The sharp stabs of pain intermittently jabbing in and out of me through the vibrations from her machine were relentless. At first, the discomfort didn’t allow me to focus on what she was saying. Her voice was warped due to the vibrations on my balls. The torture of not being able to see was only surpassed by that of not being allowed to let out my frustration in a scream. Once I reached the sensation of coming, she’d stop. I was trying to understand why this whole experience felt good, and why I was still hard.

“You like that, don’t you big boy?” she said as she jerked me off. The deadly mixture of pleasure and pain made me want to release in a trance, but the closer I got to orgasm, the more she giggled and stopped the buzzing and stroking.

“I want you to last for me,” she said. “You’re going to last all night for me, aren’t you?”

I nodded and moaned.

“I knew you were a freak the moment you stepped onto the bus,” she said.

She was good at this whole S&M stuff. Most of the things I had seen online were pretty fake, even the stuff that looked real. I guess the fact that she was a psychiatrist gave her a big advantage over other people that got off on this sort of stuff. But how could she have known that I was into pain? I thought. Don’t these people have some sort of club or initiation process I have to go through?

“When I feel like it,” she said. “I’m going to allow you to come all over yourself like a dog in heat.”

Before I could put anything together in my mind, I felt her warm, wet mouth dome the head as if it were a teabag immersed into a cup of hot water. She sucked, spiraling her slippery tongue around my shaft, and bobbed up and down with so much care and passion that it almost felt like love.

“God, I love sucking cock, especially when I can barely wrap my fingers around it,” she said, slightly out of breath, and digging her long, sharp fingernails into my erection. “It reminds me so much of a lover I used to have when I was young.”

She continued to plunge me deeper and deeper into her throat, so much so that I could hear her slurping up her own saliva. Just when I thought she couldn’t go any deeper, she gagged, and took me in further than anyone had ever done before. I instinctively pulled away from her mouth, out of concern, but she slapped my thighs, and dug her nails into my butt. Mistress gagged again and pulled my ass toward her. I was crawling out of my skin wanting to see what she was doing, because whatever it looked like, it felt better than anything my body had ever experienced. The tip of her nose was prodding and nuzzling my pubic hair. Her groaning and shaking made me want to release, but she pulled out, gasping for air.

Before she took me in her mouth again, she took a deep breath and slid my penis all the way down her throat, all in one bite. As her tongue licked my balls, I could feel the blunt tips of her teeth gently rubbing against my shaft, as smoothed stones on a creek bed the soles of your feet. She was hitting the right spot, allowing my penis to feel every groove and ridge in her esophagus. I was only a few seconds away from releasing deep inside her mouth once again, but as I was about to blow, she gripped the base of my penis and squeezed as hard as she could.

“Oh, no you don’t,” she came back up, trying to catch her breath again. “You’re gonna come when I say so. You need to be a good boy for me, or else Mistress will have to punish you.”

The cum was effervescing inside of the shaft, beating hard in her hand like a heart that’s been ripped out of someone’s chest. The pulsating gradually slackened, but as soon as I felt the urge again, she slapped the head and it went as numb as a carbon rod.

“That’s better,” she said. “I still haven’t even started having fun with you.”

The crying bedsprings and the rocking of the bed told me that she had dismounted it and head off to find other toys to torture me with. The sound of her soles sticking and unsticking on the dark, freckled concrete floors receded into silence, as ripples left in the wake of skipping stones. Years passed in the handful of minutes without any physical stimulus—whether painful or pleasurable—created a chip in my chest, one that would soon turn into a hole, a hole that could only be filled with her violence. Her light footsteps sent a tickle up my spine in anticipation for whatever she had in store for me.

“It says here that you were abused as a child,” she said. “Was that only by your mother, or father as well?”

What the hell? I thought. What’s going on here? Where the hell was she getting these facts? I knew that she was a psychiatrist, but I had no idea that she had access to my files. Then again, she was probably reading random facts from one of her textbooks.

“On one occasion, your mother told you to lift your shirt up, turn your back to her, and then she gave you several lashes on your back, leaving several permanent scars,” she said. “How did that make you feel? Was it worse than the hate you felt toward your father?”

These questions were disorienting me and I felt my erection slowly going away. I felt her hands caressing my calves, working their way down to my ankles. By the time she had buckled one of my ankles to the bedpost, it was too late to fight her off with my other leg. She was strong and pressed my kneecap down while pushing my foot toward my face, locking it in place and tying it onto the other bedpost.

“You and your boner aren’t going anywhere,” she said as she climbed the bed, and rubbed my penis on the smooth area between her vagina and asshole. “Good, I can feel you getting hard again.” She churned it back and forth between the wet of her pussy and ass. It felt as though she had dropped bugs into my hood, and their tiny legs and pincers were eating me alive. I was dying to go into either hole, but she didn’t want me to. “You’re under my control, and you love it. Don’t you?”

It was true: I couldn’t help it. It was exactly what I wanted and it felt better than I had imagined. I started to pump up as much as the restraints on my ankle would allow, but that was soon brought to an end.

“If you don’t stop humping like a teenager, I’m going to get up,” she said. “Do you want me to keep going?”

As soon as I nodded, her hips resumed their rhythmic gyrations. They started off slow and increased in speed as the moaning grew louder. I could feel her strong grip squeezing my thigh and penis, digging her nails deep into me. I let out a muffled yell.

“Oh, that’s it,” she said. “Now, should I let you put your dirty dick deep inside of me, or should I squeeze the base again and ruin that big load you’ve been dying to give me? Tell me, come on. You’ve got to show me what you want.”

I tried yelling as loud as I could, but all I could hear was laughing.

“I guess you’re not ready yet,” she said, and squeezed the base of my penis. A wave of shivers ran down my face and back, as if a pack of stray cats were let loose on it. “Show me that you’re ready, young Buck.”

Buck? I thought. As in Buckley?

“Show me that you are your father’s son,” she said. “Show me that you’re better than Roger.”


Saturday, May 14, 1988

6:25 p.m.

Every summer brought a beam of sunshine into my life. I had no school to attend and Roger was coming back to spend two to three days at Aunt Greta’s house. He had taught me so many things, and I loved him so much for having done so. Not only on how to make a man come, but about how my own body reacted to different kinds of stimuli. Before Roger, I guess I followed the simple philosophy that the other women in my family did: find a man and do anything in your power to never let him go. According to them, a woman’s sexuality was to be saved for marriage and childbearing. Her desire was only for her husband, and she was to never please herself through masturbation, because that was what men were made for. Although I had been practicing orgasm control for Roger, I was free to make myself come at any time. I simply chose not to.

On the long stretches of time when I wouldn’t see Roger, I would sneak into the guest bedroom where he usually slept and masturbated between the sheets that still smelled of his cum. To expand my pain threshold—and as an alternative to coming—I got into the habit of whipping myself. During the semester, I often walked to the local adult store and perused the books on S&M. In a matter of weeks, I learned about different types of knots, such as the blood knot, and how to whip myself without scarring. I weighed ropes pressed against my clit and gagged myself while holding my nose, so that I’d be able to take Roger’s dick inside of my mouth for longer than a few seconds. I wanted him to tie me up—I’d teach him, if he hadn’t read about the stuff I talked to him about—and fuck my mouth. It was a huge turn on for me to have the feeling of helplessness and knowing that Roger could do as he willed to my body. It was an emotional release that placed me in a calming and animalistic zone, like getting a wolf to trust you and lick blood off your hand without ripping your arm from its socket.

I practiced these lessons religiously, wherever I was, even during school hours. While my professors lectured, I’d dip a small vibrator into my panties, over my clit, while wearing a butt-plug. My ultimate goal was to bear the pleasure without having to excuse myself to the ladies’ room. On one occasion, I couldn’t and some of my classmates found me passed out in the bathroom from asphyxiation.

Up to that point, Roger refused to have vaginal sex with me because I was still a virgin. I would have given anything for him to invite me to Chicago. So, as part of an assignment, I was to sleep with at least three different men. According to him, this was so that I could have a good frame of reference when we finally had sex.

“But I only want you,” I said.

“No, I want you to have other men because it turns me on when you’re a dirty slut,” he said. “I want to make sure that you truly appreciate how good I really am.”

That was the last time he was here at Aunt Greta’s house. He whipped my back bloody. As blood dripped down my raw back, I wanted nothing more than to have my fantasy man—and worst nightmare—inside of me. But he simply refused.

“If you can lose your virginity by next summer,” he said, “then I’ll fuck you like you’ve never been fucked before.”

“Yes,” I said. “That’s what I want.”

“I won’t be able to stop once I start.”

He bent me over and thrusted his hips into me, but he didn’t penetrate me.

“Please, don’t stop,” I moaned.

“And once I start, I turn into a fucking animal.”

His thrusting grew faster and wilder. I could feel him getting harder. If could get him into the right state of mind, I was sure that he would put it in.

“I want it,” I yelled.

“What are you afraid of, Tereza?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I said.

“Oh, don’t tell me that, beautiful. Don’t let me be the demon that wants to cause you pain.”

“I want you to hurt me. Hurt me, baby.”

“Oh my,” he sighed. “I can kill you, you know that?”

“I want to die by your hands,” I said as he pulled me up to a standing position, took one of my hands, and kissed it gently.

He took my hand and placed it on his throbbing penis. He laughed and closed his eyes. His hand was caressing her lips and I started to kiss and nibble on his fingers. Roger’s breathing became labored as I sucked on his index finger, deep-throating it as if it were a penis, and stroked his penis faster and faster. The moaning grew louder the deeper his fingers went into my mouth. He opened his eyes and tried to pull his finger out of my mouth. I bit it hard before he could pull it out.

“You like my hands?” he said.

I nodded yes as I coyly bit one of my own fingers.

He brought me close and kissed me hard. Then he dipped his index and middle fingers down my throat, until I gagged.

“You like that, huh?” he said.

“Mmmhhhmmm…” I moaned, as a rush of tears filled my eyes.

That memory brought me pleasurable yet sad memories of him. But I went ahead and followed his orders. The first guy I had sex with was a guy from one of my psych classes. He came really fast, despite his warning that it was going to take him a long time to come. The next two guys were a little better than the first, but worse than my history professor, who fucked as if he were 30 years younger, and stunk as if he hadn’t showered in as many years. The whole experience of having sex without any sort of emotion had been so disgusting, but I could see Roger and me laughing about the whole thing as we lay in bed, breathing in the scent of our love. I was so ready to experience what real, good sex felt like, and I couldn’t wait for him to find out that I slept not with three, but four men.

Later that night, Aunt Greta called me down, as I had instructed her to do once Roger arrived. I was wet simply running down the stairs. When I hugged him, I would kiss him and sneak in some tongue to be a little naughty. But as soon as I reached the midpoint of the stairs, I saw Roger’s arm hooked to another woman. She was blonde and had voluptuous breasts and was beautiful. As I started to run back up, Roger caught a glimpse of me.

“Hey,” Roger yelled, “Tereza, come here and meet my fiancée Christina.”

I came down the stairs begrudgingly and gave Christina the fakest smile I could muster, so fake that even Aunt Greta told me to be nice. Roger noticed how angry I was and told Aunt Greta to show Christina around. The new, perfect woman didn’t quite understand what was going on, but luckily Aunt Greta did, and put on that museum docent voice she so willfully liked to use to talk about her most prized possessions. We stood quietly for a few minutes, not looking at one another.

“I know—”

“Where and when did you meet her?” I immediately said.

“Uh, at work, but—”

“Why didn’t you tell me as soon as you found out?”


“More importantly, why her, Roger?”


“I guess what I’m trying to ask is, why not me?”

After he realized that he’d never be able to get a word across, he reached out his hand to touch me, but I flinched and moved away.

“Don’t touch me,” I said. “You don’t dictate what happens between us anymore. You don’t deserve me, you piece of shit.”

“Tereza, I never did,” Roger said.

“Here I thought we would end up together because we were both fucked up and broken. You know, me with my pervert dad and you with your pervert mom. I thought we got each other. I thought you saw who I truly was. But you’re right; you never did see me.”

“No, Tereza. I never really dictated what happened between us: romantically or sexually.”

“What do you mean? You were the one who told me to fuck at least three guys. Well, I fucked five.”

“I only suggested it because I was afraid of you, of your love. By sleeping with others, I was hoping to defuse that raw, intense passion you felt for me; a passion that drove me to beat it out of you because that was the only way that I could get you off. I never made you do anything you didn’t want to do.”

I started to cry because it was all true. I did love him. I loved him so much that I would have cut my own arm off to be with him.

“I was under your spell,” he said. “I only acted the way you wanted me to.”

“What?” I said. “But you trained me. You were my dominant.”

“No. You actually taught me more by sending me all of those erotic books, most of which you had read twice through and I barely could flip through because troves of them came to my apartment in Chicago every week.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. It was as though he were talking about another person of whom I never heard of. Someone who was nothing like me.

“You were never meant to be dominated. You’re too strong. You were my dominant, and I your sex slave.”

I took a seat to settle myself in a room that seemed to be spinning faster and faster the more Roger talked about my dominance.

“Christina is more on my wavelength,” he said. “She’s more like me. She’s even 32 years old, like me.”

“Who cares about age?” I said.

“Tereza, I’m 10 years older than you. I want to start a family.”

“So do I.”

“You don’t know what you want. You’re so young. You haven’t even graduated college yet.”

“Fuck you,” I yelled so that even perfect-aged Christina could hear.

“Keep your voice down,” Roger said.

“Why? So your dick can get hard off of me one last time? Want me to make you happy again? Happy when I’m quiet?”

“Shut up,” he yelled in hush tones as his face turned bright red.

“Fuck this,” I said, storming up the stairs. Midway up, I turned around and looked down at Roger. “Just tell me this: was she a virgin when you first made love to her?”

Roger looked down out of fear that my eyes would pierce right through his.

“Yes,” he sighed.

I ran up to my room and stayed there until Roger and Christina left two days later.

They were married within three months.

I knew that the promise he made to her at the altar was complete and utter bullshit, even though he had acted as if I never truly knew him. The beautiful wedding Aunt Greta kept raving about for weeks on end would end in tears and blood, tears and blood I soaked the steam iron with as I made a promise to myself. I could hear my flesh sizzling and see the thick, white smoke rising from the gashes searing into my inner forearms. But regardless of how deep I pressed into my bones, I couldn’t feel a thing. I was numb.

As a burnt offering to the god of jilted souls, I promised myself to exact revenge on Roger and the family he would never have with me. I didn’t know how or when I would enact this plan, but I did know that I would lurk, unperceived in the shadows of his perfect home, patient, vigilant—suffering in silence, as he used to like it—waiting for the time when I would let him know who Tereza Van Ness really was.

What are you afraid of, Roger Daire Buckley?

You better say me, because this time, I’m coming.


Thursday, September 27, 2018

1:40 a.m.

The subject Roger Cole Buckley received corporal abuse from his mother, Christina Buckley, ever since he was a child. She repeatedly bashed and bludgeoned his head with the silver belt buckle left behind by her husband Roger after he abandoned her for good. Cole was bred to be a beast of burden, carrying his dad’s sins and his mom’s embittered hatred. As of four hours ago, he has agreed to help me to finally carry out my revenge on his father Roger. Unlike his father, Cole is eager to please me and to carry out my wildest fantasies. I don’t feel any sort of love for him yet, but I don’t doubt that our relationship will grow into appreciation, respect, adoration, and yes, perhaps deep love.

I want Cole to feel comfortable in my home, as it will become his classroom as well as his prison, depending on how well he can follow my directions. Earlier today, he wasn’t able to control his emotions, thus coming in large volumes inside my throat and all over his chest. Funny enough, I read in his patient file that one of his girlfriends nicknamed him “Cum Monster.” Although I feel better—healed—he needs to be punished before we can continue our lessons.

He gave himself to me. His body, time and space are all levers that only I have control over. He is completely at my mercy and is bound in my closet. Until I decide that he’s learned his lesson, Cole will remain there. I feel that he has a lot of potential and could be the slave his father could never be. Roger was weak, even as he pulled my hair back and held my life in his hands. He was selfish, a coward not willing to relinquish the power he held over me. Cole, on the other hand, is strong, sexy, pliable clay that I can sculpt into the perfect slave. He does as I say and isn’t afraid of anything I suggest.

“What are you afraid of?” I asked him before I gagged and tied him up for his punishment.

“Nothing, Mistress,” he yelled.

“What are you really afraid of?”

“I’m afraid of not having you, Mistress.”

Besides, he has a better body than Roger. I guess that stupid blonde bitch he married decades ago had some decent genes running through her.

I feel partly at fault for Cole’s little “accident.” I was the one who took him to the edge too soon, too many times. But that cock. God, that cock is just so beautiful, I simply couldn’t help myself. Then again, if I don’t teach him what my kinks are, no one will. I took the hood off him, but left the ball gag in his mouth. I put him on his knees, tying his hands with rope above his head, with his ankles tied to his waist. I don’t want him to confuse this with pleasure. I want him to really think about what he did, and why it’s important for him not to do it again, unless I allow him to do so.

Which reminds me: it’s been a few hours since I’ve checked on my pretty little slave.

Let’s see if he’s learned his lesson.


For all installments from Blood Knot, click here.

Previous installments:

  1. Part 1
  2. Part 2
  3. Part 3