I Never Get Tired of This

I'm on my knees, my forehead to the floor and arms stretched overhead.  Master comes in and tells me how he loves seeing me like that.  He doesn't get tired of it either. 

  He takes up the large hickory stick that was propped in a corner.  It is probably inch and a half diameter, carved by him in a spiral pattern.  He begins thumping it on my ass, my back, and my sides.   He doesn't do it hard.  This a bone breaking stick if it were swung at full speed.  It is lovely and thuddy, except when he strikes directly between my open legs, then it is painful enough.  It takes all my concentration to keep my legs open anyway, never knowing when the next hit will fall there or how hard it will be.

He steps on the back of my neck, pressing my face down into the carpet.  I relax into my flatness and submission.

Then he tells me to face him, roll over, and he puts his foot on my neck again, pressing into the leather collar.   The pressure is bearable, but fear inducing.  I am very much mindful of how very much I am at his mercy. 

Then the fucking, the orgasms, all the pleasures.

In the morning I am up early, having coffee and playing on the computer.  Master comes down later.  I meet him in the kitchen to finish his tea making and cook breakfast.  He takes hold of my hair and pulls my head back, kissing me roughly, hurting me, telling me I need a harder beating soon, reminding me I am his little slavegirl, his cunt and his hole.  

I never get tired of this.