Caught By The Throat
Her petite, slender-limbed body swayed slightly as she hung there, occasionally shuffling or trying to stop her swinging with those toe-tips, mostly unsuccessfully. I just hadn't allowed her enough contact with the floor to give her sufficient traction on her feet and toes to move herself in any direction, or stop her movement in any direction in which I wanted her swaying.
Her skin glowed a soft gold in the light of the two-dozen or so candles I had lit around the room, courtesy of the half-Chinese heritage given her by her mother. Her slender limbs were long, enough so to bring her to a height of 5'8", her Virginian father's legacy. But her slightly narrow, almond shaped eyes, glinting almost black in the dim of the candlelight, were slitted, her modest, almost girlish bust lifting and falling steadily with her aroused breathing as her toes shuffled uselessly along the bare wood floor. Courtesy of me.
But I'd left her long enough - I'd finished stringing her up ten minutes ago, and I could see some strain in her eyes as I sat there in my chair in front of her, just watching the flickering shadows play along her tight little body. I delayed for just a moment longer, letting her see that I'd noticed - and dismissed - her discomfort. Her expression began to soften, and I could see that the fire and attitude in her eyes, the spark and anger and defiance that I so treasured in my little Cantonese treasure, had begun to wane, and I couldn't have that. She was always so passionate when she was bitchy. I wanted a hellcat, not a meek old moggie.
Pushing myself up out of hy armchair, I slowly approached her, my bare feet silent along the floor, my jeans snug along my lower half, my chest - rather more fair-skinned than hers, and lacking her fetching feminine curves - bare and shirtless. "Bastard," she hissed as I approached, and I drank in her curse like wine, savoring it as I stepped around behind her, taking up a thick, black leather collar and lifting it to wrap it around her neck.
She stuggled - of course she did. She snarled and spat, twisting in her restraints, but she simply didn't have the leverage to prevent me from slipping the collar about her neck. I buckled it securely, making sure to obey the two-finger rule, the same as one might do when placing a collar around the neck of a dog or cat. It didn't take long before my little treasure was not only restrained hanging from her wrists, but also had been claimed with my collar.
"Let's see if you will waste your breath on curses when you can only get precious little of it at a time, shall we?" I challenged, lifting a hand and lying it along one of her teenaged buttocks, fitting the taut curve of it into the cup of my palm. She was petite enough that her ass cheek did indeed fit neatly into my grip with almost no overflow, and I used that grip to hold her still so she didn't swing while I affixed a clip to the d-ring at the back of the collar, fixing that to another chain hanging from the same rafter to which her arms-restraints were secured.
This one was slightly different, however - rather than hooking to an eye-bolt, this chain ran through a sturdy pulley that was sunk into the rafter by with an eye-bolt, and the excess chain was fed into a heavy winch of sorts bolted to the floor behind her. I walked to the winch and started to turn the crank, the heavy clacking echoing loudly in the room as the slack in the chain was taken up. I couldn't see, but I could well imagine the widening of her almond eyes, the parting of her thin, soft lips, the slightly anxious expression across her face as the chain tightened with the loud clacking and began applying upwards pressure to that collar around her neck.
I watched carefully, eyeing the collar around her neck, to make absolutely sure that the pressure was all where I wanted it. But I had prepared well tonight, and the thick, fur-padded collar, a match to her wrist-cuffs, seemed to be applying force evenly around her throat. I paused with it pulling just enough to be uncomfortable, without being dangerous, and locked the winch, moving to walk around to stand in front of her.
I got a quick, brief glimpse of the aroused panic in her eyes before she forced her face to harden into a scowling mask that gave me nothing. She swallowed - or tried to. With the pressure on her throat from the suspended collar, swallowing was an act of will, now, rather than a reflex. It took a few tries, but she managed it, and, her voice slightly strained and hoarse, again growled "Bastard" with a sneer of victorious defiance.
I was unfazed - she could have whatever attitude she wanted, but she would break. Nodding at her curse, I simply walked around behind her again, and started turning the winch-crank once more. Two seconds. Three, Five. I watched as the collar began to stretch as more and more of her weight was taken off her arms to be applied to her neck and throat, my eyes observing her body intently for signs of actual distress.
Locking the winch in place, I walked back around her, looking into her eyes once more, this time lifting my hand to rest it along her cheek, the backs of my knuckles brushing along her cheekbone. Her eyes were more worried, now, and her breathing was strained, every slow, labored inhalation requiring an act of concentration. Swallowing had become a forgotten chore, impossible in the circumstances. "Am I still a bastard?" I asked, my glinting blue eyes meeting hers, unable to keep a smirking smile from my lips.
Her lips moved, but she couldn't speak - she just didn't have enough breath to form words. I nodded, and lowered my hand, letting my knuckles brush across the peak of one of her dark gold nipples as they descended down the front of her body, feeling its taut stiffness. Her nipples were one of my favorite things about her body - they couldn't lie. When she was heavily aroused, they became so hard that no clothing of less than three layers could hide them. Maybe a heavy cable-knit sweater, but her excitement could easily be seen through a regular bra, tank top, and t-shirt, all worn at the same time.
And sensitive, so very sensitive. At the brush of my knuckles, a shiver coursed through her young body, and a nearly soundless, wordless moan, a lot like a gasp in reverse, bubbled up from her constricted throat, and I looked up to watch her eyes roll in their sockets at the touch. Smiling, I dared to lean in to kiss the corner of her mouth. It was a risk - she'd bitten me on the lower lip once when I'd dared take that liberty, but this time, I was fairly sure her head was well-controlled, and the only thing her teeth would be doing would be trying to stay out of the way of her breath as it made its laborious way in and out of her mouth.
She almost seemed not to notice the kiss, her lips moving to return it on pure reflex, her eyes having fluttered closed, the girl running on instinct. I flicked my tongue at her lower lip, then let my hand drop lower, slipping between her slender thighs, cupping her there. My palm and fingers were almost immediately drenched - the girl was very nearly literally dripping wet. I brushed my fingertips along her folds, her heat almost scalding, watching her body buck weakly at the sensation.
Another gasping moan as I dragged the tip of my middle finger between her lower lips, gathering her dew along the tip of it - well, I intended to wet the tip of my finger. Her arousal saw to it that almost the entire length of that digit was wetted, as if I had already thrust it into her. Lifting it away from her body, to the sound of a protesting moan of loss from my toy, I brought it to my lips, licking, kissing, sucking the musky sweetness from my skin, making sure she was watching every second, making a bit of a show of it for her benefit, 'mmm'ing softly as I genuinely enjoyed the taste of my plaything gotten from the source.
Once my finger was reasonably 'cleaned', I slipped my hand back down to cup her in my palm, gently grinding the heel of it against the little Pearl of Venus tucked carefully beneath her clitoral hood. It responded immediately, tightening, swelling very slightly in answer to the glide of my hand over it, and her body bucked, a strangled shriek erupting from her throat as I teased her clitoris.
But it was not to be - I paused, moving my hand away, letting her fingertips drag over her wet folds as I withdrew. "Bas...tard..." she managed to croak as I left her wanting, looking down to her inner thigh and watching a slow trickle of slightly viscous juice make its way toward her knee. "Oh, yes - you truly despise me," I taunted, looking back up to her face, smiling openly, knowing it would antagonize her even further. "You drip like a whore fresh from a bathtub at my attentions, and you curse me. I only do what I know you want."
She fell silent, but the curl of her top lip to show her teeth told me that, despite being painfully aroused and barely able to breathe, she was still banking those fires within for later punishment aimed in my direction. That wouldn't do. She had to know, unquestioningly, that she belonged to me, and feel it, truly, in every bone, every inch of skin. There would be no retribution later, once she realized it would be futile and would only earn her more of the same.
I looked deeply into her eyes - no broken blood vessels to indicate potential actual damage or overdoing the restriction of her breathing. I glanced to her collar, confirming that the pressure was on her windpipe, and not her arteries or veins. But, just to be safe, I walked back around her and slowly unwound the winch, easing pressure on her throat. A little. She might thrash about with what I had planned next, and if most of the pressure was on her throat when she did...that could spell bad news. One may play roughly with their favorite toys, but one does not break them. That is just...senseless. I would no sooner kill the last two leopards on Earth, or set about a Van Gogh painting with a scalpel.
I heard her cough and take in a deep breath, but it was still labored, still difficult, if not quite as much so as before. I opened a drawer, and reached in, taking from it a small case. I carried the case around and stood in front of her, and watched her eyes widen in fear as she saw it. "No. Bu yao!" she vocalized, slipping into Mandarin Chinese in her fear. But I watched her eyes carefully, all my own senses engaged. She had, at least not yet, said 'Ghuan', or 'Stork', in Mandarin, so I felt free to proceed.
I opened the box, the candlelight casting a glinting reflection onto her chest and face as I did. Inside were three tools - all long, slender, and wickedly sharp. The pride of my collection, and the tool I used most rarely - my knives. I set the box to the side, and picked one out of the case, handling it with almost a sense of reverence, the gleaming blade casting candle-shine about the room. I stepped forward, and turned the knife, pressing the cold, unforgiving flat of it along her belly, quite low down.
She froze. And when I say that, I mean it almost literally. All movement from her completely ceased. Her eyes, wide and unflinching, closed. Her hands, tightened into fists, opened and almost went limp. Her legs dangled, and a breath was caught in her chest. She was, for a moment, as still as a shop mannequin. I slowly, carefully, slid the blade lower, and let the flat of it glide along her lower folds, smearing her need and arousal along the blade, and turned my hand just a fraction, just enough to let her feel the sharpness of the steel without actually cutting her.
A gasp clawed its way out of her throat when she felt that, and I drew the knife away in case she twitched, not wanting to do my toy any harm. Accidental harm, at any rate. When I saw that she was unhurt, I started to lightly poke the needle-tip of my dagger into her skin, starting along her triceps, dimpling the skin, depressing it without breaking it, leaving tiny little marks that disappeared in seconds.
I made of her a human pin-cushion that way, along the spare 'meat' of her arms, the barely-there firmness of her breasts, the nipples (one of which I did deliberately poke just the tiniest bit too hard, resulting in a single bead of crimson welling up at the tip, and causing her to wail voicelessly as she twitched in her bonds). I spared her not at all, threatening to pierce the fine, soft skin wrapped over her narrow hipbones, along her flat, almost concave belly, even across the flesh of her buttocks and along the backs of her thighs.
By the time I was finished, she was literally drooling, saliva dribbling from the corner of her mouth, eyes closed, and she had actually dripped a small puddle of juice onto the floor between her feet. I carefully wiped the knife off, and replaced it in its case, then slipped my hand between her thighs with no warning, thrusting it there, watching her eyes fly open, her entire body tightening and becoming strained again.
I was merciless, I have no shame admitting it. I attacked her tiny pearl, the little button hidden by her hood, my fingertips assaulting it. Fast, tight, tiny circles atop it, making her pant, and shriek, making her hips thrust forward, her breath, already strained, coming more and more labored. It did not take long - a minute. Two. Three, at the most, and then her eyes flicked to mine, staring, pleading in them, beseeching me. "Please..." she croaked.
I slowed my touches, making her half-scream in frustration. But even though I had slowed, I had still not stopped, and I saw hope bloom alongside the need in her eyes that I might yet allow her some satisfaction. "Please, what?" I asked. "And remember who you address."
She swallowed heavily against a dry and aching throat. "Please...let me," she asked, her words slow, head dropping in defeat. "Please, let me...cum. Sir," she whispered, then lifted her face, looking into my eyes, her entreaty absolutely genuine and heartfelt.
I rubbed a little more, and smiled, licking my lips before withdrawing my hand, lifting it up to lick my fingers clean while she watched. She whined, wordlessly pled with me for that orgasm that I had denied her, trying to stomp one foot on air, to no avail. "Please!" she cried, leaning forward, letting her wrists and throat take more strain as she attempted to sway her body toward me. "I addressed...you properly. I'll...do anything...you want," she offered, having to gasp a breath every couple of words.
I let her make her pointless offers, just smiling, knowing I had, quite literally, the upper hand. "No. Not tonight," I told her, closing my knife-case and putting it away, locking the drawer. "Perhaps tomorrow, if I think you are genuine, and not simply needy." I left her there for a moment, watching it sink in that I really and truly did have the power, my arms folded over my chest as my steely blue eyes kept contact with her soft dark ones.
Finally, she bowed her head, swallowing hard again, her breath coming even more labored. "Yes...sir," she finally conceded. I walked around behind her, and unhooked the collar from the chain, allowing her to breathe freely again, smiling as I heard the sound of a great, whooping, gasping breath filling her chest. Then, the cuffs were unfastened, allowing her weight to settle down onto the soles of her feet again. I led her over to my bed, sitting down next to her and taking her wrists in my hands, massaging them steadily and firmly, encouraging the blood flow back into her hands.
As I worked on one hand, she lifted the other, touching the collar around her neck, and smiled at me. "Can I sleep in it? Just for tonight? You never let me sleep in my collar," she asked, her tone more conversational, much less the hellcat and more the beloved, affectionate submissive she really was to me.
"For tonight. Only for tonight," I told her, moving to lie down and drawing her down in front of me, slipping my arm around her narrow waist, fitting her back against my chest. "If you have any problems, wake me up."
"I will, promise," she murmured, shifting a little, getting comfortable.
"I love you, Sandra," I murmured into her delicate little ear, kissing behind it gently.
"I love you too, Daddy."
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