Who is Pollyanna?

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A girl who enjoys sexual freedom. Who seeks pleasure through pain. Who is eager to explore her sexuality through friendship and experimentation. A girl who loves easily and wants to be loved, fucked and abused in return. A seemingly fragile flower who offers herself to trusted people as a plaything.

Dec 21, 2013

Out of control

I'm not a good submissive: I don't speak when spoken to; I speak out of turn; I don't hold position; I don't stand up straight; I don't look at him when requested; I don't follow orders.

The list went on and on. I promised Mr Flame that I wouldn't disappoint him anymore. Promised I would be good, that I'd make amends, pleaded for another chance.

But I failed again, immediately; I didn't follow orders.

I was stood before him as he circled me, explaining my misdemeanours, wondering aloud should he punish me. I trembled with fear and anticipation. When he touched me, his finger running over my face, I flinched; when he trailed his hands over my body I recoiled.

"Don't flinch away from me."

His voice low, harsh and dangerously calm. I tried to hold still, head up, shoulders back, straining with tension. It amused him, but still he taunted me.  Flexed his hands in front of my face, placed his open palm on my cheek and then drew it back, poised to strike. Faked a slap once, then twice and at the third I flinched, already in tears.

A cruel smile my reward: "You do need to be punished."

I watched miserably as he assembled his arsenal: 8 different implements laid out on the bed: two floggers, two canes, several straps and paddles.

He explained the rules with menace. I was to fetch each implement with my mouth and crawl to him on my hands and knees to deliver it. Then, to crawl back to the bed, kneeling on the floor to take 6 strokes of each. No moving, no flinching, no disappointing him.

Delivering each implement was an utter humiliation. Struggling with some to even get them in my mouth, praying I wouldn't drop any. I was relieved to scurry back to the bed after dropping each one in front of him, happy to hide in the pain that soon came. And pain it was. No warm up, no easing off when I started to beg for mercy. Each implement rained down in 6 quick blows as I struggled to breathe and desperately tried not to move.

Some were worse than others; a few were unbearable and made me scream for mercy. I made it to 7 implements before I broke position and earned an extra 6 with the final one - 54 in total.

I was finally permitted to stand, dazed from the pain. He surveyed his handiwork, running his fingers over the welts rising on my skin. I steeled myself to hold still. 

Were we done?

No, sent to fetch nipple clamps, the thing I really struggle to bear. These were a particularly fear-inducing set, clover clamps - I'd never managed to wear them for more than a few seconds. I begged to be let off, asked for 50 more strokes instead. All to no avail.

"You'll wear them for me, you don't want to disappoint me, do you?" That dangerously calm voice again.

Each nipple for 10 seconds, pure agony for me, pure enjoyment for him as I squealed throughout.

His praise was little comfort. "That was so good we can try 20 seconds this time, you are learning, I'm very pleased."

20 seconds, an eternity of awful intense pain. By the time the scene ended I hated Mr Flame with a vengeance, and I could not hide that fact.

He was right, I'm not a good, submissive girl. I rejected his kindness and his hugs. I was wound up and angry. I wanted to hit him, I wanted to make him pay for how he had treated me. But mostly I wanted not to have these feelings, if I couldn't be a good submissive then I wanted to be a broken one.
 I poked him, tried to pin his wrists, as he watched in bemusement. 

"You want to hit me?"

"No, I want you to hit me!"

He understood. And as soon as it began, I wanted it to end. In trying to take control I lost it completely. I unleashed the version of Mr Flame that is almost out of control, one that I can't influence, one that properly terrifies me.

Pushed flat on my back, he was on top of me, his hands around my throat.

The first slap across the face produced immediate tears. The second, third, fourth delivered so quickly I didn't have time to shield myself.

That wicked snarl, eyes intense, veins bulging. Mr Flame had disappeared, it was HIM. He dropped his head down, sniffed me with satisfaction:

"I can smell your fear, it's pouring out of you."

Another slap, back hand followed by reverse back hand on the other cheek. 

My arms pinned with one hand as he punched me methodically: my hips, my ribs, my legs, straddling my body with his own, rendering me unable to move. I began to beg, almost hysterical with pain and terror.

The seventh slap across the face made me reel, time slowed down. I didn't register the eight, couldn't even flinch as his fists moved down by body again.

Sobbed uncontrollably, so terrified, yet so free. It would end when he was done, I couldn't do anything about it.

Looked him in the eye as his hand flexed above me again. The final slaps taken watching his cruel, taunting smile.

Completely succumbed, no fight, limp in his harsh embrace, too out of it to care what came next.

Until I realised that finally the beast had gone, melted into a soft hug, Mr Flame holding me as I cried in liberty and relief. And this time I submitted, without question.

The fear of the beast stayed with me, continues to stay with me. When Mr Flame fucked me later, purely for his pleasure, he made me beg for it, to admit to him how much I wanted it. I struggled to say it, but the merest hint the beast was reappearing overcame any hesitation.

That fear comes not just from knowing I can't control HIM, but from the nagging suspicion that Mr Flame can't either. It's a powerful, powerful thing.



wholebeanandI said...

A breathtaking encounter. Will need to read it again to try and understand what must have been going through Flames mind!

sally said...

Saying thank you for a note is great advice for life, not just . A note is a gift. It is one of the key ways we can grow as humans.