Being Crushed

"Tonight, you little whore-fuck," Master growls, his powerful right hand gripping my hair and grinding my face into the linoleum, "tonight, you're going to finally understand what a worthless slave-cunt you are. You're going to the bottom tonight, bitch. I do mean the bottom. By the time I'm finished, you won't have even a whimper left in you. You'll service me and service me, and it still won't be enough. Because you just don't have what it takes. Do you?"

My nose flattens, my cheeks squash, my mouth splays out streaking saliva across the tile. "Stop slobbering!" Master shouts. "Can't you even control your fucking spit?!" Swiftly, he straddles the small of my back like a man mounting a horse, and using both hands on my neck, presses my lips squarely into the floor. "Get your face down! Where it belongs! Now, I asked you a question! Answer me!"

I try to form words acknowledging my worthlessness, but my lips are mashed into the floor and I make only idiot noises. He punishes me for my failure to answer by rubbing my mouth back and forth, shouting, "Lick it! Lick the floor! Like a whore!"

What Master and I do is actually rather carefully choreographed. He wants to use his strength on me, and I want him to use it. I don't fight him, but I always tense, like an animal at bay, so he can force me to submit. I know his strength and he knows what I can take, so neither of us gets hurt. And if he did hurt me, it would cause him a whole lot more pain, emotionally, than it would me. He has a very gentle temperament. There's nobody kinder. Outside a scene, he would wait on me if I asked (which I don't). But it's my peculiarity that I'm excited by being degraded. Degradation creates a glow in my loins and brings healing to my heart. And it's Master's peculiarity that it excites him to step outside his normally quiet personality now and then and crush a woman. Our peculiarities serve each other well.

I've licked the floor as well as I can without my mouth having much room to maneuver. Master suddenly flips me over onto my back, still straddling my midsection. I lie blinking up at the playroom lights, my lips still smarting. He shoves my arms out to the sides, like I'm on a cross. "Stick your tongue out and let me see the dirt," he sneers. I do (even though there's no dirt on our playroom floor--I see to that). "OK, now eat the dirt. Wouldn't want to get any of your perverted, floor-licking filth on me." I slide my tongue back and forth between my lips, moistening it, and I swallow hard several times.

As I do this, I keep my eyes directly on his. Master has emphasized how important it is to show submission in my eyes. He sometimes makes me practice it by slapping me. Smack! I bring my eyes directly back to his, projecting complete trust in whatever he chooses to do next. Smack! Tears trickle down, but I straighten my face and lift it up proudly to show that I'm ready for my next slap. Smack! Don't let instincts rule--let Master rule. Look directly at him, tell him with your eyes that you accept everything, without exception. When I work on looking at him in this way, it actually does make me feel trusting. I stop wishing for it to be over and just relax into his control. Master can slap me 20 or 30 times, snarling and yelling, tears will be running down my face, and yet my heart will be soft and serene, because I've become able to offer myself entirely to him through my eyes.

Now he leans forward and pins my arms to the floor. Our eyes stay locked. I can feel his tight balls resting on my belly. He lowers his handsome, brutal face to within a few inches of mine. His features become huge, filling my field of vision. I have to turn my eyes inward to be able to see his. They glint cruelly. His mouth is set hard. No matter how often we do it, this brutally dominating face-confrontation always takes my breath away. It makes me feel genuinely scared.

He speaks in a low, threatening voice. "Little bitch," he says, "lower your goddamn eyes." I lower them quickly. Now I'm looking down his hairy chest, at his hard belly and thighs, and his stiff penis poking up at an angle. "Now," he says, "I'm going to show you what I think you're worth." He pulls back some, hawks, and spits hard in my face. Then he does it again. I keep my eyes lowered. His saliva is hot and sticky. It runs off the side of my nose to the corner of my lips, which begin to tremble. I'm getting that stricken feeling deep in my gut. It means I'm on my way down to where I belong. I'm also starting to flow between my legs.

He spits a third time, this time right into my eyes. "What do you say?" he demands.

"Thank you, Master."

"'Thank you' for what, Miss Spittyface?"

"For spitting on my face, Master," I falter. "I'm not w-worthy of your spit."

His face comes back very close to mine. My eyes are lowered, so I can't see it, but I feel his hot breath. I smell the wine we drank with dinner. I catch a whiff of his faintly metallic sexual excitement odor.

"You're not just ugly, you're sickening. You disgust me."

I nod slightly, and now a tear leaks out. "I know, Master. Thank you."

"I'd rather play with shit than touch your stinking carcass."

"Yes, Master. Th-thank you for t-touching me."

"Your breath smells bad, your armpits stink, your crotch stinks. You don't keep yourself very clean, do you?"

"No, M-master," I sob. "I w-wish I w-weren't so dirty for you."

"Do you even wipe your ass when you shit?"

"Yes, Master, but maybe I don't d-do it right."

"I guess not. You always smell like shit. What do I do to a cunt who doesn't keep her asshole clean?"

"Y-you hurt her--m-me--in m-my asshole, Master. You hurt me so I'll be c-clean."

"Yes, I do. I think I ought to hurt you tonight. What do you think?"

Now my tears are copious enough to run down my cheeks. I snuffle noisily. "I th-think Master sh-should t-teach me m-my lesson," I manage to get out. I can hardly speak. It doesn't matter that in my rational mind I know I haven't done anything wrong. I'm completely helpless under Master's weight and power and the immensity of his male need. I see things his way. I am absolutely, totally, contemptibly female--weak and soft, easily scared, helplessly oozing fluids and odors, laughably unable to stand up to a male and much better off if instead I cower helplessly before him. I feel deserving of any punishment he chooses for me (which I know from experience can be long and complicated and painful). But inside, I'm well on my way to subspace. My heart rate is up in that wonderfully enlivening way. My nipples are firm, my clit is erect, and warm wetness is gathering in my helpless female cunt. Deep in my brain, my inner sub is saying, "You're water--let yourself flow to your true level."

"Look at me," snaps Master. He knows it's harder for me to look at him properly, now that I'm having these feelings. But his commands always make me feel braver than I am. I raise my eyes, trying to make them say: "I'm ready for whatever my Master feels like giving me."

"Would you like to be useful to me, dirtbag?"

"I'd d-do anything for you, Master."

"Would you like to clean out my smelly asshole with your tongue?"

"M-master, I'd be th-thrilled if you'd allow my tongue to t-touch any part of you."

"Well, maybe you can earn the privilege of getting some hole in your filthy body fucked if you wipe my anus nice and clean with your slave-tongue. Aren't you a lucky fucky?"

"Yes, Master."

He lets go of my arms and knee-walks forward. His jutting cock with its big knob and his angry dark scrotum pass over my face. A man's erection sticking out arrogantly, telling the world that he's about to fuck somebody, is simply the most exciting sight I know. Seeing it now sets off new inner gushes. I feel a thin warm trickle leak down the inside of one buttock.

Master spreads his knees wide, positions his ass over my face, and settles his weight back onto his thighs, putting his hairy crack tightly over my face. He rests enough weight on me that for a second I panic and make muffled cries. "Shut up," he says. "I can sit on my toilet if I want." He overdoes the weight deliberately, both now and several more times during the act, because he knows it scares me. But, mostly, he'll support his weight on his hands enough so I not only can breathe, but I feel wonderfully, safely enclosed by the deepest, darkest cleft in my Master's body. I feel like my whole personality is tucked here his ass.

Master's crack is slightly slippery with sweat. I breathe its odor in. His coarse buttock hair rubs my sensitive skin. My nose is partly squashed, but I can still smell his anus, which is almost but not quite in contact with my lips. It's hard to compare his anal smell to anything, but think of a somewhat tangy strong horse manure smell. Master's asshole isn't actually dirty, but it hasn't just been soaped and scrubbed, either. When he knows he's going to crush me this way, he purposely skips a shower. Neither of us wants to pretend that my mouth is anywhere other than on the hole through which he expels foul-smelling waste. That it's "dirty" is the whole point of my being here!

He lowers himself, barking, "Clean me up, slave!" I extend my tongue and make my first contact with his sacred anus. Master has a whorl of fine dark hair there. It makes a fuzzy feeling on my tongue. I will quickly slick it down with my saliva. His hair traps his sweat and tiny amounts of his feces, giving him an excitingly strong smell and taste. I breathe and lick in the unique flavor of the orifice I'm here to clean.

The taste, by the way, is not the same as the taste of shit (although shit is definitely one of the notes in its background). I have on a few occasions tasted a very small amount of Master's shit (it has a rather sharp, acidic, and unpleasant taste), but I don't usually taste it, and I don't now. The taste of anus itself is of special skin secretions from glands both around it and inside it. Anal secretions taste different from those anywhere else on the body. (I've licked every inch of Master's body, so I know.) And I know from experience that anal secretions taste different from person to person. If I licked a thousand different assholes in a row, I'd be able to tell you which one was Master's.)

By the way, what I said about Master's "sacred" anus--I meant that, literally. My Master's whole body is sacred to me, in the sense of being far above my degraded level, and I'm privileged to touch any of it. But Master's asshole--like everybody's, we're brought up this way--is so hidden and normally so untouchable that I think of it as his inner sanctum, his holy of holies. I always feel more awed by being allowed to touch him here than I do when I'm allowed to touch any other part of his body. Sure, I'm an abject slave of his cock, too, but that's partly because I know what it wants to do to me. Under Master's asshole, though, I feel like just pure slave, the lowest kind. I'm his cleaning lady, nothing more. I want to clean him with my willing slave mouth in order to abase myself, and by abasing myself, to please him. I want to show Master how very aware I am that, in comparison with him, I'm no better than a piece of used toilet paper, waiting to be flushed away.

I pass my flattened, wet tongue over and around Master's anal pucker, exited by its sweaty, hairy feel and special anal taste. His ridges flex a little as I tickle him. He'll gradually relax under my slavish ministrations. I do my job with unfeigned enthusiasm. Master will tire of this long before I will. Servicing this sweaty, hairy, smelly male butt puts me in a glorious place, inside. The thought that Master has forced to lick up his anal impurities keeps everything going in my brain, in my pounding heart, and between my legs.

I wash his hole like a mother cat washes her kittens, slowly savoring each devoted lick. I twirl my tongue in a point around his hole, teasing him. He squashes his weight onto my face again and wiggles his hips to grind his anus against my mouth. I fight back by thrusting hard with a pointed tongue, which dives right into his relaxed sphincter. I reach the slippery inner membranous surface, which has its own secretions and offers new taste sensations. I feel the muscle squeeze my tongue. Everybody has his or her special intimacy gooses, those moments when you think, with a powerful rush: "I'm actually doing this to somebody, and he's getting turned on by it!" Well, my rush comes from realizing I'm tasting the inside of my Master's asshole, and he not only feels it, he demands that I keep doing it.

"I'm not feeling it, bitch!" he shouts. "Are you sleeping on the job again?"

I use my hands to position myself better, tilt my head farther back, open my jaws wider, and vigorously work my tongue in and out of him. His weight shifts a little off center, and I realize that he's now supporting himself with only one hand while he jacks his cock with the other.

"Harder, whore!" he shouts. "I want to come while you clean my shit hole!"

He usually doesn't want to come this early in the game, but he knows I get a kick out of his coming while I do ass-worship. Both our movements speed up--he's jerking back and forth, rocking his asshole rhythmically against my mouth, my tongue is working furiously to stimulate him and lap up his flavors. I know from experience that this'll only take a minute or so, but it will be a very intense minute.

"You goddamn whore, suck my ass like you mean it! I paid you to eat me! Now do it!"

Everything, including my face, is slippery with his sweat and my spit. Saliva is dripping from the corners of my mouth. Master's smell--both his ass-smell and his sex-smell--gets stronger as he gets close. My brain is full of his smell, and my cunt is wetly aching for him to rape it. I can feel his scrotum tighten up against my forehead. He's jerking himself madly back and forth, smashing my lips with his hole every time.

"God, I wish I had a decent pussy to fuck! Why do I have to jerk off with this old whore?"

I can hear the gasp in the last few words; I know it's time. He jams his anus onto my mouth, and I thrust my tongue deep into it and wiggle it violently. Everything (except my tongue) stops for a very long moment as his climax gathers its towering wave. Then his roar erupts and his spasms begin. His sphincter clenches violently on my tongue while he cries with pleasure and his semen spurts out. The pressure forces my tongue out of his hole, but I know how to quickly slip it back in, again and again. He has spasm after spasm, and my tongue is worshiping inside him for each one.

I've always felt more awe at these involuntary actions of my Master's body--his erections, his ejaculations, the violent contractions of his anus as he shoots his seed--than I do at his harsh words or his powerful arms and rough hands. These involuntary things are like elemental forces of nature and seem to better embody his godlikeness. Male sexual need is so awesome, so overpowering, and Master's crushes me like a powerful wave. I want to feel like nothing so he can feel to me like everything.

When Master has finally emptied himself, he rolls off me onto his side. I don't have to be told what to do next. Even though I'm a little disoriented, I quickly roll over on my belly and begin to snake my way toward the long splashes of his semen all over the floor. (Master usually comes a great deal. I've choked on it many times.) I'm not allowed to use my knees or arms or hands, or even to raise my head; I have to crawl on my belly with my face touching the floor. I crawl to each puddle of Master's pearly, still-warm cum. Before I lick it up I say, "Master, thank you for letting your slave eat your cum off your floor." Then I reverently lap it up and crawl on to the next one. I know what will happen to me if I miss even a drop! When I think I'm finished with this service, I simply lie motionless with my face on the floor. Master has used me, and I must await his next use, if he so deigns.

The next thing I feel might be his foot on my head, his whip across my buttocks, his cock starting to penetrate my ass, or even his piss streaming into my hair (and then I'll get to lick that off the floor, too). Or, he might go take a shower, drink a beer and watch television while I lie here. I never know, and now it doesn't matter. I'm happy--I've been crushed! I climaxed, emotionally, when Master came with my tongue cleaning his anus. I didn't have an orgasm (although my cunt has quieted down now). But I arrived at the level deep inside that I always need to find my way back to. I'll just stay here, waiting like a placid pool for him to do, or not do, whatever he wants with this crushed slave.