She never gave me her real name; from the second she snapped her fingers and told me to kneel in her dimly lit basement apartment I called her Mistress. The place smelled faintly of cigarette smoke, cheap incense, and that unmistakable heavy scent of a woman who’d already been touching herself—wet musk mixed with the faint metallic tang of metal toys left out too long. Black walls, peeling in places, covered in old scratches and unidentifiable stains I never dared ask about. One red bulb hung from the ceiling, throwing bloody shadows over her collection: worn leather straps, a heavy wooden paddle with her initials burned into it crookedly, coils of rough sisal rope that looked like they’d tied down far less willing bodies than mine.

That first night she didn’t even undress properly. Tight black jeans hugging her thick thighs, a ripped old band t-shirt, no bra—nipples stabbing against the thin cotton like they were daring me to stare. She caught me looking and gave that low, throaty laugh that always made my cock twitch before she laid a finger on me.

She was right. A dark wet spot had bloomed across the front of the cheap five-pack briefs she’d ordered me to wear—no fancy jocks, no silk, just the kind of plain cotton a desperate boy grabs at the discount store. She loved making me keep them on for days sometimes, until the smell of my own precum and sweat clung to me everywhere I went.

“Strip them off with your teeth.”

I hesitated half a second. Her palm cracked across my cheek—not hard enough to bruise, just sharp enough to sting my pride awake. I dropped to all fours, crawled the two pathetic steps to where she’d kicked my jeans away earlier, and sank my teeth into the damp waistband. The taste hit immediately: salt, musk, the faint bitter edge of my own arousal. I dragged them slowly down my thighs, ass high, cock swinging heavy and useless between my legs, already trailing a thin silver string of precum onto the concrete.

“Good bitch,” she purred, fisting my hair and yanking my head back so I had to look up into her face. Her other hand slid between her legs, rubbing herself through the denim. I could hear the wet friction even through the thick fabric—obscene, slick sounds that flooded my mouth with saliva.

“You want to taste your Mistress, don’t you? Want to bury that greedy tongue so deep in my cunt you forget how to breathe?”

I nodded like an idiot, drool still connecting my lips to the soaked cotton clenched in my teeth.

She laughed again, darker. “Not yet. First you’re cleaning the floor you just drooled on.”

She shoved my face down until my cheek kissed cold concrete. My tongue flicked out before she even finished the sentence. I lapped at the small glistening puddle of my own precum, the taste sharp and degrading, while she towered over me, one boot planted beside my head like she was pissing on territory.

When she decided I’d humiliated myself enough for the warm-up, she dragged me by the hair to an old metal chair bolted straight into the floor in the middle of the room. No fancy St. Andrew’s cross or padded bench—just her home, her rules, her furniture. Rough rope bit into my wrists as she lashed them behind the chair back, then tied my ankles to the front legs, spreading my thighs wide. My cock stood straight up, flushed angry red, head shiny and swollen, a fat bead of precum trembling at the slit.

She circled me slowly, predator deciding where to sink teeth first. Fingers trailed over my chest, pinching nipples until I hissed, then lower, ghosting the length of my shaft without actually touching.

“Look at this sad little dick,” she murmured, flicking the head so hard I yelped. “Thinks it’s worthy of my cunt. Thinks it deserves to cum.”

She spat right onto the tip—thick glob that mixed with my precum and ran down in slow, humiliating rivulets. Then she turned away, rummaged in a drawer, came back with a thin stainless sound—long, curved, gleaming evil under the red light.

My stomach clenched. Nothing had ever gone inside my cock before.

“Relax, slut,” she said, almost sweetly—which somehow made the fear spike harder. “If you clench you’ll only make it hurt worse.”

She poured lube over the rod—thick, clear, dripping—then worked more into my piss slit with her thumb until I whimpered. The first press of cold metal against the opening made every muscle lock.

“Breathe.”

She pushed.

The stretch was instant, brutal, intimate in a way that short-circuited my brain. Inch by inch she fed it inside, twisting slightly, watching my face with dark, hungry eyes. When it finally bottomed out, pressing something deep that made my balls draw tight, I was shaking, tears leaking without permission.

“Such a pretty pain slut,” she whispered, leaning down to lick the salty tracks off my cheek. “Now hold still while your Mistress fucks your cock from the inside.”

She started sliding the sound—slow drags at first, then faster, fucking my urethra like it was just another hole. Every stroke sent jolts through my pelvis; pleasure and agony braided so tight I couldn’t separate them. My hips jerked uselessly against the ropes, chasing the feeling even as it wrecked me.

“Please—” I gasped.

“Please what?” She froze the rod buried deep. “Please let you cum? Please take it out? Please hurt you more?”

I didn’t even know.

She yanked the sound free in one smooth pull. My cock throbbed violently, gaping slightly at the tip, obscenely empty. Before I could catch my breath she straddled my lap—still dressed except for the zipper she’d tugged open on her jeans. No panties. Just her hot, dripping cunt hovering above my aching shaft.

“You don’t get to fuck me,” she said, grinding her swollen clit against the head, coating me in her slick. “You get to be my filthy little cum dump.”

She sank down just enough to trap the head inside her, clenching viciously around it. I groaned loud enough to echo. Then she rose again, leaving me weeping at the loss.

Over and over she teased—tip only, sometimes half the shaft, never enough to thrust, never enough to cum. Nails dug into my shoulders, leaving red half-moons. Breath hot against my ear as she hissed the dirtiest things.

“You love being my bitch, don’t you? Love knowing your cock exists only for my amusement. Love knowing I could lock it away for months and you’d still crawl back begging to lick the dirt off my boots.”

“Yes Mistress—yes—please—”

She finally took me to the root, slamming down until her ass slapped my thighs. The sudden heat, the tight wet grip, the filthy wet sound—it was too much. I came instantly, violently, pumping thick ropes deep inside her without asking.

She didn’t stop.

She rode through my orgasm, grinding her clit against my pubic bone, chasing her own while my oversensitive cock screamed. When she came—shuddering, cursing, nails raking bloody lines down my chest—she clenched so hard I thought she’d snap me in half.

Then she lifted off. My spent cock slipped free, followed by a thick gush of my cum mixed with hers. It splattered my thighs, the chair, the floor.

“Look at the mess you made,” she said, mock disappointment dripping from every word. “Clean it.”

She untied one hand—just enough. I scooped the sticky mess onto trembling fingers and brought them to my mouth, sucking them clean while she watched, smiling that cruel, satisfied smile.

That was only the beginning.

Over the following months she broke every limit I thought I owned. Wore her used panties to work under my suit, crotch still damp from her morning session. Edged me for hours with her mouth, stopping every edge, sent me home aching and leaking. Pissed across my chest in the shower while I knelt, laughing as I opened wide to catch what I could. Fucked my ass with bigger and bigger plugs while she jerked me, only allowing release when the toy was buried balls-deep.

The nights I remember most, though, are when she turned me into furniture.

One evening she had a friend over—tall, severe, eyes colder than even hers. They drank red wine, laughed about their week while I knelt naked beside the couch, cock locked in tight steel, heavy chain leash clipped to my collar.

When the friend needed an ashtray, Mistress just pointed at my open mouth. I stayed frozen while the woman tapped ash onto my tongue, bitter taste mixing with spit until I had to swallow or choke.

Later, when they were buzzed and horny, Mistress ordered me onto all fours in the center of the room. The friend hiked her skirt—no underwear—and sank onto my face, grinding her soaked pussy over my mouth while Mistress strapped on and fucked my ass raw—no warm-up, no lube beyond spit, slamming against my prostate until I moaned into wet folds.

They swapped, used every hole, rode my face, my caged cock, my stretched ass. By the end I was glazed in their cum, my own leaking in ruined spurts through the bars, throat raw, hole gaping and pulsing.

When the friend left, Mistress dragged me to bed by the leash.

“You were a good boy tonight,” she said, almost soft. Unlocked the cage. My cock sprang free, painfully hard.

She pushed me flat, straddled my face, rode my tongue until she flooded my mouth again. Only then did she sink onto me—slow, deep, whispering how proud she was of her filthy little slut.

I came so hard the room went black for a second. Woke to her lightly slapping my cheek, laughing.

“Don’t pass out yet, pet. Night’s young.”

She was right.

She never stopped finding new ways to ruin me, degrade me, remind me I belonged to her—body, mind, every dripping desperate inch. Every time I thought I’d hit bottom, she shoved me deeper—made me beg for things I once swore I’d never do, made me thank her for the pain, the shame, the pleasure so sharp it felt like punishment.

Because that’s what a bad Mistress does.

She doesn’t play nice. She doesn’t follow safe words unless she feels like it. She breaks you until you’re remade exactly how she wants—aching, leaking, devoted, and so fucking ruined for anyone else.

And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

The post Mistress Doesn’t Play Nice (And I Love It) first appeared on Fetish Stories.

I didn’t speak when she stepped inside. I just closed the door, locked it, and let the silence stretch until her breathing was the loudest thing in the room. Then I told her to strip. Slowly. She peeled the dress off like she was unwrapping a gift for me, and when it hit the floor I had to clench my jaw to keep from grabbing her right there. Her body was soft in all the places I like to bruise—full tits with pale pink nipples already peaked, a gentle swell of belly, wide hips, thick thighs that pressed together when she was nervous. Between them, she was already glistening. The scent of her arousal hit me like a drug.

I walked around her once, twice, letting my fingers trail lightly over her skin—shoulders, spine, the curve of her ass, the inside of her thigh. Every touch made her shiver. When I stopped behind her, I pressed my chest to her back so she could feel how hard I was through my jeans.

“You’re mine until Monday,” I whispered against her ear. “Every inch of you. Every sound you make. Every orgasm. Every tear. Mine.”

She nodded, a tiny, desperate movement. “Yes, Sir.”

That was all I needed.

I led her to the center of the room where the suspension ring hung from the reinforced beam. The ropes were already waiting—natural jute tonight, undyed, rough as hell. I love the way it bites. I started with her wrists, binding them together in front of her with a simple double column tie, then lifted her arms high and hooked the rope to the ring. She rose onto her toes immediately, back arching, tits lifting like an offering. I took my time admiring her like that—stretched, vulnerable, breathing fast.

The chest harness came next. I worked slowly, deliberately, wrapping the rope above and below her breasts, cinching tight until they bulged obscenely between the strands. Her nipples darkened, swelled, begged for attention I wasn’t ready to give yet. Every pull of the rope drew a soft gasp from her lips. When I knotted it off behind her back, she was already trembling.

I stepped close, let my mouth hover just over one nipple without touching. “You’re going to hurt so good for me this weekend,” I murmured. Then I bit down—hard. She cried out, hips jerking forward, trying to grind against nothing. I soothed the bite with my tongue, then bit the other side just as cruelly. By the time I pulled away, both nipples were red, swollen, and shining with my spit.

I added the hip harness next. The rope went low around her waist, then down between her legs. I took my time positioning the knot—right over her clit, thick and unforgiving. When I pulled it tight, she moaned long and low, thighs clenching around the rope. I could see her juices already soaking into the jute.

“Already dripping,” I said, sliding two fingers through her folds. She was scalding hot, slick as sin. I pushed inside without warning, curled my fingers, and she clenched around me instantly. “This greedy little cunt is going to be sore by Sunday.”

I finger-fucked her slowly while I finished the leg ties—futomomo on both sides, folding each thigh to calf so her legs were forced wide and she hung completely open. The crotch rope pulled even tighter now, grinding relentlessly against her clit with every tiny movement. She was panting, eyes glazed, already halfway gone.

I stepped back to look. Goddamn. She was art—pale skin marked with the first red lines of rope, tits crushed and swollen, cunt flushed dark pink and dripping down the rope between her legs. My cock was leaking steadily now, straining against my zipper.

I stripped slowly, letting her watch. When I finally freed myself, I stroked once, twice, smearing pre-cum over the head. Her eyes locked on my cock like she was starving.

“Want it?” I asked, stepping close enough that the tip brushed her lips.

She nodded frantically, tongue darting out.

I let her have just the head—let her suck greedily for a few seconds—then pulled away. “Not yet.”

I moved behind her instead, gripped the suspension ropes, and slammed into her in one brutal thrust. She screamed, body swinging forward from the force. Her pussy was so tight, so wet, it took my breath away. I didn’t give her time to adjust. I started fucking her hard, using the ropes to yank her back onto me with every stroke. The crotch knot ground against her clit relentlessly; her moans turned into broken sobs.

I reached around and twisted her nipples while I pounded into her, pulling until she howled. “You’re just a toy tonight,” I growled into her ear. “A pretty little fucktoy hanging in my ropes.”

She came hard, suddenly, without permission—pussy clamping down on me like a vice, squirting down my thighs in messy pulses. I didn’t stop. I fucked her through it, harder, until she was sobbing from overstimulation.

When I finally pulled out, she hung limp, twitching, cum and her own juices dripping steadily from her cunt. I unhooked her arms, let her collapse to her knees, then fed my cock into her mouth. She sucked like her life depended on it—messy, desperate, gagging when I pushed too deep. I used her hair to control the pace, fucking her throat until spit ran down her chin and onto her bound tits.

I came down her throat with a groan, holding her nose against my stomach until she swallowed every drop.

That was just Friday night.

Saturday morning I woke her with my mouth between her legs. She was still marked from the night before—deep rope burns across her chest, thighs, bite marks on her tits and shoulders. I ate her slowly, lazily, until she was grinding against my face and begging to come. I let her—once—then tied her spread-eagle on the bed with soft cotton rope so I could tease her for hours.

I used everything: ice cubes on her nipples, feathers between her thighs, my tongue everywhere except where she needed it most. I edged her until she was crying, until she promised me anything, everything. Then I flipped her over, tied her in a strict hogtie, and fucked her ass for the first time. Slow at first—she was tight, untouched there—but then harder, deeper, until she was pushing back against me, moaning like a whore. I came inside her with her face pressed into the mattress, her hands and feet bound together behind her back.

Saturday afternoon we did floor work. I tied her in a decorative karada—a full body harness that framed every curve, every sensitive spot. The ropes crossed between her legs again, knot on her clit, and I made her crawl around the apartment like that, following me on hands and knees. Every movement rubbed the rope against her. She was dripping constantly, leaving little wet spots on the floor. I’d stop randomly, make her present herself, finger her until she was on the edge, then pull away.

By evening she was delirious. I suspended her face-down this time, parallel to the floor, legs spread wide in a straddle. Her cunt and ass were completely exposed, swaying gently. I used a vibrator on her clit through the rope while I fucked her mouth from the front. She came so many times I lost count—squirting, screaming around my cock, body shaking in the ropes until she went completely limp.

I left her hanging there while I made dinner. Just rocking gently, covered in sweat and cum, rope marks deep and gorgeous. When I finally lowered her, she couldn’t stand. I carried her to the couch, fed her by hand, held water to her lips. She curled into me like a kitten, whispering “thank you” over and over.

Sunday was slower. More intimate. I tied her in a simple box tie, arms behind her back, and sat her on my lap facing me. We fucked like that for hours—slow, deep, grinding. I kissed every mark I’d left, told her how beautiful she was, how perfect. When she came, it was quiet, shuddering, tears running down her face from the intensity of it all.

Late Sunday afternoon I did one final suspension—partial this time, just enough to take some weight off her feet. I tied her standing, one leg lifted and bound to the side so she was open and balanced on the edge of pain and pleasure. I entered her from behind, slow and possessive, one hand on the ropes, the other on her throat. We stayed like that forever, moving together, breathing together, until we both came in long, drawn-out waves.

When I untied her for the last time, her body was a map of the weekend—rope burns crisscrossing her skin in perfect patterns, bruises blooming purple and yellow, bite marks, handprints. She stood in front of the mirror with me behind her, tracing every mark with trembling fingers.

“Look what you let me do to you,” I whispered.

She smiled, soft and wrecked. “Look what you did to me.”

I wrapped her in a blanket, held her on the couch while she floated. Eventually she looked up at me, eyes clear for the first time in days.

“That was the most intense thing I’ve ever felt,” she said. “Thank you.”

I kissed her forehead. “Thank you for trusting me.”

She left Monday morning wearing one of my hoodies and a pair of loose sweatpants to hide the marks. But I knew they were there. I knew every time she moved, every time she sat down, every time she breathed deep, she’d feel me. She’d feel the ropes. She’d feel the weekend we spent lost in each other.

That’s what shibari is to me. Not just rope. Not just kink. It’s connection so deep it hurts. It’s trust so complete it’s terrifying. It’s taking someone apart piece by piece and putting them back together marked, changed, owned—even if just for a weekend.

I still get hard thinking about her hanging in my ropes, body covered in my marks, cunt dripping, mouth open in silent screams of pleasure and pain.

I still dream about the sounds she made when she finally broke.

And I know she dreams about it too.

Because that’s shibari. Real shibari. The kind that lives under your skin long after the ropes come off.

The post The Weekend She Never Forgot first appeared on Fetish Stories.