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CY’s Live Pump
I love power. And I love money. And here I am at the top, the only woman to ever climb this high in the corporate world. And now I wear skirts and blouses that are more expensive than most people’s houses. I never wear a pair of shoes more than once. Power is dearly bought. Freedom is the first to go.
I can’t remember when I stopped sleeping. At some point, the excitement turned sour. And my nights, holding me captive through my days, were filled with waking dreams, feverish dreams of things I couldn’t say, couldn’t tell anyone.
I wanted to be taken, to be stripped and treated like a whore. I wanted dark things, terrible things to happen. And my fantasies made me wet, made me more hungry, more severe and controlling during the days. But at night, I wanted things no woman should ever want. I wanted to be tied so tight that I couldn’t resist. I wanted my glorious mouth (this mouth that wheels and deals in amounts of nothing less than seven figures) stuffed so that I was helpless. Completely. And he could do anything that pleased him, fondle me, whip me, humiliate me, use my holes like they were His, not mine.
I found him on the internet. Because I logged on about one or two in the morning, when the damp heat of my nights began to suffocate me, strangle me. He waited in the chat room. Waited for me, I liked to think. I pretended he was stalking me, and I led him on, teasing, pretending to know what I was talking about when our conversation led, as always, into discussions of ropes, of hoods, of whips and the tracings they leave upon the body. I dropped hints, alluding to an interest in extreme forms of pain. I described my breasts as sumptuous, which, in fact they are. Soft, but firm. My nipples are not large, but sensitive, desiring maltreatment at the hands of an accomplished Master. I described my scent to be sweltering, like a hot summer’s day, or like the scent of the sea where it meets the East River, part salty, part sewage.
We made several "dates" before I actually showed up. I was sassy. My ego was swelled like a tick full of blood, because I fed all day, sucking the life out of everyone and everything. But then he showed me his ropes, his straps. He showed me pictures of things he’d done to other women. He showed me the noose.
The ropes wound about my body like pythons, squeezing, forcing me into a surreal stillness. I felt like I was drugged, falling into the delirium of an insomniac. He thrust a red ball into my mouth and buckled it behind my head. I screamed. I struggled.
He laughed.
I can’t describe the next few hours. Not really. I can tell you that he caned me, whipped me, burned me with cigarettes, leaving marks on my multi-million dollar body. Red stripes on my breasts. He did everything I wanted him to do. He squeezed my breasts, hung weights on my nipples. He shocked me. He kept me on my toes with a noose about my neck, tying a plastic bag over my head and leaving it there until I fainted. And I hated him. And I loved him.
I was so happy.
More, I would have said if I could have begged. More. More. Don’t stop now. Don’t leave me alone with my money and my power. Because my days are haunted by the scent of the sea and of sewage. And I am so much happier now, in this minute, because I’m hurting, not in the mind or the heart, but with the skin, the nipples, the cunt. I’m hurting as deep as the sea, and I think that I can finally sleep now.
My master ordered me to appear here.
"Hold nothing back," he whispers in my ear. Tonight I am suspended in a hogtie.
I do as he commands, as I must please him.
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