One of the things that I appreciate most about Mr. Envelope is the level of care that he puts into hurting me. As he wrapped lengths of rope around my legs, binding me to a spreader bar to keep them open, his touch was sensual, deliberate. I lay on the bed with wrists cuffed to each corner, blindfolded and ballgagged as he took his time to ensure that my legs would be immobile and spread. Gentle strokes of my skin as he wound the rope reminded me of his appreciation for me submitting my body to his will. Tight knots in the rope reinforced his control over me.
When he was finished, I felt him watching me test the limits of the restraints, finding them to be very binding. He said nothing, standing quietly as I tried to quiet my mind. I squared my shoulders, taking a few deep breaths to center myself- I couldn’t see or move, knowing whatever was coming next was not up to me. Just as I was starting to feel grounded, I felt the sharp sting of a leather flogger- just once, very hard- between my legs. I yelped in pain, the spreader bar and rope preventing me from closing my legs to protect myself. I tried to steady myself for his attack, but the shock and pain from the first one was still reverberating through my body. He resumed his silent stance, his inaction almost worse than another blow.
The next blow didn’t come. Instead, I felt the sharp bite of a clothespin on the side of my breast. I winced, the familiar pain somewhat welcome- at least it was tangible. The next clothespin attached to my nipple, the sensation more acute. Another to the other side of my breast, and then the pattern repeated on the other one. I could feel a rough string connecting the six clothespins across my chest. The next pinch came between my legs, and was followed by more- I lost count of exactly how many- as he lined my labia with connected clothespins. Each bite drew a gasp from my lips, but I was able to compartmentalize and breathe my way through it. I was grappling not with the pain, but with what the string connecting everything together meant for me.
His voice finally broke the silence. “Do you remember the game that we talked about a while back?” he asked, the deep and slow cadence making my pussy immediately damp. I searched the reserves of my reeling mind for an answer, but came up short- not that my ballgag would have permitted me to articulate a response anyway. I mumbled a no as he continued, “I am going to set a timer, and you are going to count the minutes until we reach time. You will tell me when we have reached it, and if you are right, you will get a reward. If you are wrong, I am going to pull these off of you- violently.” As it turns out, I did remember the conversation about this particular game, and was immediately focused. I do like a challenge, and was excited at the opportunity to prove myself. The clothespins were nagging at me, but I was quickly compartmentalizing in order to prioritize the task at hand. “I am going to set the timer for 10 minutes,” he continued, which was interrupted by a groan from me. Ten minutes?! First of all, that will be nearly impossible to accurately count. Secondly, that means that these clothespins will all be on me for ten minutes- oof. “Yes, ten minutes,” he repeated, clearly delighted in my anguish. “Now remember, tell me when we get there. If you are too early or late, these come off. I am not going to touch you, and I am not going to speak. All you have to do is count. Ten minutes. The timer starts now.”
I took a deep breath and started counting. I filed the pain in my breasts and pussy away, focusing instead on my breath and the pace of the seconds. I was worried that I would count too quickly, so I made an effort to be deliberate and maintain an even pace. I counted the minutes on my fingers, trying to quell the panic that I could lose count at any second. The experience of counting was a new level of mindful practice. On the whole, it isn’t a difficult assignment- I have known how to count for a very long time. Sixty seconds in a minute times ten minutes- the task is simple.
The task is made decidedly more complicated with the layers of the situation. First, my overall internal monologue needed to be focused. Now was not the time to think about the 57 emails in my inbox, whether I had fed the dog, or how great that song was that I heard this afternoon. Focus on the task at hand. Then, there was the pain from the clothespins. I am an experienced submissive, so I know how to channel it- that was taken care of, dulled to a distant buzzing. Next, layer on Mr. Envelopes silent presence. I know he is there, I could hear his even breathing. What is he seeing? What is he doing? I had to push those thoughts out of my mind- I couldn’t concentrate on him and the counting. It was raining; the sound intensified during a couple of points, pulling at the threads of my attention- was I at thirty five or forty five? Fuck. Now what?! After that, there’s the timer- where is it at? Am I on pace? Are we close to ten minutes?
The closer my internal count got to ten minutes, the more and more anxious I became. During our debrief, he said that my entire body began to tremble around the 8-minute mark- I don’t specifically recall this, but based on where my mind was at, it makes sense. When my count crossed the halfway point, the impending ten-minute deadline became more and more daunting. I had no idea whether I was on pace, but felt confident enough that all was not lost that I maintained count.
I was at 8:36 in my head when the fiery pain consumed me.
First thought: Shock- what the hell just happened to me?!
Second thought: Pain- holy fucking Christ that hurt. What hurts? Everything. The pain started at my nipples, and tore through me in a flash- it was over before it started, but the pain reverberated through me enough to tense my whole body and make me scream.
Third thought: there was absolutely no way that was 10 minutes. No way. I didn’t expect to be right on target, but I didn’t expect to be almost two full minutes off pace. No way.
Fourth thought: Fucking ouch. I could still feel the kiss (bite) of each clothespin, my body desperately fighting against the restraints to self-protect.
My fifth and final thought was of him- I felt his presence beside me, and tensed against the ropes, dreading what he had in store next. He said nothing, laying beside me. I braced myself for a hard pinch of my nipples or a slap to my exposed pussy, but instead felt strong hands envelop me and hold me still. He wrapped himself around my bound body, holding my head still while stroking my face.
My tormentor became my protector.
It took me a few beats to trust it, but his strong presence slowed the roller coaster in my mind and allowed me to de-escalate. I took some deep breaths, melting into him as he stroked my hair. He held me firmly- there was nothing gentle in his embrace- but it was exactly what I needed to re-center. He untied my blindfold and ungagged me, allowing me to come back to him gradually. I hadn’t realized just how consumed my body and mind was with the task until it was over. I felt nothing but gratitude and safety in that moment- a stark contrast to the fear and pain he had inflicted on me moments before.
When he could feel me come back to earth, he untied my wrists and sat me up. He instructed me to undress him, which I did with shaking hands. He is always dresses thoughtfully: vest, dress shirt, tie. The dexterity required for so many buttons left my body at about the time the clothespins did, but after some effort I succeeded. I ran my hands over his body, appreciating his warmth and ogling at his hardening cock in front of me.
He held a length of red rope in his hands and settled in behind me on the bed. His gentle fingers brushed back my hair, running over my back and shoulders to assess his canvas. He bound my arms behind my back, crafting a harness with the rope over my shoulders, my hands clasped together. I was absolutely trapped, the tension created by my arms against the rope holding me in place. He cuffed my wrists together for good measure and stepped back to admire his work.
My legs were still bound open to the spreader bar, my arms fully immobilized with hands clasped behind my back. He helped me off the bed and onto my knees, placing his cock in my eager mouth. I started to suck, the excitement building in him translating to butterflies in me. He let me set the pace for a while, and then gently moved his hands to my head. His fingers laced into my hair, reminding me of his Olympic level scalp massages. This relaxed me, until his fists tightened, holding my head steady as he started to thrust into my throat.
He held my head on his cock, letting me feel it pulse in my throat before I came up for air. After a quick breath it was back in my throat, thrusting in and out until I gagged. He forced and held it in deeper, holding me on him while I struggled, demanding an extra few seconds of me each time before he relented. I was quickly covered in spit, any modesty long replaced by just trying to hold on. He smeared his cock over my face, smudging my lipstick before forcing himself back inside me.
When he had had enough, he helped me back onto the bed, watching me struggle to follow his direction to get onto my back. He teased my exposed clit with his cock, making me moan in desperate need. He flipped me over, and I finally felt his cock slide inside me, engulfing me in a wave of pleasure. His thrusts were even and hard, and it wasn’t long before I was asking to cum. He mercifully granted his permission immediately, and I all but leapt over the edge. My orgasm was intense, the restraints on my arms and legs giving me something to push against as I was consumed by ripples of pleasure.
While I was blissfully engaged, I was vaguely aware of being flipped onto my back. My head hung over the edge of the bed as I tried in vain to find a comfortable position with my bound arms underneath me. I lowered my shoulders as much as I could, dutifully opening my mouth for his continued assault.
This angle allowed him to hold my throat while he thrusted into me, further restricting my breathing and giving him ultimate control over my mouth. He took his time, feeling every sensation of my lips, mouth, tongue, and throat while he explored various paces and depths. I coughed, gagged, sputtered, and spit as he used me, my bound body futilely convulsing against my restraints in an effort to regain control.
A funny thing happens with this intensity of face fucking. When you are completely at someone’s mercy like that, you don’t have control over your own breath- you depend on them to allow it. It creates a frenzy- physically and psychologically. Your body tenses, convulses, screams; your mind panics, begs, and spirals. His body is unrelenting, his pleasure rippling through both of you. And then, all of a sudden, if you let him push you hard enough, everything stops.
My body continued to respond, his body continued to assault, but my mind was completely clear. The only thing that I was thinking about is the next breath that I would take. I lost perspective on the spit, the gagging, the cock in my throat. The only thing in my mind is the next opportunity to fill my lungs. I am completely his, fully surrendered to my fate. All I am in that moment is breath- there is no room for any other thought, conscious or otherwise. People often ask me what it is that I like about being face fucked, why I would ever ask for it- this is why. This moment, when my mind is clear, quiet, almost serene- this is the escape that I crave.
When he was ready to finish, he sat me up on the side of the bed. I was a shell of a person by that point, spit covered and gasping, mind floating somewhere above us. He grabbed me by the hair and slammed his cock into me over and over, my body no longer resisting. He pinched my tortured nipples with such ferocity that tears sprang to my eyes, which I didn’t realize in the moment but he commented on it afterward. I screamed and moaned, but the pain didn’t connect with my consciousness- I was still consumed with my breath.
His cum was hot in my throat, my jaw remaining relaxed as he filled my mouth. He instructed me to swallow as he painted my tits with the rest, letting it drip down me as we both tried to find steady ground. He deftly untied me, his strong protective arms once again enveloping me in a cocoon. He spoke to me gently, telling me how well I had done. I melted into his words and embrace, consciousness floating over us as I marvelled at the way he made me feel. My tormentor, my protector.
Like Mr. Envelope’s style? Read more of his stories here.