0 comments/ 25034 views/ 0 favorites Until the Razor Cuts By: HisPossessed I knew this was coming and wanted it. I did not hope or dread. It wasn't a peak, but a needed act. Just the visceral end of the visit. I felt sure to receive it. I know if I behaved badly or did not please, my Master would have told me. In a normal affair, I might see that invited grin fade, feel an aura of distance—something just would be wrong… My Owner has a way with words and desired implements, and the little smile at the corners of his mouth has been visible all night. So I know I get to wear another mark of his Ownership. "My slave, how much time is left?" "About ten minutes until six, Sir." "Just enough time left to carve you with your new status." My Owner goes to my dresser to get the razor. I lay face down on my (Our) bed. With the first cut of the S, I feel uncontrollable with fear. I can't hide I'm shaking. He Owns me and I work to control myself, for him. For me, too, because this might not make any sense, but is just what I want. Some Masters want to be called "God," I've heard. Mine laughed at that, Atheist he is. I'm often at prayer though; to be strong, not show too much fear. I was praying to god, to my Gods, to my Owner he'd forgive me crying out and squirming when a good girl who loves it should behave herself. I'm only restrained by him straddling me to work on my naked back. My own efforts at restraint are pathetic; from the moment my nerve endings sense the warmth of his hand, poised to cut me, I am terrified. And yet I can stop this at any time, tell him 'Please, Sir, this is too much for me.' He would understand. He might not even be too disappointed in me, but it was not a risk I could let myself take. I'd known that, time permitting, we would arrive at this at the end of the evening—really, the start of the morning—and hadn't worried how I would react. Surely I'd be stronger than the first time, when I had reacted with such distress it made me that much more impressed with my Owner's steady hand and aesthetic sense. That carving was beautiful, though I'd flinched and whimpered. And this extended overnight visit—I was sure that fatigue and thorough substate delirium would allow me to relax enough to take this well. It's the opposite. I feel an animal fear, though the instinct is to remain still for my Master. I don't flinch this time. It's more like convulsions between the straight slices. I still myself, and then, as I sense the razor close again, my skin itself jumps and ripples like a cat's skin when a hand is too lightly passed over her back. None of the cuts hurt, yet each one draws a new raw noise of fear and grief. These sounds are foreign to me. We had both liked the idea of him punishing me to tears and then comforting me. I had filled up with fresh love for him when he told me my idea of his sub sobbing in his arms turned him on. My emotions drive his deeper sexual control of me, and it makes me light-headed each time it hits me I don't have to hide anything to keep him hard for me. This is different from what I had envisioned—that heavy thrashing until I break down and add tears to all our other fluids smearing us as we press and kiss. It's beyond an intense crying session—I know how that feels, though I've yet to have one in his overwhelming embrace. He'd once called me his "fuck puppet," because I was that responsive to his touch, maybe just to his suggestions, and I loved that new term. Right now, though, I am more a puppet than ever, unable to suppress these strange vocal and muscular responses. I feel just like a puppet, completely subjugated, not in control. My thoughts snap rapidly between fear, frustration at my fear, determination to be a good possession, and a feeling of love that stuns me even as I can't make this body convey the mental trust I have in the man stroking me with a razor beyond the surface of my skin. It does not hurt. Yet, I bite my pillow and still cry louder than I cum and spasm with each cut. I thought I could let go with him, be wanton and real, his real Owned whore, but even in orgasm I have a residual control over what comes out of my mouth. I love him for not stopping, that he knows I need this and can take it. He tells me, "Shhhh," repeatedly, soothing me, and his breath behind my ear has me aroused even through the shock of this act. His whisper brings at all together: His weight on my ass holding me down, the careful hands, his determination, and his care for me as he disregards my weakness. I wish he could fuck me right now, just like this, dripping razor blade still in hand… "There. All done." "Really—it's done?" I ask with relief. "Yes, my good slave girl." At this moment, I don't feel I deserve those words I love to hear above any others a man could ever tell me. It's over in what I guess was about five minutes, but it was stretched in the state of mind I was in, measured in sharp strokes digging slower than seconds. My Owner hands me the camera so I can see the fresh blood before he cleans me. The artistic slashes are enhanced by big scarlet drops. I would like to let it bleed out more, feel the blood run down my skin when I stand, but it's time again to shower and travel back to the station. I'm still shaking all over, but wear a blissful smile and new word. My Owner cleans my wounds with peroxide, warning, "This may sting a little." For some reason that makes me giggle; so much adrenaline coursing through me, a little touch of cotton on my throbbing skin makes no difference. "You are the only one I trust like that, except maybe doctors." I can't tell if I'm making any sense. When I talk like that, he teases he'll wear his white coat. Before we knew each other well, I thought I'd enjoy that. After the first time we met, we knew no role playing was required. We fall too naturally into Dom and sub, Master and slave, even big brother and slutty little sister isn't faking—it's just an unfortunate fact we have different parents and had to grow up apart. My Master helps me from the bed. I usually kneel in the shower to wash him, but I am still shaking so much, he takes pity on me and doesn't expect me to get in the cold water with him. I'm rarely up this early and didn't know there is no hot water at this hour. He watches me squeezing toothpaste and notes my hand tremor. Convenient, how I can reach for the pill bottle on the vanity. "It's just this, Sir." I don't notice my hands shaking anymore, but the pills don't account for my trembling all over. "You know, I thought you were going into shock." He thought that, and did not stop. I gaze adoringly at his beautiful back as he steps into the shower, where I can no longer see him behind the curtain and it makes me crazy I can't slide my hands over his wet skin. I look in the mirror and do my make up by just wiping some away. I love the way my hair looks, thick and messy due to cum and our spit, from him pulling it and the friction of my head moving under the covers between his legs. We dress quickly. I always dress up to meet him at night, but mornings, my Owner likes to see me in my usual daytime uniform of jeans and black undershirt ("vest" to him, which sounds funny to me). I pull the jeans on over the ripped open fishnet tights of last night because I'm too sentimental to take them off yet. My Owner is also in his going home clothes—Punk T-shirt (a nice Vive Le Rock Seditionaries copy) instead of the shirt and tie he knows provoke me so. He likes the jeans because they are easy to pull down for a final spanking. I think it also turns us both on to see each other as we look all the time we aren't together; he can't leave our punishment room in a tie… I get on all fours on the bed and wiggle my ass a little for him, but my Owner instructs me to lie back on the bed. I do raise an eyebrow at that. I lie down at the edge of the bed, him standing tall above me. "I want you to pull your jeans down like you do when we talk on the phone. Show me what you look like when you cum for your Owner." I unzip and lift my hips to expose my thighs. The crotch of the fishnets has been shredded, so my shaved cunt, still dripping, is open to my Master. He claims his property again with his fingers and asks me to look at him, see him standing over me, tells me to remember this. I will. "Is this how you picture me, the nights you talk me through orgasm, Sir?" "That's just how I pictured you, jeans pulled down to your knees." His eyes are so warm that looking into them all the pain I've ever suffered dissolves easier than bad dreams. I tell him I could cum again in about two minutes from the way he's tormenting my clit, but we don't have two minutes. Time to leave. I get my books and music—My Owner doesn't want my education to stop when he departs. Then we are out of the punishment sanctuary, a new experience for us. The moon is still in the dark sky as we walk to the station. We decided to walk because cab drivers can be chatty and interfere in my Owner's backseat perversity. We are also both a little exhibitionist. We walk a block or so, stop to kiss deep as we did all night; my lips are rubbed red even without lipstick. His mouth is so sweet and he's got sharp white teeth. He just wakes that way, which doesn't alleviate my suspicion he's the devil. We'd spent the night in a long kiss, interrupted by the punishments I deserve. We even slept together for the first time—we both slept a little, me curled around his body. An hour or so of the night, I slept deep, the cue being his light snoring that curled me tighter around my Owner. When he woke me, my head was guided down… We walk as the sun rises in streaks of orange—the way he described it—I wish I could remember those few words, but I was distracted by the way he'd lifted my long coat without me noticing, his hand an unexpected warmth down my jeans to rest on my ass while we walk. His carving stinging, my brain spinning—a few people emerge from front doors to start their day, but I don't care who sees, if anyone sees. I'm walking with him back to the station where he will depart and want his hands on my body until the last second. My mouth keeps finding its way back to his neck, his hands, his kiss, but it's time. I open wider to release his tongue he has more firm and still in my mouth than when we greet, as if to reinforce his Ownership. Maybe to show me he feels at home in his property. That's good bye. I don't look back and pride myself on it. I don't ever turn to look at him board a bus or a train. In my head, though, I look back over and over for days. Until the Razor Cuts I stroke his cock while we kiss, our tongues becoming aggressive, struggling sweetly between our sealed lips. When I feel him close I beg him to cum on my tits, all over me. "Where?" he asks. I can never answer that one. Everywhere, all over, I adore you…He kneels over me and pulls my hand to the base of his erection. I am not too shy this time to watch. I look right in his blue eyes that seem to grow darker in moments of intense lust, watch the pulse of his cock in my grip, look back to his beautiful face while I fuck myself, the dirty look in my eyes telling him just where my fingers are. When his eyes close in orgasm, mine do, too, involuntarily mirroring my big brother. I milk his ejaculate onto both my nipples, my throat, and mostly in my hair. (He seems to find that impolite, but I love it.) When we open our eyes we hold each other's gaze a long moment, and I can tell he recognizes that I did watch this time, as promised. I almost feel like saying something like, 'Nice to meet you,' so it's good it gets more difficult for me to speak in substate. He rubs his cum into my skin, hard and playful, to make my tits all gleaming before it dries in a tight coating. I groan when he pulls his hands away to reposition himself, lying on his side, his face inches from my open thighs. I pull at my aching breasts while my Master touches my clit in the perfect firm circles to make me cum. My hips start to lead my body in the natural writhing fuck motions even virgins know. I can feel his breath, cool compared to the heat pouring off my cunt, and glance down to see him smiling, like he knows a secret and is pleased with himself. "Why are you smiling, Sir?" "You just have such a cute little cunt." I realize he's just smiling because it's fun to control his slave's body, and this turns me on immensely—it's what he calls "sub pride" or "slut pride," and he encourages it. When I sent him pictures for no reason and apologized that it was just a moment of vanity, he instructed me that this vanity is necessary and he insists whenever I masturbate for him in his absence I am to remember the effect my body has on him. His desire feeds mine in a way I could not have imagined. "Are you going to cum for your Owner?" I can only moan louder, louder… "Good girl. Cum for me, for your Master." "Yes, Sir…" "Come for me, slave." "More!" I scream it as I cum and know once will not be nearly enough. My Master takes me through a second orgasm more intense than the first. He kisses me and tells me to rest a bit. I have no choice: I'm immobilized. "You know you can ask for more. But you have to say 'please.' You didn't say that, did you?" "No, Sir. I'm sorry! I'll remember to say 'please' next time." "That's OK. You rest a moment. When I come back, though, you'll have to be punished. We haven't got the full usage out of the flogger." He kisses me fast and springs up from the bed like we just had a normal conversation, like a parent who says, 'You stay here, and I'll be right back with your favorite bedtime story.' I hear him in the kitchen, taking a drink, then I'm being instructed to stand for my punishment. I stand in front of the bedroom door, a thick black rope around my wrists and trapped over the closed door, stretching my arms over my head. I place my palms on the door and arch my back to await the bite of the flogger. My Owner never overdoes the punishment. The blows to my taught back feel delicious, actually. When he moves lower to my ass, some of the tails stray and catch my labia, which does shock me and I cry out. He doesn't relent, though, knowing how not to hurt me. Injure me, I mean. He strikes me with the whip until my knees bend deep, but it's more from submission than pain. I think I just want him against me, holding me up. "More, please. Please." "For someone as pale as you, you are difficult to mark," he tells me and I know it's that he is careful not to hurt me too much. Someone cruel could mark me. I'd rather have him—I get to wear other kinds of marks for him. He provides a few more blows to my back and shoulders, but then I am really finished. I know to remember how to ask politely in the future. Before untying me, he stands behind me, arms around me, one handing straying down my belly to feel the sexual effect his training has had. I hear his soft laugh and know he's made me wet from the chastisement. "My little pain whore…" He undoes the ropes and takes me the step it takes to get into bed. It's the middle of the night and I glance at the clock before disappearing under the covers. It's going by so fast. That hour—it can't be possible! My Owner stretches out as I devote myself to licking his balls in a final, fervent burst of energy, defying sleep, before settling into a sleepy blowjob. Curled into a fetal position, his thigh as my pillow, I start to drift off, so content and pacified. I wake up with my head on the pillow, next to him. Immediately, I'm frantic to know what time is it, how much precious time did I waste sleeping? There is still time… "You know, I haven't punished you nearly enough tonight." "You can also take my virginity, if you want to, Sir." How bold I've become! "Hang on a second." I lie in bed, wondering. My Master returns from the living room with condoms. He motions to me to kneel while he stands near the dresser where all the gear is laid out, mostly unused, as usual. Suddenly wide awake, I take his cock in my mouth to give the most vigorous fellatio of my life. I selfishly force him to hardness, then make him listen to me gag as I grab him by the ass and pull him deeper in my throat than I can really take him. So selfish… It's about five in the morning, we have both cum an unforgivable number, but now I need him inside me for the first time. The hours talking and masturbating together were not wasted, even the sleep against my Master was sweet and meaningful, but right now I don't want to wait another month to be fucked "as nature intended," like he calls it. When he's ready to put the condom on, I bow lower to his feet, licking and sucking his big toe, drooling on the arch of his foot. I've done this before and he enjoyed it and I'd thought that after licking his ass tonight, I'd had each part, even the soles…Then I realized I have not adored the length of his legs with my mouth, his back, because we are always face to face… These are the thoughts of a sub about to be fucked as nature intended. He guides me to the bathroom because there is a mirror there where I can see myself becoming Owner deeper, looking either in my own eyes or his. I brace myself against the sink, feel a porcelain edge against my sex. He enters me with some difficulty—not the single smooth thrust we'd imagined because I keep so wet for him—and I love that. I have lost count of my lovers and guys I've let fuck me, but when I met my Owner I knew it always should have been him. First. I am pleased my body resists him because he's the one I accept. Months and months of devotion to someone I rarely see and do not fuck has got me close to virginal again. But this body is his and when he tells me, I know I can make milk flow from it. Impossible things can happen. Then, he's inside me. My Master.