sitting back up away from me.  "First, I need you to get some things out for me, from wherever you keep your toys hidden."

       My stomach clenched as I thought of all the various implements I owned – dildos and plugs of all sizes, gags, two crops, a cane, two paddles – one leather, one wood – three floggers of different sizes and materials, the wartenberg wheel, a very sharp knife, clothespins and clamps, and of course, the supple leather cuffs that molded themselves to my wrists and ankles, holding me tightly, giving me the feeling of restraint even when they weren't attached to anything, along with their accompanying spreader bar.  What did he want?  What did he know about what I had, or how to use any of it? 

I swallowed hard.  "Wh…what did you need?"

"Oh, I think I'll need to see the whole collection, before I can make that kind of decision, don't you think?"

"I…" There was no safe answer to this, and I knew it.  "Yes, sir."

He said nothing, simply moved aside for me to get up and go get everything out.  I rolled over, managed to force my shaking legs to support me, and wobbled my way over to the closet.  Inside was a small, low dresser with only two drawers, tucked under my hanging clothes.  I knelt before it and opened the top drawer, which held the "normal" sex toys – dildos, plugs, and vibrators – and began to take things out, laying them out beside me for him to see.  The glass dildo that was more art than sex toy – I didn't like it much, too hard and unyielding; I'd bought it more because it was pretty than because I wanted to use it.  The standard "realistic" style cock-n-balls dildo.  The bigger brother to that one, named "Outlaw", a full 2 inches in diameter.  I only used him when I wanted some pain with my pleasure…there's nothing quite like the feeling of being split open, so full it hurts, yet wanting more.  The Hitachi, the rabbit with the rotating pearls in the shaft.  The double-penetration dildo, a regular-size phallus with a slender, shorter, "beads"-style shaft branching off from its base, so I could fuck myself in both holes at once.  I loved that one.  And then the plugs – a plain cone-shaped three-size set, one that was a hybrid between a plug and a dildo – longer, phallus-shaped, but slimmer than a dildo with the flared base of a plug, the inflatable vibrating plug.

I chanced a look over my shoulder at him as I finished laying out the last of them.  The amused look on his face made my heart skip a beat before I turned back to the second drawer, the drawer with the explicitly kinky toys.  I laid out paddles and floggers, cuffs, crop and cane, clamps.  The spreader bar.  Two ball-gags of different sizes, a penis gag, a ring gag, a spider gag, a bit gag, the head-harness with a flat leather panel over the mouth and a penis gag on the inside of it.  What can I say?  I like gags.  There's a special kind of helplessness that comes from having one's voice taken away, or having the purpose of one's mouth redirected for use, as with a ring or spider gag.  I didn't dare look at him again, knowing this was his first introduction to my interest in gags in particular.  I flushed to think what he might do with them, with me, in the course of experimenting.  The spiked wheel and the knife came out last, and I tried to sort of hide them under the straps of some of the gags. 

With everything laid out for him to see, I couldn't stay facing into the drawers anymore.  Slowly I shuffled around on my knees, so that I knelt beside the collection of implements, waiting for further instructions.  I kept my eyes on the floor and my hands folded in my lap as he pondered the bounty laid before him, taking his time choosing what he wanted to begin with.

At last, he raised a hand and pointed.  "Those two.   And that."

I picked up the two paddles and the penis gag he had indicated and, after a gauging look at his eyes, decided to err on the side of caution and crawled over to him with them instead of trying to stand.  I held them out to him, the gag in one hand, paddles in the other.  He took the gag from me and held it up expectantly.  Obediently I opened my mouth for it, feeling the fat rubber cock sliding between my lips, pushing my tongue down.  When it was all the way in, it filled my mouth completely, the head of it resting just shy of the point where I would begin to gag on it.  He buckled the strap around behind my head, tightly, so that the leather cover at the front pressed firmly against my lips, and the phallus was forced a little further back, almost to the point of penetrating my throat.  I had to work to control my gag reflex, and my eyes watered a little.  He didn't seem to care. 

"There," he said, satisfied.  "Now that's taken care of.  I intend to cause you a lot of pain over the next few hours, and I don't want you disturbing your neighbors while I do."  My breath caught at the promise of pain.  How much was "a lot" to him?  It could be less than I would call "a lot", since he's not as experienced with this stuff.  Or, because he's getting revenge for dozens of times that I've toyed with him before, it could be even more than I expected. 

He had been watching me, watching the thoughts race through behind my eyes.  He held my gaze as he reached down and took the two paddles from my hands, then held them up between us.  "Which one do I want to start with?" he mused.  After a moment's thought, he put the leather one aside. 

"I remember a time," he said quietly, stroking the edge of the paddle over my face, tracing the line of the gag around my lips, "when you teased the hell out of me, whispering filthy stories of how you wanted me to fuck you…and then when I undressed you, you acted like you had "just remembered" that you were far too bruised for the pounding of sex.  I remember the bruises decorating your ass and thighs, all over, almost frighteningly dark against your pale skin."  My heart raced as I remembered.  I had had a friend over the evening before, and he liked to play heavy and rough.  He'd used a combination of his hands and the paddle, with me tied tightly in place, and had beaten me for what felt like hours, before finishing off with a rough ass-fucking and leaving.  He hadn't even bothered to untie me, either, because I had told him my boyfriend was coming over late that night. 

My boyfriend…we have an interesting dynamic.  He doesn't actually mind my playtimes with other men, but we have a rule that any time he finds me doing things, or sees direct evidence of it, he gets to punish me for it.  It's a role-play of sorts – the bad little slut, cheating girlfriend, being punished for it.  We both love it.  It suits us. 

That night, when he arrived to find me tied up, bruised, with cum dripping from my ass…oh, it was bad.  The other guy had left me on my knees on the bed, wearing the harness gag with it chained to an eye bolt screwed into the headboard, with my right wrist cuffed to my right ankle and left wrist to left ankle so that my face rested against the bed, back arched and ass in the air, pointed right at the door to the room.  When my boyfriend came to the door of the room and saw me like that, he put his stuff down, went to the dresser and brought the inflatable plug over.  He shoved it into my ass, unlubricated, ignoring my muffled cries, then began to pump it up until it was painfully large, telling me all the while how I deserved this pain for letting another man come in my ass.  Once the plug was in and enlarged to his satisfaction – meaning I was squirming and moaning and trying to beg him to stop – he got out the cane and proceeded to cane my pussy until I was screaming and crying.  He lectured me as he beat me, on what a bad girl I was, how I needed to be trained to be obedient and faithful to him.  And when he decided I had been punished enough, he got up on the bed, turned on the plug's vibrator, pumped it up a few more times to make my pussy a super-tight vibrating sex toy for him to use, and fucked my freshly tortured pussy while I sobbed in agony and humiliation.

So between the session with my other "friend" and my boyfriend's punishment for it, of course I was in no condition for sex the next day.  But I had already arranged to see Cal, and I couldn't resist taunting him.  It's not like I made him go completely hungry – I sucked him off, twice even.  I guess that wasn't enough…

He snapped me out of my reverie by grabbing my right nipple and yanking me up by it, then shoving me unceremoniously facedown across his legs so that my right side was pressed against his body.  He grabbed my left wrist and bent my arm across my back, effectively capturing me and keeping me pushed down while exerting very little force and leaving his other hand free to hit me with.  It was a surprisingly efficient hold, and deftly done.  I began to wonder if he'd done this once or twice more than he'd let on. 

But I had only a split second to think about it, because he wasted no time in bringing the paddle down on my ass with a loud whack.  I yelped into the gag and involuntarily arched my back, struggling against his hold.  He pushed me back down effortlessly and brought the paddle down again, harder.  There was no warmup, no chance to get ready for it.  He simply rained blows down on my naked flesh, each hit overlapping the others so that the entirety of my ass felt like it was on fire, a feeling which only worsened with each hit.

He began to speak, conversationally, between strikes.  "I've decided what I'm going to do with you tonight," he began.  "And this, you filthy little cunt, is only the beginning."  My whole body flinched at that, at being addressed so crudely.  "I'm going to go back through my memory.  And every single time that I can remember where you had marks from some other man on you, that you used to tease and taunt me with…I'm going to recreate them.  I'm going to bruise your ass like I remember seeing it that time.  I'm going to whip your pussy red and raw.  I'm going to put clothespins all over your tits and I'm going to leave cuts on your arms.  I am going to leave you marked up all over – and even the things that didn't leave marks, but that you told me had happened to you, I'm going to do those, too."  Tears of helpless pain and shame slid down my face as the twin onslaughts on my body and mind continued. 

"And then," he added, "I have some ideas for even more…interesting…marks.  A few conversation pieces to show off to your friends and your boyfriend." 

I might have wondered what he meant by that, if I weren't so consumed with agony and lust.

But all I could think about, all I could feel, was the never-ending barrage of hard, fast strikes from the paddle, all over my ass and thighs, crushing my flesh again and again and again as I writhed in pain and begged for mercy against the rubber cock in my mouth.

Mercy, I would soon discover, was not a word that held any meaning for him that day.