The scene had begun, but nothing was happening. The camera hovered over me, its lens glinting as the zoom was adjusted. So I made a show of struggling, of pulling against the restraints, of pouting in despair. As if I needed to struggle to know I was stuck. Thick iron shackles encircled my wrists; these were chained around a metal bar, which was bolted into the floorboards at both ends. My ankles were likewise shackled, their chain wrapped around the very same metal bar. I stood doubled-over another metal bar, which was bolted to two vertical bars, which in turn were also drilled into the floor. The horizontal bar against my navel held my legs straight, ass naked and exposed, pussy dripping with arousal.

I knew I was stuck. I didn't need to struggle to know this - the bondage was simply too secure. But the camera loved my struggles, and so I struggled. I struggled against the chains pulling my wrists and ankles to the ground, which rattled as they ground back and forth behind the bar, every link as unyielding as the last. I struggled against the bar at my waist, trying to budge it or retract my protruding ass, but my efforts barely produced a wobble. At first my struggles were simply against the metal restraints, demonstrating their inescapability for any future viewers to see. But then I struggled for attention - more specifically, to draw attention to the parts of my body that begged for satisfaction. I struggled because the leering camera was doing nothing for my arousal.

Yes, the bondage is real, I can't escape, I'm truly stuck. Now can we move on to the part where you press a Hitachi vibrator to my trembling cunt?

The vibrator is not forthcoming; however, the camera suddenly takes a great interest in examining my glistening pussy. I imagine every voyeur getting off to my unquenched arousal and find myself dripping even more.

I turn my inverted head every which way, trying to see where the camera has moved to now, but shackled and folded over as I am, my visibility is limited and my range of motion even more so.

THWACK.

I yelp and jerk violently, the metal restraints again proving their inflexibility as I fail to budge one inch. My naked ass now burns more than my starved pussy had only moments ago, and with a pain more acute than any length of denial.

THWACK.

I howl and thrash my head, long hair flying everywhere as if charged with static electricity. The gag reminds me of its presence as my jaw clenches down hard, barely squeezing the large silicone orb.

THWACK.

My shackled feet buck and kick, chain rattling loudly as the movement is denied. The metal bar continues to hold my ass aloft, an easy target for the tool's continued onslaught.

I wait for the fourth strike, but there is a pause and I wonder if my harsh reactions have inspired a rare moment of mercy.

Then the implement touches my pussy softly and I know my reactions have only incited further wrath. I know now that the implement of my torment is a cane - a simple wooden rod rendered a weapon of torture in the right hands. I know also that despite the pain the rod has inflicted, my pussy has only swelled in relish and now throbs with insatiable arousal, engorged and impossibly sensitive. The cane touches it again, its length parallel with my lips, and I whimper. I know begging is futile, even foolhardy, but I can't stop myself.

"Pwweeshh Maasser, noh my pussy..."

There is no response, as I expected, and the cane rubs harder, penetrating my outer labia, sliding over the sensitive folds within.

Thwack.

The impact is lighter than before, but amplified a hundredfold by every nerve ending in my sex-starved snatch. My legs shake uncontrollably as molten hot pain shoots across my body.

"Fuuuuuuuuggghhhh," I gasp, every muscle thrashing against my will. The metal bondage continues to hold me faithfully in place under Master's will, for without it I would be a trembling heap on the floor.

Thwack.

The cane is back to rapping my hoisted ass, and I've never been more glad. The pain is almost bearable now, almost within a threshold where I can tune it out and drift off into my own world.

But Master has other plans. There will be no escape into subspace today, it seems; today I am all his to torment.

The unzipping of his fly is my only warning before he plunges deep into my swollen pussy and holds there, hips flush with my ass. I can feel how hard I've made him - it gives me no small satisfaction to know that I'm responsible for the rod of iron now stretching me open.

He leans forward, pressing harder inside me, and whispers words that turn my blood to ice.

"What was that you said, pet? 'Not my pussy?'"

I shake my head in self-pity as my insolence comes back to bite me. This turns out to be another mistake, for he grabs my messy hair and pulls my head up roughly, where my eyes meet the camera lens pointed back at me. At the same time, Master slides out of my pussy and pokes his throbbing manhood into the tighter hole, freshly lubed with my own traitorous nectar. He pushes inside me and this time I grimace and groan as my ass widens to accommodate the veiny intruder. He grunts in satisfaction as my sphincter tightens around the base of his cock.

He pulls halfway out and thrusts again, and again, building in speed and ferocity as my ass loosens and his climax grows nearer. Still his hand clenches my hair, my head forced up to capture every nuanced grimace on film.

I feel a surge travel down his cock and next he's pumping my ass full of his warm seed, releasing long ragged breaths as he enjoys a powerful climax. He pulls out, my sphincter unwittingly squeezing every last drop from his softening shaft as he withdraws.

"Haank ewe Maasser," I mumble, knowing he loves to hear how much I appreciate being used by him, and desperate to butter him up in the hopes of being granted my own climax.

"You are most welcome, slut," he responds, releasing my hair. My head drops back to peering through my legs and I sigh gratefully.

Master has claimed his climax from me, but the scene is far from over. To the contrary, this is the most trepidatious part. I know all too well how a climax changes a man from one moment to the next: one moment he is consumed by a lust for all things sexual, and the next he is all but indifferent to such things. Whereas my situation hasn't changed one bit. The bondage remains, as secure as ever. My desire remains, as desperate as ever. The only difference now is the hot sludge filling and dripping from my ass - a reality that becomes less sexy and more disgusting with every passing moment. What cause does Master have now to satisfy a used slut's lust? The position I'm in is no help either - bent over like this without even a pretty face to look at, all I am to him is an ass and pussy. Objectification at its finest. And of what interest is a sex object when your appetite for sex has been sated? Indeed, sometimes he simply leaves me locked up and helpless, unconcerned beyond my immediate safety, easily ignoring my hungry pussy once his own desire is satisfied.

A sharp slap to said pussy drags my thoughts back to the present. I raise myself to my tiptoes, lifting my pussy closer to him - the only way I'm able to display my delight. He slaps me again, his fingers already wet with my juices. He runs a finger down my nether lips, beginning just below my leaking sphincter and continuing to my engorged clit, which he taps teasingly. My thighs tingle in anticipation. Perhaps this is one of those times when his arousal transcends a single orgasm.

"You've been such a good girl for me," he says affectionately, his finger tracing the red welts from his earlier handiwork.

He squats down where he can peer through my legs and into my upside-down eyes, which are slightly red from tears I'd barely noticed shedding earlier. He reaches out and cups my chin, then slides up to my collared neck, fingers wrapping gently around my throat.

"Such a good girl," he repeats, stroking my hair.

My eyes are wide as I stare back into his, trying to discern his intentions. As always, this proves to be a lost cause. Not because I don't know him well enough - I know him all too well, as any friend glancing under my clothes after a session with him could attest - but because his desires confound me. A smile can just as well suggest an impending punishment as a reward. A lingering stare might be the precursor to applying cruel clamps or simply a light tickling. With him, things can go either way, and it keeps me on edge, often in more ways than one.

His other hand snakes back up to my clit and he watches my face with mild amusement as he plays with it. It's not long before I'm on the edge again, low moans escaping my gag. Master smiles and slaps my greedy cunt just as my pupils begin to dilate, denying my climax. I whimper pitiably.

"Good girl," he says again, standing up to leave.

I moan and renew my struggles, cursing the unyielding metal restraints. Master adjusts the camera and tripod to a more advantageous view capturing the full extent of my helpless situation. Then he makes his exit from the basement dungeon, closing the soundproofed door behind him and leaving me to my futile struggles.