My Sweet Degradation Read online

  ‘Well isn’t that fucking typical?’ he snorted with renewed disdain. ‘The little rich girl thinks she can buy her way out of trouble in just the same way she buys everything else. Well, little rich girl,’ he continued, sneering, taking a step closer and wrapping another coil of rope around his hand to stretch me to my extreme, ‘how much is it worth? How much for hitting and kicking me? How much for me having to stay back late for you time and time again just because you think you’re more important than anyone else? How much should you pay me for the trouble you cause when you change out of your riding gear in the full knowledge that the stable boys are watching you, and so I can’t get them to concentrate on a fucking thing afterwards?’

  I felt my cheeks flush a little deeper.

  ‘How much money are you going to give me not to teach you the lesson you should have been taught years ago? One hundred? Two hundred?’ All the time he spoke he’d been stepping closer and closer until he stood right before me, his eyes burning with a violent rage.

  ‘No,’ he said after a slight pause, and with a newfound calm that was even more unnerving than his anger, ‘not this time. This time even money won’t help you.’

  Patrick quickly turned away and I watched in petrified silence as he bent smoothly from the waist to sweep my riding crop from the hay-strewn floor. He swished it first one way and then the other, testing its action so that the sultry evening air whistled mockingly against the leather tip and I was forced to offer a panicked, ‘Oh no, please,’ in response.

  But my pleas clearly meant nothing to him, as he merely stepped around me, avoiding my gaze as he went.

  In the end I’m not sure what was worse; the moment of silence that stretched into an eternity – my heart fit to burst as I sensed him, watching me, assessing me from behind – or the sudden touch of crop against flesh, which caused me to tense my every muscle and to gasp as it traced slowly over the contours of one naked buttock and then down across the other. Of course Patrick was only taunting me, enjoying his own game in the knowledge that I would have been expecting nothing but pain.

  That pain did come all too soon, however. A loud dry crack that ripped through the silence of the barn, causing me to cry out and my knees to buckle as a white-hot agony set my nerves alight. I prayed that my ordeal was finally over – an eye-for-an-eye, a strike-for-a-strike – but my hopes were quickly dashed as Patrick swept the leather tip of the crop down against me once more, only this time with a backhand swipe against the opposite cheek.

  ‘Oh Jesus!’ I screamed as he whipped me again and again, first one buttock and then the other. ‘Please, no! I’m sorry! Stop it; stop it please!’ Yet my begging only seemed to make him thrash me all the harder until my tortured flesh burned with a stinging pain worse than any I’d experienced before. With each pitiless bite of the crop I would cry out and attempt to pull away, but there was absolutely nowhere for me to hide: Patrick held firmly onto his end of the rope so that I had no choice but to stand upright, and my legs were as good as shackled by my riding breeches gathered clumsily around my ankles. The best I could manage was to tense and release the muscles of my bottom, twisting from one side to the other, but it offered me no relief whatsoever.

  Hot salty tears spilled down over my cheeks. They were tears like none I’d ever known before, and I can only assume they stemmed from the intense, nagging frustration that caused me to grit my teeth and dig my perfectly manicured nails into the soft flesh of my palms. It was a frustration that made me draw short breaths through my nostrils and to release deep sobs from the back of my throat.

  Patrick’s punishment was relentless, and no matter how much I pleaded he continued to flog me without mercy.

  But then, just as I thought I could take it no more, a strange thing happened. Somehow the pain seemed to solidify, it became less unbearable in a truly physical sense, but more so in the way that it left me with an unexplainable longing, a longing that gnawed at my nerves and could only be momentarily satisfied by the next cruel lick of leather against skin. I continued to cry out with every vicious impact of the crop, but somehow differently, and in a way that I could make no real sense of.

  In time, and through a whirl of confused emotions, I noticed that the severity of the thrashing had diminished. He was still using the crop against me with the same rhythmical efficiency as before, yet a little lighter now, and with an upward motion only against the lower curve of my ass cheeks – first one side and then the other.

  I found myself tensing and releasing those muscles, and desperately trying to understand my body’s reaction to the torture, I tested my senses with every strike, noticing how he would follow through with the crop, running it against my burning flesh in a way that soothed it with the gentlest caress of the soft leather tongue, and shocking though the realisation was, I couldn’t help but love it.

  Patrick slowly began to release coil after coil of rope from around his hand, and I certainly took advantage of the freedom in my arms to relax them a little. But rather peculiarly, and somewhat shamefully, I also found myself bending forward from the waist, lower and lower, and in a way that I can only retrospectively accept came from a secret desire to feel the crop’s touch more intimately still.

  The stable manager seemed to understand my need and I gasped, feeling an icy shiver run through my body, as the tip of the riding crop pressed just above my knee to slowly caress its way upward.

  ‘Oh, God!’ I moaned as the smooth cool leather traced ever so lightly against the swell of my hairless pussy for all too brief a moment, before moving on to gently run down my other thigh. Another length of rope was released and still lower I bent, shuffling my legs apart as best I could to offer myself more blatantly still, and again Patrick brought the crop between my thighs, drawing the tip lightly back and forth against the contours of my slit.

  ‘So you like that, do you?’ he drawled, and I recoiled at the smug satisfaction in his voice. If he had simply wanted to punish me then all he needed do was to stop right there, right then – to leave me lost in that state of pure physical yearning – yet he did no such thing. Whether it was through the thrill he was gaining by witnessing me debase myself so thoroughly, or because of his own swelling arousal I will never know, but Patrick continued to work the crop against me, pressing still deeper so that the shaft parted my lips and its subtly undulating surface rubbed back and forth against my clit.

  ‘Oh,’ I gasped again, and Patrick released a snort of derisive laughter in response.

  ‘So, I see you’re not just a spoilt little bitch, but you’re a dirty slut too,’ he mocked, and the humiliation once more surged within me. Ordinarily I wouldn’t have dreamt of allowing anyone to speak to me in such a way, and despite the fact that I was in no position to do so – tied up as I was – there was still a tiny reflex that told me to fight. Of course I did nothing of the sort, partly because I was all but beyond rational thought, but also, and rather disturbingly, there was something that excited me about the way that he had the nerve to insult me so vulgarly.

  ‘Maybe you need whipping here too,’ he continued, and I felt the crop draw back until the leather tongue rested on my clit. ‘Maybe I should beat you just here for offering your body so flagrantly to lowlife scum like me.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ I hissed as Patrick began to gently spank my pussy with the tip of the riding crop. He didn’t use it aggressively against me, nor in a way designed to cause real pain, but he would hit me just hard enough to send tiny spasms of pleasure firing throughout my body, forcing me to twist my hips one way and then the other so that his strikes would land just where I needed to feel them.

  ‘You really are a bad little girl, aren’t you?’ he sneered, now sawing the crop back and forth between my slick pussy lips.

  ‘No... no I’m not,’ I panted, but deep down I was discovering that he was absolutely right.

  ‘Really?’ he replied with overly-dramatic surprise, the t
ip of the crop again taunting the swell of my mound with gentle, repetitive slaps. ‘Well if you were a good girl then surely you wouldn’t be bending over and showing-off that tight little cunt of yours to a lowly stable worker like me – to a man your father pays to serve you. Surely only a bad girl would do that. Or am I wrong?’ The leather tongue began to caress deeper, to run ever so lightly across that other little hole of mine, and I couldn’t help but gasp.

  ‘N-no, you’re wrong,’ I stammered weakly, stubbornly drawing on whatever vestiges of pride I could muster.

  Then Patrick suddenly tossed the riding crop down and, with raised voice he said, ‘I think we can add liar to the list alongside spoilt and dirty. If you’re really not just a little slut then how do you explain this?’ His hand quickly slid between my thighs, the tip of a single finger working its way between my pussy lips to slip so easily within. Reflexively I tightened my muscles around him and moaned as he curved against the natural contours of my body.

  ‘So you’re not a bad girl then?’ he sneered, fucking me with his finger before withdrawing once more. ‘You’re not a dirty little slut? Next you’ll be telling me this isn’t, in fact, your juices I see smeared all over my hand. What do you think?’

  Before I could respond he reached his arm around my shoulder, taking my chin in his hand and forcing his sticky finger inside my mouth. I bit down defensively, but this only made him squeeze my cheeks painfully so that I had no option but to relax my jaw once more.

  ‘So you want to nip like a donkey too, do you?’ he laughed, grabbing my hair with the hand that still held onto the rope and easing my head back while he proceeded to smear first my tongue and then my lips with my own traitorous juices.

  ‘I suppose if you weren’t a slut then you wouldn’t be desperate for me to fuck you either, would you?’ he mocked.

  ‘I’m not!’ I insisted, still unwilling to own up to the shameful truth, and I listened with both fear and a trembling excitement to the sound of his belt buckle being released, and his jeans being drawn down. ‘Please!’ I squealed.

  ‘You’re a liar,’ he hissed, and I couldn’t help but cry out as I felt the swollen head of his cock press into the sensitive flesh of my pussy. ‘You’re a liar and a dirty little rich bitch.’

  He worked his bulbous helmet against my entrance and my body betrayed me all too easily. I had no doubt that he would be able to thrust into me without any difficulty whatsoever, and closing my eyes I prepared myself for just that outcome...

  ‘But maybe you’re right and I’ve read you all wrong,’ he goaded, as he drew the head of his stiff prick up and down my slit, to mock me with my own wetness. ‘I’ve done some pretty bad things in the past, but I’ve never forced myself on a woman. We both know what you really want, but I’m not gonna give it to you until you ask me to.’

  The stable manager pressed against me once more, and reflexively I angled my hips to meet him, willing him to enter me fully, but just at the point where I felt certain he was about to slip deep inside he pulled back again and I was forced to whimper my frustration.

  ‘Say it,’ he hissed. ‘Tell me you want me to fuck you.’

  But I couldn’t allow myself to give him that satisfaction.

  Once again he tugged my hair so that my head was wrenched uncomfortably back, but it somehow only served to intensify the bittersweet sensation of his prick teasing me from behind, tight between my thighs, gently pumping back and forth against my wet pussy lips.

  My mind battled with the desperate need for pure physical satisfaction, and the knowledge that I was demeaning myself so disgracefully, and I took desperate breaths through my nostrils, swallowing through a constricted throat.

  ‘Say it,’ he growled. ‘Tell me and I’ll give you just what you want.’

  ‘No, please...’ I gasped, wincing as he wound his roped hand still deeper into my hair. Again I tried to push back, to make him fuck me without me having to lower myself by begging him, but once more he pulled away.

  ‘Say it. Tell me to fuck you like the dirty little slut you are, and I’ll let you feel my stiff cock slide all the way inside your cunt.’ My eyes filled with fresh tears of humiliation and finally, unable to take his taunting any longer, I gave in.

  ‘All right,’ I whispered, utterly broken.

  ‘All right what?’ he tormented.

  ‘Look, please,’ I pleaded, ‘just fuck me.’

  It was a bliss-filled agony to feel him teasing my pussy entrance in such a way; pushing into me, over and over, so that his swollen helmet would stretch me wide yet never quite enter. Looking back I suppose it must have been just as physically tortuous for him as it was for me, and I do wonder if he would simply have fucked me in the end, no matter what, but to my shame that was an eventuality we never met.

  ‘Say it properly and you can have what you want. Tell me you’re a spoilt little bitch and you want me to fuck you.’

  Again the tears overflowed. He had won and he was right; I was a spoilt little bitch and really did want him to fuck me. So with a deep, shivering breath I did as I was told. ‘Yes, yes I am,’ I whispered, my submissive obedience thrilling me even further. ‘I’m a spoilt little bitch. Now fuck me, please...’

  And Patrick finally gave me what I yearned for, with one powerful movement thrusting deep to sink the entire length of his beautiful prick deep within me.

  ‘Oh!’ I sobbed, the sudden, overwhelming sense of satisfaction causing my head to swim and my inner muscles to clutch around the intrusion. But all too soon he began to withdraw, and I released a tiny cry of frustration as he pulled away. For an instant I actually feared he might leave me for good, that he was not yet done with his teasing, but then he sank into me again, harder and deeper this time while releasing a guttural cry of his own.

  Patrick fucked me good and hard from behind. It was sex as raw and as animalistic as I have ever experienced, and I cried out with each electrifying thrill that rippled through my body. Beyond the physical pleasure I drew illicit satisfaction from the shameful knowledge that I had been tied up against my will, stripped as good as naked, and all so that the stable manager might abuse my body by way of a punishment.

  In and out he pumped – harder and faster. His hands clawed at the tortured flesh of my ass cheeks, squeezing and drawing them apart to expose me more intimately still, and I cursed vulgarly with every powerful thrust of his hips, every slap of his groin against my buttocks, the rope burning my wrists as I leant into its biting grip for support.

  I knew I’d not be unable to hold out for much longer, that my body was rapidly being drawn towards something colossal, and I forced myself to try and relax so as to extend the pleasure for as long as possible, but it was no good; the relentless pounding of his thick shaft alongside the extreme sexual tension that had grown within me from the moment Patrick had tossed me over his shoulder, meant I was fighting a losing battle.

  And so it happened. Panting wildly I felt my orgasm suddenly surge with a molten heat. ‘Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck,’ I gasped, my legs buckling so that Patrick was forced to quickly wrap a strong arm around my waist as I surrendered completely. Over and over again I cried out, my climax crashing down on me in a succession of waves. And through it all Patrick fucked me just as perfectly as ever, only with shorter, more aggressive strokes, and as my body inevitably began to slow he succumbed to his own pleasure.

  Perhaps it was meant as a final act of degradation, maybe it was simply how he liked it, but as I felt his muscles lock tight, as I listened to his breath catch at the back of his throat, he suddenly withdrew from my replete body and releasing an anguished growl, he spurted hot sticky seed all over my ravished bottom – a final insult to ‘daddy’s little princess’.

  In time that inevitable cold realisation, where irrational desire is superseded by rational thought, took hold, and the blood once again rose to my cheeks. Patrick must have experienced some
thing similar as I suddenly felt the rope slacken completely, so that I could finally lower my aching arms to my sides.

  I listened, without daring to turn around, to the sound of him pulling up and fastening his jeans. He then stepped around to the front of me and I watched as his fingers carefully worked at the knotted rope around my wrists. Once or twice I dared to look up at his face, yet he refused to meet my gaze, his expression remaining inscrutable. The rope eventually came loose and he quickly unwound it before allowing it to fall to the ground.

  To say that the atmosphere in the barn was awkward would be an understatement of epic proportions, but what possible, comfortable resolution could there have been? Of course there was none, and in the end it was all I could do to watch as the stable manager turned away and headed purposefully towards the open doors.

  For some bizarre reason I felt the desire to call out to him before he left, but to say exactly what I wasn’t sure. An apology, perhaps? Or a thank you? And then it was too late anyway; Patrick was gone, his silhouette swallowed by the gathering dusk outside.

  As for me, I just stood there, wiping my tear-streaked cheeks against the hem of my top before awkwardly bending down to pull my breeches up with numb fingers and thumbs. I felt utterly spent. My backside burnt with a pain I had momentarily forgotten, and the sticky residue of his sperm trickled down a thigh as I refastened the press studs at my waist.

  I tried to make sense of what had just happened, of what the stable manager had done to me and, more shockingly, of what I had begged him to do, but I only ended up confusing myself further.

  Yes he had humiliated me, yes he had inflicted pain on my body worse than anything I had experienced before, but I had accepted it, craved it even, and it pushed me to behave in ways I never thought possible.

  Stepping out into the courtyard I saw no sign of either Patrick or Charlie, yet I had no doubt that wherever they were they would be there together, each one happy in the other’s company. I suddenly felt incredibly alone, and as I walked back towards my car I reflected that I really could behave like a spoilt brat at times, and that perhaps I should try treating people a little better. I suppose it would be easy to suggest that such a revelation came as a direct result of Patrick punishing me like he did, but personally, I’m not so sure. I have a feeling it was more to do with that profound sense of loneliness after an act so intimate.