Do Not Cast Me Aside by Reese Gabriel, bdsm control and humiliation
Submitting to this man won't be easy, Katy realizes, as she's pumping gas naked on his orders. This only the beginning!

I have to take my clothes off in the car.  I have to ride naked.  He’s really doing this.  He’s taking over my body…and I am just flying.  Like I’m drunk or something.  And this idea of the pain is just more exhilaration because it proves I’m really being dominated here, not just humored or encouraged to do what I already want.  This is like with the black master except I can’t call the shots.  Except to the extent I know Mark at least a little and I know he was Warren’s friend, a friend he thought highly enough to have ‘watch over me.’  Whatever the hell that meant.  Typical inscrutable Warren stuff.  God, I would so kick his ass if he were back here now.

            Of course if he were here, I wouldn’t be in Mark’s car, wriggling out of my panties, for what, the umpteenth time, it feels like?

            “Put the seat all the way back, hands at your sides.”

            He wants to play with me.  I moan as he does what he likes to my female parts.

            “Mark, I need to come…please let me…”

            “No.”  He slaps my thigh.  Hard.

            “Ow,” I complain.  “That really hurt.”

            His hand returns to my breast like he owns it.  “You really haven’t a clue.  One stroke of the cane and then we can talk about hurting.”

            “What do you mean, cane?”  My heart slams in my chest.  Canes are heavy duty.  That much I know.

            “Bamboo,” he elaborates.  “It’s what you’ve got coming for running off.”

            “I…I changed my mind.”

            This would probably sound more convincing if I weren’t squirming naked, trying to push my hips up to his fingers for a little more contact.

            “I could use some gas,” he muses.  “You up for pumping it?”

            I regard him in blind terror.  “Like this?”

            “Why not?” he shrugs.  “It’s a warm enough night.”

            “Mark, you wouldn’t!”

            “I would,” he says unzipping his fly.  “Unless I had something else occupying my time.”

            I take his meaning and drop my head at once onto his lap.  His hard, naked cock is waiting for me, ready to enter my warm, receptive mouth.  Pleasuring a man on the highway might be a little shaming, but it beats the hell out of pumping gas buck-naked.

            Mark grunted, coming very quickly down my throat.  I swallowed every drop, hoping this would appease him.  It didn’t.

            “89 octane will do,” he says, pulling into the all night convenience store

            “Mark,” I gasp.  “Don’t make me do this, please.”

            “Go.”  He slaps my thigh hard enough to insure I don’t want to fight him anymore.

            Whimpering—but totally fucking excited, too—I open the car door and peer around.  No one’s there.  I put down a bare foot, tentative on the dirty concrete.  I’m still looking when he smacks my ass, giving me proper incentive.  I crouch down, praying to god the clerk won’t look this way.  The tank’s on the driver’s side.  I half crawl, half run to the pump.

            Oh, fuck, how am I paying for this?  If he makes me go inside, I’ll die—not to mention get myself arrested.  “Mark,” I whisper fiercely, palming his window. 

He regards me, casually before he lowers it.  “Yes, my dear?”

            “I have to pay.”

            He thinks a moment. 

            “Oh, please, give me a credit card,” I whine.  “Pretty please?  I’ll suck you off the rest of your natural life.  Balls included.”

            He cracks a smile and hands me a Visa for the pump.  “I want the windshield washed too.”

            Oh, hell.

            The clerk can’t help catching the show.  Fortunately he watches through binoculars instead of calling the cops.  I have to make pretty intimate contact with the car to get the job done.  Especially when he makes me lean over, insisting I’ve missed spots here and there.  He’s a real sadistic bastard this one, making me squash my tits on the wet glass and press my hungry cunt on the metal.  I want it so bad, I’m out of my fucking mind.  I would lie down on the concrete if he told me.  I’d probably run inside and do the clerk, too.

            “Get in the car,” he says at last.

            I jump in, panting.

            “You have a minute to get yourself off,” he informs me.  “Use this.”

            I catch the dildo he’s just tossed to me.  Where he came up with it, I have no idea, all I know is I was ready to suck it down whole, all eight inches of soft, purple plastic.  I proceed to fuck myself like an animal.  My hips in the air, grunting and stuffing, shoving the thing inside me hard, rubbing it over my clit again and again.  Talk about foreplay.  What this man has just done to me…

            I scream up at the roof of the car and he doesn’t seem to mind.  All he says, when I’ve somehow managed to land back in the seat after it’s over is, “Again.”

            I’m covered in my own juices.  The dildo is my master, taking and raping and claiming me.  I’m on my way to have my ass beat, acting like a slut, a teenage whore, and I don’t know what else—anything, I suppose but what I really am, a widow of almost forty.  But then, I never had these kind of orgasms before.  Never could possibly have felt this free, this able to delve into my sexuality.

            Naked in a strange man’s car.  At his mercy while he sits clothed, calmly driving.

            When we get to the loft and pull into the parking spot, Mark tells me to put on my blouse and skirt.  I look a wreck, but he shows no mercy.  First I have to lick off the dildo, then the leather seat itself.  I lap at my come with my tiny tongue, wiping it away.  My pulse is racing and I am sinking into this place of total sexual helplessness.

            “That’s enough, girl.  Come with me.”

            The snapped order, that of a master to a slave, sends jolts to my pussy.  He is already walking, at a brisk pace and I must heel him. I don’t even see my surroundings.  It’s like I’ve never been here before. The elevator, metal cage that it is, fills me with delicious dread.  One more time I have to strip myself bare, and this time I know it is for good for the evening.

            He takes my clothes and tells me to get on all fours. I have to wait like this while he goes inside to prepare.  I hear the sound of ice tinkling, a drink being prepared. Then he goes to the special closet where he finds the cane he is looking for and also a set of leather restraints.

            “Come,” he snaps his fingers, and this time it is crawling he wants and not an orgasm.  The elevator door is open.  He is waiting for me and I think how this is the last chance to get the fuck out. The last chance for sanity.  But I have to know. I have to feel. And goddamn it, what if he’s right?  What if I need the punishment?  It’s too big a thing not to find out. My head is wrapped around it too much.  I can’t just walk away.  It’s…religious in a way.

            Somewhere in the back of my mind I can’t help thinking that Warren wants this for me, too, which is weird, because he was so damned possessive and I can’t picture him leaving me to another man.  Maybe he thinks he found a loophole, though.  Instead of surrendering to the cancer like everyone else, he punches his own ticket and leaves everyone else his marching orders.  It’s like not being here; he still is.

            Damn.  Now I’m mad at Warren again, and here’s this beautiful man (yes, beautiful) standing with a cane, stripped to boxers, wanting me—me—to crawl to him to feel his unique brand of loving.  I can’t let him down.  Can’t let me down.  Much as I hate pain, I have to do this.

            You won’t always want to do it, Warren had said, there will be times you won’t be able to not fight, but it was times like that made the rest of it count for something.

            This is the hardest part, I think, making my brain get me over that hurdle, the glow of the sex having faded for a moment, just enough to make me think about rebelling.  Hopefully Mark is strong enough to handle this.

            “Come to me,” he repeats.  “Now.  Or leave.”

            Yesssss…he’s doing this right.  Holding the cards, making me the needy one, the bitch in heat that will take the rolled newspaper or anything else on her ass to be loved again by master.  It might be an act on his part, not giving a fuck, but it’s working.  I am going to him on my hands and knees, and unless he physically stops me, I am going to kiss his feet when I got there, too.

            He doesn’t stop me.  I am allowed to put my lips to the top of his foot.  It is a grounding thing, an attempt to keep myself rooted in his flesh, but maybe also to communicate at the most basic level, male to female, across a vast power divide. 

I will worship you, if you will honor me.  I do not expect you to be easy on me…but you must love me and not cast me aside.