“We’ve got 15 minutes, get that shirt off.”
“But we haven’t got any of our stuff.”
“We’re wearing everything we need. Now, stand up”
I’m sat on a bed. Downstairs, the party is in full swing. We’ve stepped out for a ‘break’ and are hoping no one comes in. Slowly, I get to my feet and as I pull off my t-shirt, I can feel your hands loosening my trousers with quick-fingered efficiency. With a dextrous flick of the wrist, in one movement my belt is swiped from around me like the whip off a spinning top. You hold it between your hands, doubled, like a circus strongman brandishing a bent poker.
I unfasten the remaining buttons on my jeans and slip them and my pants over my knees. But as I go to take off my shoes, my attention is diverted by the crack of leather, as you snap both halves of the looped belt together.
“That’s far enough, bitch. You don’t need to go any further than that”, you say, looping the belt around my neck, drawing it through the silver metal square like an improvised leash. You tug, testing its strength, forcing my chin up as the cinch tightens around me.
Still holding the belt like a lead, you unfasten your own belt. It’s thinner and shorter, but perfect for what you need.
“Hold still, bitch, or else it’ll hurt. More”
A small release of pressure around my neck, and I gratefully draw a full breath, only to lose it quickly as the rough edge and tiny clasp of your belt pinch the base of my cock. You pull both belts taut in triumph, and I stay very still. Suddenly I’m only aware of my vulnerability – the loud party music downstairs, the voices in the hall. My cock starts to shrink a little in its improvised ring.
But you’re loving it. I can see it in your eyes, wide and flashing. And the tiniest upturn at the corner of your mouth. You can feel my fear in the tension of the belt, that uncertainty in my eyes when I know you’re going to enjoy trying to get us into trouble.
You turn your back on me and letting the cock belt drop, you walk me across the room with my leash pulled tight over your shoulder like a shovel. I stagger, nearly tripping over my half-mast trousers.
“Get on your fucking knees, you slut”.
And as if to make the point, you tug the neck lead down and I stumble over, face level with your groin. Still holding the lead under tension, your right hand strokes the line of my jaw, almost tenderly. Then renders a huge slap, swift and unexpected, with almost no back lift.
My eyes sparkle and my ears are ringing before the pain even registers. When I refocus, my face is being held firm with your hand on the belt, almost touching my jaw. I’m forced to stare at your other hand as it delicately unbuttons your own jeans. Two fingers slip inside and I recognise the urgency of your need to touch yourself. I’m so close to you that, as you open up your jeans, I can smell the desire from your damp panties.
After a few seconds rubbing, I’m roused from my reverie as we’ve reached our short journey’s destination: the door. You open it and, wedging my belt on a short length in the jamb, you force the door shut, trapping the belt tight between frame and door. Now all I can do it listen to you behind me. And await what comes next.
I inhale sharply as your hand comes between my legs, and in a second your belt is off me, and you’ve spread my legs. I can’t see you, but I can sense you behind me, your breathing deeper, almost a pant. I can hear the sound of furious fingers on lace panties. A long, low moan.
So when it comes, it is still a shock. And the sounds registers before the pain. A loud snap, like the report from a derringer. And then the electric shock across my ass as your belt completes the circuit, flaying a pink strip across both buttocks. I yelp and the cinch tightens. Automatically I reach for the belt, to release the pressure when the second stroke strikes in parallel to, but an inch apart from, the first.
The sting feels so pure. A searing laser beam of pain. Reflexively, I lurch forward and grab the belt around my neck with both hands, holding up my entire weight, while my ass convulses from the force of both strikes. Like a movie hero dangling from a cliff, I’m clinging on, but in a planking position, praying for release. I feel the leather start to burn the palms of my hands when the third crack of your improvised whip makes me drop my hips to the floor.
I’m almost blinded by the pain – I see stars and feel like the air has been squeezed from my lungs. I’m not sure which way is up but I can hear voices, and footsteps in the corridor only inches from my face. I’m gasping for breath, desperate to keep all my bodily noises to a minimum. I twist on my leash like a man on a death slide, hanging on, waiting for the impact.
And then it comes – and I hit the floor with a jarring shock. On my back, gasping at the sudden rush of fresh air into my lungs. The leash is no longer tight, but I can feel the blood flow back into the skin of my neck and a second later the accompanying flood of pain where the buckle has bitten in deep. I open my eyes, and find I am staring up at you. You’re smiling and holding on to the door handle. The door you just opened.
“Come on, fuck toy. There’s work to be done”
And you slam the door with vigour, and then roll me onto my stomach. My face and shoulders are flat against the rough carpet, my hips in the air, resting on folded legs. My position is one of total supplication. I’m still getting used to breathing, gingerly feeling my neck for wounds, when I feel the familiar touch of your belt slip around my cock and balls, and yelp sharply as you draw it tight, back between my legs.
After the last few minutes, I’m focusing on my breathing. My mouth is insanely dry, I’m desperate for a drink, so I don’t really notice the gentle, rhythmic tugging on my cock, but it has the effect of keeping me pinned to the floor. But I can glance over my shoulder and see you standing there.
Your own jeans have gone and those cum-soaked panties are stuck mid-thigh, one hand pulling absent-mindedly at the belt that’s encircling my cock and balls. The other is pawing at your open cunt as you watch the lead rise and fall between my legs.
Suddenly, you’re on me, and the pain is sharp and real. I can feel you straddling my raised ass, but facing backwards and the pull on my cock is now hard, regular and forceful. Everyway downward pull feels like you’re pulling my cock off, and I’m inching backwards, the carpet burning my knees and elbows.
The skin at the base of my cock has been rubbed raw. But now the pull is slower, there’s a drag on the belt, and we’ve stopped our slow shuffle back across the room. I can’t see your face, but I know so well, those movements: the roll of the shoulders, the angle of your head. I can hear those familiar noises – the yearning squeals, and low moans that almost sound like growls. I don’t need to see your face to figure out the belt that starts at my cock, threads through the cleft of my ass, is now being pulled up across your throbbing clit.
I dig in to the carpet to ride this out. With my cock as the spring, you draw the belt up faster and faster, each stroke giving me a dull ache of pain, like a man on the rack. I feel the movement of your orgasm before I hear it – you’re clutching at your belt, furiously stroking it against you and I’m stretched almost to breaking point beneath. My thighs are shaking so hard I can’t stand this for much longer, and as your orgasm starts to take hold, we collapse, as one, onto the bedroom floor.
You haven’t even broken stride. You are sprawled, indomitable, across my broken body, eyes closed, fingers clutching your leather belt that is pressed tight against your cunt, the other end grinding carpet burns into my cock. And the fingers of your other hand pulsing a rhythm on your glistening clit, as you thrash against me, all elbows, head and hips.
At last it is over. We lie still at first, our hearts pounding with the basslines from the music below, listening to the noises of our bodies. The slow peeling of flesh from flesh, rapid breathing, desperate to bring down the pulse rate, the agonising sound of the friction of sticky bodies on dry carpet.
You get up, cool again, now. You get dressed in silence. At the door you turn to me:
“See you downstairs. Slut”
My limbs are heavy, it feels gravity has doubled since I came into this room. I wearily rise and gather my clothes. All still here at least. Except for my thick black leather belt. In its stead, a thin, whip-like replacement.