Thursday Master and I made the trek home (9 hours) alone, except for the dogs of course.
The dogs just lie in back and sleep, since they are very used to riding.
We stopped for gas in the first town we came to, and he told me to go in the rest room and put my tack bra inserts on. I did so, feeling like on the way out the clerk could see through my shirt and see that I had tacks poking into my breasts.
For at least 45 minutes after that he didn't touch me. I drove, the tacks pressing into my skin and feeling just a little hurty, not unbearable. Then he pressed his hand against the outside of my shirt, just lightly, inflaming me with sensation. I wanted to be touched all over, desperately. I wanted to hurt.
After we had been on the road a little more than an hour and stopped for some coffee and bagels, Master told me he would drive because he wanted to make me come and didn't want me running off the road. We got back on the highway and he reached over and squeezed my breast hard, pinching it with the tacks, making my world go white with pain for a second, then he let go and I was squirming on my seat.
I told him I wanted to take my shirt off, and he replied "Keep yourself covered, slut, there is too much traffic".
A few more miles made, a little less traffic. He had me spread my legs and he hit my thigh to make a perfect handprint there. He smacked me between the legs until I was soaking through my shorts. I reached into my suitcase, and after asking permission, I took the shorts and panties off and changed into a skirt. By then we were in the middle of Illinois on a fairly empty stretch of flat highway. I put down an old shirt to protect the seat, and hiked the skirt up in the back so I wasn't sitting on any of it.
I asked Master if I could flash him, and he said yes. I pulled down the tank top I was wearing, and pulled back the skirt to expose myself. We started coming up next to a truck, so I began to rearrange my clothes properly.
Master said sternly "I didn't tell you to rearrange your clothes. If you are going to be such a slut, you will have to stay that way for a bit longer."
He passed the truck. I looked only at Master, not daring to look up and see if my nudity was spotted.
When we approached any sort of passenger car he'd let me cover up.
We stopped at a rest stop, and as I walked to the restroom in a haze of brain buzzing hormones, no bra, no underwear, red handprints on my thighs covered by my long skirt, I felt men staring, and felt they must know what was going on inside my head, they must know by instinct the wetness between my legs. The tank top exposed my back, my ownership tattoo, allowing them to see I am owned. They probably don't make that connection, but in my mind it seemed to be a flashing neon light to the world.
"Owned. Slave. Slut".
I duck my head down and hurry to the restroom.
The rest of the trip continued in a similar manner.
We arrived home, tired but desperately horny from all the teasing, and went immediately to the bedroom. I was on my knees in front of him. I sucked his cock while he smacked me with a cane. I don't think there was a warm up, just many hard smacks to make me squirm, but I couldn't get far because his hands held my head down on his cock. He fucked my mouth, and when it was as deep down my throat as it goes, he held my head until I gagged, then told me to come. I did, gagging, drooling, frothing around his penis as I orgasmed.
Then he had me ride him, using the magic wand until I had come at least a dozen times, perhaps more. I never count. But afterwards my hips were sore from bucking. It was good to be home.
No, that's not my bed. And I'm not dead. I was getting worked over by two men, and looking pretty out of it at that point. ...
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