Pain Slut(4)

By: J.A. Rock

He raised the whip and brought it down hard on my balls.

I screamed.

He struck me again, this time on the underside of my taut scrotum.

I clenched and released my hands, pulling against the cuffs. My legs trembled with the effort of keeping them in the stirrups.

He grabbed the alcohol pad and used it to clean off one of the plastic strands. Then he drizzled a bit of lube on that strand. It took me a second to realize what he was up to. Then he began to feed the thin, beaded fall into the slit of my dick.

I choked, beyond screaming. The tears came faster now, and my whole body started to shake. He pushed the fall a little deeper. I bucked, hauling against the wrist cuffs. I had to piss, had to come, had to get enough breath to shout. Deeper. I could feel the tiny beads rub the inside of my dick, and a sort of slippery queasiness formed in my core, followed by a rush of heat and something almost like panic—but wonderful. Bowser slapped my inflated balls with his free hand. I kicked against the stirrups, my back arching. He wiggled the genital whip so the falls whapped against my cock. The one inside me quivered, increasing my agony and ecstasy until I was gritting my teeth to keep from begging for release.

Then Bowser did something surprising. He stroked my shoulder gently with his free hand, then wrapped his arm around me and guided my head against his broad chest. Held me and leaned down to press his lips to my temple. His Viking beard was coarse against my skin. I felt so comforted in that moment, so astonished by a flood of emotion I couldn’t identify, that I barely noticed when he started moving the whip again. Softly at first, then harder and harder until I couldn’t ignore the pain as the strands caught my hypersensitive balls. Until I was curling and uncurling my fingers, my legs shaking so hard they didn’t seem under my control anymore. The gauze over my cuts deflected a couple of the blows, but it didn’t help much.

Two sensations collided—physical agony and a desperate need for him to keep holding me. I nearly pressed my face against his shirt and cried. Instead, I clamped my jaw, took a breath, and held perfectly still.

He released me. Pulled the fall out of my dick and gave me two lashes across my balls. Pressure welled inside me, and I felt a warmth inside my shaft, as though I were coming. But nothing happened. I was still right there on the edge, desperate, and I couldn’t go over.

He gripped my cock and started pumping.

“You wanna come?” he asked.

I didn’t know if I could. Each time he pumped, his fist hit my engorged balls and knocked the air out of me.

“Go on,” he whispered. “I wanna see you come with your balls the size of a fucking melon.”

I panted, groaning softly. He held the whip in his other hand and started striking my balls full force. I inhaled with a choked cry, my face contorting. It was like someone was punching me just below the belly button, but from the inside. My bladder felt like it was going to fucking burst.

He paused, and I struggled for a second against the tension in my throat before my breath rushed out. “Yeah,” I whispered. “Fuck yeah.”

“Spread those legs.”

My feet were still in the stirrups, but my knees were dropping toward each other in an involuntary effort to shield my groin. I spread as wide as I could. He lashed the whip upward, striking my asshole and the skin behind my balls, and I whimpered, my stomach spasming. He kept his hand moving on my cock, and everything was discord and brilliance. Mismatched rhythm and different levels of sickness and pleasure.

“I can’t. I really can’t.” It was too much—sensitized skin, the fear that if this went on any longer, I’d be sick on his table.

He stroked my shoulder. Brushed his lips over the edge of my ear, flicked my balls. His whisper was nearly drowned out by my grunt of determination. “Try.”

He went back to stroking my balls, and I closed my eyes, concentrating on his touch, on the feel of the needle under my skin when I moved a certain way. He placed his thumb on the scar from my PA piercing, and a memory flashed through me of him playing with the ring, back when I still wore it.

I imagined he was my partner. Not just for this afternoon, but forever. And I was so embarrassed by the fantasy that I dashed it out of existence, like swiping at a drawing I’d made in the sand. I didn’t want that illusion to be part of what made me come. I wanted the pain to do it. I wanted to be able to leave Bowser’s with a friendly handshake.

Also By J.A. Rock

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