BDSM Stories: Bound in Her Power Part 2: The Torture of Time

He hung there, suspended, helpless, and weakly pulled at the chains, each clink of metal echoing around the empty room. How long had it been? Hours blurred into days, days felt like weeks. He’d counted two sunsets through the towering arched windows opposite him, yet even that now felt like a distant memory.

His mind replayed her last words on a loop, haunting him with their simplicity and cruelty: “Nothing to do but breathe and endure for me.” The mantra crawled into every crevice of his mind, anchoring itself. No food, no drink, just hunger gnawing at his insides, like flames licking through his abdomen. Yet hunger was nothing compared to the quiet agony of waiting, of hanging there for her.

Her Arrival

The distant chime of a clock bell rang through the silence. Three in the afternoon. As the final note faded, the heavy creak of wood signaled her entrance, the thud of the door slamming shut punctuating her arrival. Then, unmistakable: the sharp, rhythmic sound of her heels clicking against the floor, each step drawing nearer, amplifying his anticipation. The room, a cavern of oppressive silence, transformed with her every step. She was close now. He heard her heels stop, felt her presence, and then finally saw her. She stood before him, her eyes scanning over his weakened, suspended form, taking in the toll of his endurance.

A Show of Power

He lifted his head, but the weight of it felt impossible, like he carried the world itself in his skull. She tilted her head, amusement sparking in her eyes as she observed his futile effort. “Your body is so… small… so light… and pathetic,” she sneered. Her hand reached out, her fingers wrapping around his cock with a touch that was simultaneously soft and unyielding.

She pressed down, just enough to indent his flesh, making it clear he was as fragile as she wanted him to be. “It’s such a delicate thing,” she mused, “I could bruise it, bend it, break it if I wished.” Her gaze bore into his, and he felt his own will shatter under her stare.

In a flash, her grip tightened like a vice, forcing a gasp from him. “Eyes to the floor,” she hissed, her voice laced with venom, “You look at me only when permitted.” His gaze dropped instantly, his obedience absolute. Then, he felt something cold press against his abs. She took a leather belt and wrapped it around the lower half of his abdomen, pulling it tight to restrict the natural expansion of his lungs. A second belt followed, this time fastened higher, compressing his chest even more tightly. The bands constricted his breathing, each inhale becoming an exercise in restraint.

The Gag of Silence

“Look up,” she commanded, and his eyes found her once again, barely able to focus. She held a metal contraption in her hand, a black ball attached, which she shoved into his mouth. The gag forced his jaws open before she clamped his mouth shut around it and locking it into place. He tasted the rubber, felt the pressure on his teeth. “I told you that you have nothing to do but breathe and endure for me. Now I take even that from you.”

Her hand reached for his throat, her nails pressing sharply against his skin as she squeezed. His breath caught, his cock twitching at her touch, his body writhing in response. Just when he thought he’d black out, she released him, letting him gasp for breath as her claws dragged down his chest, testing the firmness of the belts to make sure they were securely tightened.

The Wooden Crop

Her eyes glinted with satisfaction. “How cute,” she whispered, her tone mocking. “Even through your suffering, you still throb for me. What a pitiful, obedient little thing you are.” She ran her thumb over the handle of her wooden riding crop, letting the anticipation build as she tapped it against his cock. Her crop was her weapon of choice, an object of personal significance, modeled after Bruno Zach’s The Riding Crop sculpture she’d once admired. Now, it was more than just an instrument; it was an extension of her will.

Three light taps against his balls sent fresh waves of pain radiating through him. He moaned, muffled by the gag, and drool seeped from the corners of his mouth, dribbling down his chin. She looked down at him, her face expressionless, her eyes cold and assessing. She didn’t see a man begging for relief; she saw a willing servant, someone who wanted nothing more than to be used by her.

Hanging in Submission

She tightened the chains further, positioning him in a horizontal suspension, his legs spread wide and exposing him completely. Her index finger, tipped with a long, blood-red nail, reached down and traced against his most sensitive areas, scraping along his tight asshole, her touch both humiliating and electric. “Now,” she murmured, “you’re going to be a good little bitch and cum for me when I tell you.”

Her hand found his cock, gripping it with renewed force, and she began stroking him in quick, brutal movements. His body jerked with each stroke, the pain from the belts around his chest and abdomen intensifying with every attempt to draw breath. Drool and sweat mingled, running down his face, making him a spectacle of utter degradation. Yet, despite the agony, he felt pleasure rippling through him, twisting his mind until he no longer knew where pain ended and pleasure began.

A Punishing Rhythm

Her pace quickened, her grip unrelenting, each stroke sending shockwaves through his body. She knew every sensitive spot, every place to press just right to drive him to the edge without tipping him over. He tried to scream, but the gag choked his voice, reducing his cries to pathetic, muffled whimpers. His body trembled, straining against the chains, his mind a blur of conflicting sensations. He was desperate to cum, to release the unbearable tension building inside him, but her command hadn’t come. Until it did, he was trapped in a purgatory of her design.

The burning in his lungs was relentless, his vision beginning to blur from lack of oxygen. He felt his consciousness slipping, a faint mist clouding his sight, but he forced himself to stay focused, to stay present. He couldn’t afford to miss her command. The belts seemed to constrict further, squeezing the last ounces of air from him as he hung on the brink of consciousness.

The Final Command

With the flat end of the crop, she delivered a sharp, stinging slap against his balls, then flipped it, pressing the handle against his asshole. She moved it with precision, pushing it in and out, each thrust sending fresh waves of stimulation through him. Her hands worked in tandem, one fucking his cock with merciless speed, the other claiming his ass, taking full possession of his body. He bit down hard on the gag, his scream of agony and ecstasy reduced to a muffled moan as he lost himself in the overwhelming sensations.

And then, finally, her voice cut through his haze, sharp and commanding.

“Cum,”

To Be Continued…