You must be in pain.

Before I began serving my Master, I was just a common slut, spreading my legs for anyone who wanted. Although the third man in my life introduced me to male dominance, and it was an absolutely incredible experience, after him, I was mostly fucked by my own peers, who even now could hardly claim the role of a Top, let alone back when they were twenty-two... Every partner I had back then saw strength and resilience in me and dreamed of hanging on my neck, wanting me to steer them toward their Happiness. I, however, wanted to be spanked on the ass, called a whore, and have my throat fucked to the hilt, so none of my acquaintances ever stayed for more than

one night. When I started forgetting who I had been with and what we had done, and who I hadn't been with yet, I began to get off on the very act of whoring—the thought that I, like the last slut, was letting myself be fucked by everyone and everything, was pleasantly arousing. And despite this, almost every partner treated me like an intelligent girl and tried to build a strong social unit with me.

That's when I fell in love with dating sites, where you could find any embodiment of any fantasy, as well as drunken hookups in clubs and bars. Sturdy guys would come over for a couple of hours, whose faces I don't remember, and I probably didn't even remember them back then, to bend me over and fuck me good until I came three, four, five times... (I came quickly and often in that position), and then lower me to my knees and, getting rid of the condom, put it in my mouth. I'd be picked up after work somewhere in the city so that, after parking the car in some deserted nook, they could finger-fuck my wet pussy while I gave a blowjob, awkwardly hunched over in the passenger seat. I sucked off guys who had just told me their names in club bathrooms, helping myself with my hand, licking their balls, letting them cum on my face, and watching as I then, without getting up from my knees, collected the sperm and licked it off my fingers. Sometimes, waking up in the morning with a burning, chafed crotch, I didn't know what district of Moscow or region I was in, and I didn't know the name of the naked man next to me, which, of course, didn't stop me from giving him the obligatory morning blowjob.

And one day, while licking the rather sizable cock of a barely familiar man, I suddenly realized with certainty—I didn't want to feel good. For the first time in a long time, I was surrendering. Completely. Without requests or reproaches. He fucked me for several hours straight in my still-tight ass, cumming, changing the rubber, shoving it in my mouth a couple of times, and immediately ready to continue the execution. "Shut up, slut!" he said sternly when I started screaming from the pain, and a couple of hefty slaps landed on my cheeks. From time to time, stopping to catch his breath, change position, or smoke, he inserted several fingers into my anus: two at the very beginning and three fingers from each hand to their full length by the end of the evening. These periods of manual stretching were more saturated with short, hard slaps than others because, although I didn't try to break free from his hands and stop this abuse of my hole, I couldn't help but scream when he started inserting fingers from both hands into me and spreading his palms apart. And for every scream, he would pull his right hand out of my anus, immediately replacing it with fingers from his other hand, sharply slap my cheeks, and, calling me a whore or a slut, order me to be quiet and endure because it was supposed to hurt.

And through all of this, through my cheeks burning from the slaps, through the severe pain in my ass (both inside and out), through the sobbing and humiliation, I experienced such incredible arousal that my pussy was flowing like a river, my nipples turned into two little burning coals, and my brain had been switched off for a long time. I knew I would come even from an accidental touch of his fingers to my clit, and I was afraid to imagine what would happen if he entered me with his cock or hand. He saw this; his eyes predatorily watched my reactions. I felt how my pain and humiliation aroused him, and how much he liked feeling this power over my body, the body of a submissive whore. When he came again and decided to take a break, I slid to the floor, and he sat on the edge of the bed so that I was between his legs and pulled off the condom. (Specially for .org — ) He took me by the hair, pulled my head to his crotch, "Lick," he ordered, shoving my nose into his balls. "Fuck me," I begged with just my lips because I had no strength left for my voice, "please... at least with your fingers." Instead, he opened my mouth a little and spat in it.

— You should see yourself," the man pulled my head to his balls again, and I started licking them. "You're the dirtiest, nastiest slut I've ever fucked.

I continued to lick his crotch and didn't raise my head; my vagina was squelching from an excess of my own lubrication. When I tried to take his relaxed cock into my mouth, he stopped me with a slap.

— Don't hope for it. I won't fuck your whorish vagina. How many men have you let through it?" He pulled me away from his balls, lifting me by the hair. I didn't raise my eyes. "I can't hear an answer, bitch! How many cocks have fucked your hole?

Asking this question, he held my head, wrapping my hair around his fist, and also held my chin so I couldn't lower my eyes. I was silent; I didn't know what to answer, and waves of arousal swept away any possibility of mental activity. Then he let go of my chin to use the freed hand for slaps.

— I don't know," I admitted, smearing tears across my face and preparing for what might come down on me.

But contrary to my expectations, he just hissed through his teeth, "Fucking scum," spat in my face, and, getting up from the bed, headed to another room. When he returned a couple of minutes later, he had a camera in his hands, on which he was already adjusting some settings. Catching me masturbating, he looked at me with contempt and continued fiddling with the camera, and this indifference stung somewhere—"What did I do wrong? I did everything he asked..." I wanted to apologize, degrade myself, even lick his ass, just not indifference. Without getting up from my knees, I crawled over to him and sat at his feet like a faithful dog; he looked, didn't say a word, just stood there a little longer and headed

to the armchair, sitting down in which he again got engrossed in adjusting the camera. I was about to follow him on all fours when I suddenly heard his voice:

— Shoulders lower, ass up, press your tits to the floor." I started crawling as ordered; he aimed the lens at me. "Eyes down, bitch, show your submission.

After several camera flashes, I crawled up to him, still in the same position: with my ass raised high and my chest pressed to the floor. My face was at his feet, and he inserted the fingers of one foot into my mouth, ordered me to lick. I thoroughly licked each of his toes, sometimes taking all five into my mouth, then did the same with the other foot, and he photographed it all in burst mode.

— Now stick your ass out as high as you can, insert your fingers into your anus and stretch it apart, like I did. And keep licking my feet." Saying this, he stood up to his full height, apparently wanting the lens to capture my anal hole, which by then had already started to tighten. I reached my hands toward my own ass, and as soon as my fingers touched the sphincter, I realized how fucked my flesh was—even a light touch echoed with pain. I automatically jerked my hands back, like you jerk your hand away from a hot pan. But at that moment, I shouldn't have done that.

— I see you need help," I heard and froze. It was said in such a quiet and calm voice that I really got scared—by that point, I had stopped understanding how much of a game or reality he saw this situation as.

— Please, forgive me, I'll do everything now," I didn't recognize my own voice. From fear, it sounded like the bleating of a sheep.

— No, sweetie," he said with the same frightening intonation, and I saw him wrapping a leather belt around his wrist, "no need, not yet. I see. You're afraid it will hurt.

Then he crouched down, stroked my face, stood up, and checked the length of the belt. He added two more loops around his wrist—now the tip of the belt ended exactly level with my labia—he was satisfied with the result and continued:

— Don't be afraid of that; it's supposed to hurt because you're a slut, understand?" He crouched down next to me again, moved me so that my knees almost touched my shoulders and my ass was raised perpendicular to the floor. "Understand?

I hastily nodded my head and moaned—I couldn't speak in that position.

— That's a good girl, for understanding. And since you're a slut, you get treated accordingly." He was slapping my clit, and I was ready to come even from such touches—my pussy was wetter than ever. Noticing this, he stopped and frowned. Staring at me and waiting for my reaction, he spat on his hand and inserted three fingers into my ass. I squealed from the pain, jerked, wanted to roll over to escape this torture, but he held me with his free hand and torso. He didn't remove his fingers, cursed, but nevertheless, after a while, continued speaking. "And since you don't mind offering your holes to everyone and anyone, why should I spare them?

With these words, he started fingering my anus, simultaneously trying to shove more fingers in. I writhed and whimpered; the pain was almost unbearable.

— I see you have no arguments," the man continued meanwhile. "Then I have none either, and you'll get what you deserve.

And the first blow of the belt landed on my spread crotch...

I remember little after that; I know for sure that later, as if watching a film of my life in slow motion, I was surprised at how accurately he calculated which way I would jerk and caught me, returning me to the starting position. I remember the swings of the belt, I remember the pattern of the napkin on the table near which he tortured me, I remember how through tears I saw him moving his lips, but I couldn't hear what he was saying, and I remember how I later realized those weren't tears—it turned out I had wet myself from the pain and now my urine was flowing down me onto the floor. Sometimes I lost consciousness for a split second, but a new blow of the leather hell on my labia immediately brought me back to my senses, forcing me to feel this inhuman pain with every cell of my body. I didn't scream—my voice was completely gone. For some reason, I couldn't cry either; I couldn't break free or change my body position because of his hand, which each time guessed where my body would lurch and intercepted it.

I don't know how long it all lasted. I didn't even notice when it ended; I just realized at some point that it was over, the belt wasn't soaring up to crash down on my crotch, the pain had become a constant rather than receding for fractions of a moment only to dig into my body and brain with thousandfold intensity. And I was no longer standing with my ass raised but lying with a pillow tucked under my stomach and my legs spread wide. And my inquisitor was sitting opposite me in an armchair, smoking and, judging by his smile, getting a lot of pleasure from everything that had happened.

— You're tough," he said, still smiling. "I kept waiting for you to pass out so I could stop. But you only went into a trance when I got tired of working with the belt." Realizing I wouldn't answer, he spoke again. "I had to clean up after you. I thought about making you lick it all up, but then decided to punish you differently. Can you come here?

I continued to lie silently by the wall; even if I wanted to come over, I couldn't. Then he stood up and came over to me himself, with a tablet in his hands. He placed it in front of my face. "Look," he said. On the screen was a post, apparently on some forum. My photos, a lot of my photos: when I was crawling with my ass stuck up, when I was licking feet, and more than a dozen photos, in chronological order, capturing the spanking of my crotch. In the last ones, it looked more like bloody rags against the lilac background of my buttocks. The man who did this zoomed in on some of the photos one by one. He showed all these last ones, watching my reaction.

— Do you understand that this is your pussy and this is what it looks like now?" he asked, opening the last photo. I didn't feel pain as such; apparently, my brain had stopped perceiving it, but tears rolled down my cheeks at his question. Unexpectedly tenderly, he touched my face, wiped away the tears.

— No need to cry; you chose this for yourself," he said. "Read what they're writing about you here.

He placed the tablet in front of me and enlarged the font. "Apparently, this bitch is experiencing this for the first time" was the title of the post. Briefly but vividly, the post described the events of the past night. How I approached to introduce myself and offered to suck him off in the club bathroom, and how, kneeling in the cramped stall, I let him fuck my mouth. How he fucked me in a taxi, asking the driver to stop and giving him permission to watch and jerk off. And quite detailed about how he stretched my ass, "and this fucking cunt, though she screamed, was dripping like a bitch" was said in the text. But the main part of the story was the description of the spanking. This part of the record surprised me the most. It turned out that even if I had inserted my fingers into my ass when he asked, he would still have found a reason to apply this punishment to me. Because the main goal of the execution was so that I couldn't even think of spreading my legs for someone else again; from now on, I could only offer myself for fucking to him and those he pointed to.

Noticing my surprise, he bent down to me, lifted my face by the chin to see my eyes, and said in that same quiet, calm voice that made me shiver:

— Now you are my thing. And for now, my favorite toy." He patted my cheek. "Finish reading.

The comments tore me apart in every way. Most of the men and women who left comments expressed the same opinion: the bitch chose to get fucked. If a bitch only met vanilla boys on her path, that doesn't mean that by offering herself in a club bathroom, she can expect respect as a person. And what really surprised me and made me involuntarily clench my anus (which, of course, led to a wave of pain) was the number of comments containing requests to rent me, with specified dates and times when they were ready to pick me up. A poll was attached to the post. It explained that during the punishment, I had soiled myself and soiled my Master's house. Other visitors were invited to vote for the most suitable way to punish the guilty slut. Based on the voting results, I was to receive a golden shower from all those wishing to participate. But that's a whole other story...