If there’s one saying I live by, it’s this: go hard or go home.  Anything worth doing should be done properly, and that includes breaking in and training boys.

I’ve had many boys and there’s only so much time in a day, so I’ve become very selective.  I go by the Rule of 6.  Six feet, six inches, and six figures.  It’s hard to find a “six-point buck” here on campus, so I’ve compromised.  A girl still needs her laundry done, after all.  But I’ve always kept my eye out for that magic triple-sixer.  Guys with money sometimes don’t have the dick and guys with dick sometimes don’t have the money.  That’s probably nature’s way to making sure men don’t get too confident.  Not that I would care; I love a good project.

But then, just when I’d started to give up hope that our campus might not have the perfect prey… that’s when I finally found him.

His name was Jung and when we first met I found him pretty unremarkable.  He had a tattoo on his arm, which was interesting enough, I suppose.  But he didn’t stand out from the other boys he was with.  His nickname, “Hung Jung,” was honestly earned; he was well-endowed in both length, and girth.  His body was toned, his skin a warm olive, his eyes the color of black coffee, that really dark rich brown that’s incredibly expressive.  But looks aren’t everything, and I hadn’t paid much attention to him, not at first.  After all, he was only a freshman.

A freshman whose name caught my eye in the paper one morning.

I had to do a double-take; according to the paper, a Mr. Ken Jung-woo had recently made a sizeable donation to the local hospital.  Mr. Ken Jung-woo was, apparently, a very famous doctor and well-known philanthropist with one son in college: Ken Jung-woo, Jr.

So Jung’s family was rich, and Jung was a “Junior.”  Both of these pieces of information immediately tickled my fancy and I knew I had to pursue Jung… at any cost.  Jung had a habit of flaunting money but until I read that article it had not yet clicked for me that Jung might be a very valuable asset indeed.

I threw back my coffee, tossed down the paper, and made my way onto campus.  When opportunity knocks, you shouldn’t keep it waiting!

Since Jung was a freshman (a Junior who was a freshman… ha!), I knew where I’d find him.  He undoubtedly shared a dorm with Geena’s little boyfriend, Mike.  I had no trouble getting in; the first boy that noticed me striding toward the building nearly tripped over his own feet trying to hurry over to the door and hold it open for me.  I flashed him a smile; either he was a natural submissive, or my reputation precedes me.  Or maybe both were true.

I took the stairwell to the first floor and strode out purposefully, on a mission, heels clipping a metronome on the floor.  Like a magic spell, it summoned every curious male on the dorm floor; heads poked out of doorways like gophers from their holes, curious to see what feminine presence graced them in their natural habitat.  None of them, apparently, had the balls to actually ask.  I’ll admit, I was a little disappointed.  I had been hoping for an excuse to play around with one of them.  Learning about Jung’s potential had made me excited and itching to play.

I should probably mention that I didn’t have much hope that Jung would be a long-term sub.  The truth is, I have trouble keeping boys around, because I have very high expectations, and when they fail to meet them, I terminate our contract.  It’s nothing personal; I just can’t be bothered with subs who are not entirely on board with my vision.

But hey, a weekend getaway still might be nice, and if Jung was as loaded as I suspected, then I was sure he wouldn’t mind footing the bill!

I remembered Mike’s room number and went to it directly.  I could case the entire building but, like I said, a girl only has so much time.  I banged my fist on the door and heard scrambling on the other side.  I sighed and rolled my eyes, examining my nails impatiently while I waited for Mike to put pants on or whatever.  As if I didn’t already know what he looked like!

The moment the lock clicked open, I shouldered my way in.  Mike stumbled back; he may be a big guy but he’s as soft and gentle as an old circus bear without any teeth.  (Note to self: ask Geena if she has considered getting Mike to put on a little hat and ride around on a unicycle.)

“Rachel?” he stammered, scanning me with worried eyes.  “What are you doing here?”

“I’m looking for Jung,” I said.  “Where is he?”

“He’s not in his room?”

“I don’t know which room is his, or I’d be there already,” I said, rolling my eyes.  Geena must have the patience of a saint to put up with him.

“Sorry.  He’s right next door,” said Mike hurriedly, pointing.

I shot him a withering glare, and he quickly added, “I’ll show you.”

Is it too much to ask for some basic decent service?  Sheesh.

Shoulders hunched as if he could try to make himself smaller, Mike brushed past me to lead me to Jung’s room.  I caught a glimpse of us in the mirror: Mike’s tall, broad frame and shaggy hair and bent head, contrasted with my straight back, long legs, and look of superiority.  We made a good pair.  A shame Geena’s so protective of him; I think Mike would be easy to break.

Focus, Rachel, focus, I reminded myself.  Jung was the target.

“So, I hear Jung’s family is rich,” I said.  “Why’s he going here?”

Mike shrugged a little as he rapped on a door.  I made a note of which one it was so I could return if I deemed Jung worthy of my attention.

“I guess he didn’t do great in high school and his parents thought that going to a public school would, you know, help him appreciate his life more, or something?” said Mike helplessly.  He kept knocking, clearly uncomfortable with my presence.  Funny, considering Mike’s actually taller than me.  But I don’t think Mike realized that, because he was slouching and I was in heels.  Plus he never actually looked up completely to meet my eyes.  (Smart.  I love a guy who knows his place.)

Finally, the door opened, but the person who opened it wasn’t Jung.  It was some bleary-eyed kid in boxers.

“What do you want?  It’s not even nine yet!” he grumbled, rubbing his eyes.  Then he spotted me and he snapped wide awake!  “Who’s the hot blonde?” he exclaimed.

Mike winced.  I took a step forward and grabbed a handful of his crotch.  His already-huge eyes got even bigger and he let out a tiny “eep” noise.

“Where’s Jung?” I demanded, squeezing his balls through the thin cloth of his boxers.

“Shower,” he squeaked, pointing.

I released him and turned.  As I was leaving, I heard Jung’s roommate say to Mike, “I guess she heard about Hung Jung’s reputation, huh?”

I didn’t know if he meant the cock, or the money.  I didn’t care, because I wanted both.

The showers were a sad, tiled locker room.  When I stepped inside there were two stalls with the water running.

“JUNG!” I barked.

From the stalls, two heads poked out to stare in shock.  I suppose it’s not every day a fully-clothed woman wanders into the male showers of the freshman dorm.

I pointed to the one that wasn’t Jung. “ You’re not Jung.  Scram.”

“Y-yes, miss,” stammered the boy, practically sliding out of the shower to grab his towel and rush off.  As he was leaving I recognized a few marks on his ass cheeks.  Oh!  An old ex of mine!  I didn’t remember his name; he must have been a fall fling.  One of the ones who didn’t last past the second or third flogging.  Shame.

Jung remained with his body in the stall, only his head out, his dark hair dripping into his big, doey, almond-shaped eyes.

“Get out here,” I demanded, pointing at the tile floor.  

“But I’m naked.”

“I didn’t ask.  Get out here so I can talk to you.”

Jung’s cheeks darkened a little, but he ducked into the shower to turn off the water, and then emerged.  I appraised his body for a moment: the water made it glisten, and the way the artificial lighting in the room struck it highlighted his abs and his collarbones.  He was very well-built.  And, of course, he lived up to his nickname; beneath a thatch of straight, dark hair hung his member, a thick sausage that, even flaccid, had a solid four or five inches.  Erect, it would definitely suit my six-inch rule… with plenty more to spare!

Jung shifted his weight awkwardly while I eyeballed his uncut dick, considering the shape and size of it, the way the tip of the head was visible, like it was playing peek-a-boo.  It was tantalizing, how his body seemed to naturally tease what it would be like when fully aroused.  I couldn’t help but let my imagination run wild!

I appreciate a guy who lets me work uninterrupted.  A lot of men would have impatiently asked why I was there, but Jung seemed to already understand who was in charge, and that it was not him.  I could see some color in his cheeks but he didn’t try to cover himself up.

“Jung, can you afford a suite at the Meridian this weekend?  Rates go up if you don’t have a reservation beforehand,” I said.

“…uh… yeah, I guess.  Why?” asked Jung.

“Is your full name Jung-woo Junior?”

Jung’s whole face darkened at this and he looked around furtively.  “Don’t call me that!” he hissed.  “Just Jung, please.  I hate my full name.”

Big mistake telling me that.  I swear, freshmen are so easy.

“So you’re rich.  That’s great, because you and I are going to have a weekend getaway just as soon as you go and book us a suite.  I want the Ambassador Suite.  You can pick me up at five this evening.”

“I can?  I mean– uh– yes,” agreed Jung, still blinking water out of his eyes and looking deeply confused at how fast everything was happening.

“Don’t be late.”

“I won’t.”

I turned.

“Wait!”

I stopped and looked over my shoulder with a withering glare.  How dare he order me?

“I need your address,” he said, almost sheepishly, shifting from foot to foot, his long cock dangling.  I could tell he was going to go back into the shower to jerk off the moment I left.  I was wearing a miniskirt and a shirt with a plunging neckline to show off my cleavage… apparently, that was all it took for Jung the little rich boy to be wrapped around my pinkie finger!

“I’ll give it to Mike,” I said, and with that, I left him to his business.  Jung was not well-trained but in our brief encounter in the showers, I had learned many things: that he was indeed rich, that his cock was still ridiculously huge, and, most importantly, he was willing and able to learn.  He seemed to have a natural knack for submission… but I wouldn’t know how deep that streak of obedience ran until I put it to the test!

---

Speaking of tests, Jung managed to pass his very first one with flying colors.  He arrived five minutes early, behind the wheel of a sleek black sports car.  I had two pieces of luggage with me, a suitcase and a trunk, and when Jung pulled up to the curb outside my building and saw me in the lobby, he jumped out and ran over to help me with my bags.  He was dressed in a pair of dark slacks and a silk black button-up shirt with the top undone, no tie.  Casual chic, in that way only wealthy people seem to be able to pull off.  Usually, I find that college boys have no sense of fashion.  I have older clients who dress up, but it’s rare for my peers to consider style. 

As far as style, I had found a short, pink cocktail dress that matched my favorite pair of tan stilettos.  It was perfect for spring, and as we walked to the car, I saw Jung eyeing me in a way he thought was subtle.  Cute.

“What’s in here, bricks?” he grunted as he heaved the trunk into the back of the car.

“Oh, just some light entertainment for the weekend.  I wouldn’t want to be bored,” I said as I slid into the passenger seat. 

“Oh, like books?” asked Jung.

“…something like that,” I said, rolling my eyes and pouting out the window.  Jung revved the engine before he pulled away from the curb, probably trying to impress me.  I’m not sure why I would be impressed that his car had a working engine, but I let him have his moment.  By the time I was done with him, he wouldn’t be so cheeky!

We pulled up to the hotel, where the valet hurried to open my door for me.  They probably recognized me; I’d been to the Meridian before, on business.  It was, undoubtedly, the best hotel in town, tied with The Queen.  The Queen was an older building downtown, whereas the Meridian was newer and flashier: a place for successful alumni visiting the college to kick back and relax.  I flashed a bellhop a smile as he grunted, trying to lift the trunk out of the car, and he averted his eyes, glancing instead at Jung.  Ah-ha.  So he knew what Jung was in for!  I put my finger to my lips, warning him silently not to ruin the surprise.

The hotel lobby was luxurious, but as tempting as it was to sink into one of the plush leather chairs and put my feet up, to listen to the trickling water of the indoor fountains and soak up the ambiance of wealth that the Meridian radiated, I was eager to get Jung up to the room.  We went to the front desk and Jung asked for his reservation: “I called earlier today.  My last name’s Kim, first name’s Jung,” he said, leaning an elbow on the counter.

“Jung-woo.  …Junior,” I interjected.

Jung’s face turned red and I could tell he was struggling to maintain his composure.  Like all spoiled rich boys, he had a natural air of confidence that was surprisingly fragile, and I adored it for its breakability.

We got our room keys and set off toward the room.  As I had requested, Jung had managed to book the Ambassador Suite.  Not actually that impressive, since it wasn’t a holiday weekend, and there were no important games or major college events happening, like homecoming or graduation.  Nonetheless I found it encouraging that Jung had followed my instructions.

I didn’t want to get my hopes up, though.  Too many boys fail in the first few tests.  I believe this failure is more psychological than physical; they get nervous, intimidated at the idea of pain, and then they don’t stick around to discover the ways pain and pleasure can intermingle and, together, become more than the sum of their parts.  They’ll linger only long enough for one or two floggings, or spankings, or peggings, and then, frustrated at the patience I expect from them, they tuck their abused cocks between their legs and go.  Often, they return later, wanting a second chance.  But I don’t do second chances. 

I hadn’t needed to touch my luggage since Jung had picked me up; Jung and I walked up down the hall to our room with a bellhop in tow, and when we came to the door and keyed our way into the suite, he deposited my trunk at the end of the bed for me without even needing to ask.  I saw him giving Jung the side-eye and wondered if he was jealous or sympathetic.  Jung didn’t notice; he scanned the room with an almost bored look.  It was well over a thousand square feet, with a window overlooking the skyline of Old Town, the night lights twinkling magically against the velvety glow of the nearby campus.  Jung seemed to take for granted that there was a king-sized bed, a Jacuzzi in the bathroom, and a vase of fresh flowers on the stand in the entryway.  Jung was used to this.  Jung was well-endowed in more ways than one.  I had hit the jackpot.

That is… I’d hit the jackpot, if Jung agreed.  He would be a fool not to, of course.

“Do you know why you’re here, Jung?” I asked the moment the bellhop closed the door behind us.

Jung turned to me and shook his head, his soft, feathery black hair sweeping across his forehead.  “Not really.  I guess because you wanted a weekend vacation?  …Mike says you like to hang out with a lot of guys.”  He put his hands into his pockets, finally looking uncomfortable.  Jung may have been used to wealth but I don’t think he was as used to women.  I took the liberty to shift my weight and jut out my hip, showing off a little leg.  Letting Jung marinate in awkwardness would do him some good.

“You’re here because I have a business proposal for you, Jung.”

“A… business proposal?” he repeated, squinting in confusion.

“An agreement, of sorts.  A contract.”

I walked over to my bag to pull out my standard contract.  I held it out to him.  He looked down, eyes moving across the page; they widened, and then shot up to look at me.

I smiled at him.  I’ve had boys who panicked when they read the terms.  Boys who wanted to negotiate.  But I don’t negotiate.  The contract is how I like it; if they don’t agree, then that’s their problem.

“Do you have any questions?” I purred.

“Yes.”

They always do.

“And what is your question?”

Jung blinked at me with those deep, dark eyes of his.  “…Do you have a pen?” he asked.

I’ll admit: Jung’s question surprised me.  No one had ever asked that before.

“Did you read it?” I demanded.

“Yes.”

“All of it?”

“Yes.”

“…and you want to sign?”

“I came to college for new experiences.  My parents said I’m smart, but not disciplined.  You can show me discipline and teach me new experiences.  This is a good deal,” said Jung, with a nod.  “I want to sign.”

Well.  That was easier than expected.

I found a pen in the drawer of the bedside table and handed it to Jung; he took it and signed the contract without any fanfare, passing it back to me with absolute serenity.  It almost made me suspicious.  But I wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth; if Jung knew what he was getting into, who was I to stop him?  He’d said it himself: it was a good deal.

What was the deal, you ask?  Simple.  His complete and total obedience, subjugation, and submission to me.  His body?  Mine.  An instrument for pleasure, or pain… depending on my mood.  And in return?  Access to me, of course; the sweet surrender of slavery, and the privilege of my company.  I have men who pay me handsomely for it, you know.  Jung had paid for the hotel room with little prompting, which already made me suspect he wanted this; the way he signed the contract, with a little flourish, confirmed it.

I took the paper back and looked at it, then passed it back to him.  “Sign it correctly.”

“…huh?”

“Your full name, Jung-woo Junior.”

“But I–” he began.

I raised my hand and slapped him across the face.  His skin, as I suspected, was soft and warm, like a lambskin glove, and it immediately bloomed into the impression of a hand-print.

“–okay,” he said meekly, sticking out a hand for the pen.

“You will address me as Mistress.”

“Okay, Mistress,” he repeated, taking the pen.  Awkwardly, he added the “-woo” to his name and then, blushing fiercely so that the handprint disappeared, absorbed into the heat of his face, he added the “Jr.” at the end.

I smiled.  “Very good.  Now, as you are aware, the contract stipulates a one-week probationary period for us to get to know each other.  I don’t want my time wasted with boys who aren’t serious about service, so I like to break them in and ensure they’re going to meet my expectations, and that they can handle my punishments.  This weekend will be part of that week.  Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mistress,” said Jung, standing at attention with his hands clasped behind his back.  Poor guy!  He was trying so hard.  I half-expected him to salute me!

“Then let’s begin.  First, take off your clothes.  Next, order me room service.  I want a slice of cheesecake and six rubber bands.”

Jung began to nod, but then his brow furrowed.  “Why do you need–” he began.

I slapped him again.  “Do not question me, slave!”

Jung clapped a hand over his cheek.  “Yes, Mistress!” he said, scrambling for the phone.  I watched as he dialed frantically with one hand, getting an arm tangled in the cord as he attempted to unbutton his shirt with the other hand.  “Hello, room service?  This is Jung, in the Ambassador Suite.  Could you send up some cheesecake?  …yes, just charge it to the room,” he said, as he sat on the edge of the bed and kicked away his pants.  Beneath them he was wearing a pair of black briefs, and the package between his legs was as impressive as any underwear model’s.  “…also, uhh, I have a– a bit of a strange request.  Could you please bring me six rubber bands?  …yes, please.  …yes, six exactly,” he said, glancing over at me as he spoke.  I smiled at him, watching with my arms crossed and nodding my approval.

By the time my order was placed, Jung was sitting on the end of the bed completely bare.  I noticed he folded his clothes as he removed them, which struck me as very tidy and a good sign.

“I suppose I should get undressed as well,” I said.

Jung perked up a little at this; between his legs, his cock twitched, like a dog hearing its owner say the word “walk.”

I reached up under my arm to the tiny, hidden zipper of my cocktail dress, and slowly, seductively drew it down, splitting the fabric to reveal my skin: the smooth crease under my arm, the swell of my breast, the curve of my stomach and hip.  Jung watched, transfixed, as I stepped out of my dress, leaving only a pair of pink lace panties and my flesh-colored stilettos.  The cocktail dress was bare-shouldered so I had not bothered with a bra, since I didn’t want the straps to show; Jung’s eyes drank in the sight of my breasts, and for a few seconds, I allowed him to admire me.

Then I cleared my throat, pointing at the floor.  “You’re letting my dress wrinkle.”

Jung sprang off the bed and hurried over, stooping to pick up my dress.

“Room service will be here soon, actually.  You should get dressed.”

“Right,” agreed Jung, turning toward the bed.

“The dress, Jung,” I said, rolling my eyes.

“The dress–” repeated Jung, looking briefly confused before it dawned on him.  “I can’t wear this!  It won’t fit–”

“Did I ask you if it fit?  Put it on!” I snarled.

I’m sorry to say that Jung’s blush, which was a dark plum-wine color, clashed horribly with the hot pink cocktail dress as he struggled to shimmy into it.

“You’d better not stretch it out,” I warned him.

“I’m trying,” he grunted as he struggled.  I had plenty of confidence in the dress itself; my friend Rosie had reinforced the seams and the zipper herself, so it was as tough as a girl could ask for.  And Jung wasn’t the first boy to be constricted by its hug.

He managed to get it up to his flat chest, his muscular shoulders and arms looking quite out of place, and the material highlighting his cock in a way that was paradoxically humiliating and flattering.  I could see that it was squeezing his ribs; his torso was, of course, much broader than mind, and the dress bound him like a strait jacket, though of course, his arms were free.

“Perfect.  …but your outfit isn’t complete yet, is it?” I said, toeing off my shoes.

“I don’t know how to walk in heels!” he protested.

“Then you’d better learn,” I said, kicking my foot toward him.  My shoe flew off and hit his leg, and he winced.  But he took the shoe and began strapping it onto his foot.  It was far too small and I could see him clenching his teeth as he forced his toes into the narrow pinch of the shoe, like one of Cinderella’s step-sisters determined to get into the castle.

To Jung’s credit he did manage to get both shoes on before there was a knock on the door, but he hesitated when it came to moving.

I gave him a firm push.  “Go on.  Let him in.”

Wobbling with his arms out for balance, Jung tip-toed over to the door, trying not to roll an ankle.  He paused outside of it, and I could see he didn’t want to open it.  Not in heels and a hot pink dress!

“Come in!” I called, and ready or not, the door opened.

Jung stepped back, staggered, and grabbed the wall for support.  A staff member, a young boy in the hotel’s blood-red uniform jacket, stood there with a tray, holding a slice of cheesecake with a strawberry on top and, beside it, a small ceramic jar with a handful of rubber bands.  He glanced at Jung, then at me, and immediately seemed to understand.

His curly brown hair seemed familiar.  Was this one of my submissives from last semester?  Probably.

“Your dessert, miss?” he said, extending the tray toward me and struggling to look at my face and not my exposed breasts.

“Lovely.  Thank you.  Please set it on the table, here… oh, Jung.  Don’t you have your wallet, for a tip?  …I’m sorry, but his dress doesn’t have pockets.  You know how it is,” I said sweetly.  “Isn’t it annoying when your dress doesn’t have pockets?”

“Oh yes,” said the waiter, mouth quivering; he looked like he was trying not to laugh.  Jung looked mortified; he kept crossing his arms over his body, trying to hide the dress.  He looked like he’d rather be naked!

“It would be rude not to tip.  Maybe I can thank you another way?” I asked, striding over.

The waiter trembled so hard that the plate on the tray clattered a little.

But like a true professional, he didn’t drop it.  Not even when I put my hand on the back of his head and pressed his face into my cleavage, or gently directed his mouth to one of my nipples.

Jung stared, still plastered against the wall, the tight dress and the too-small heels preventing him from moving as much as the shock.

I threw back my head and moaned loudly and performatively, secretly noting how Jung’s cock pressed against the dress, and the look of jealousy that passed over his face!

“Lovely, thank you,” I said after a few minutes, pulling the waiter’s mouth from my nipple.  He seemed reluctant to let it go, but he drew away when I pulled on his hair.

“Will that be all, miss?” he asked, sounding a bit too hopeful.

I smiled.  “Yes, that will be all for now.”

He turned to leave.

“…the tray,” I reminded him.

“Oh!  Right.  …uh, right.”  He set the tray down and then, weirdly, bowed, edging over toward the door in a way that made me think he was trying to conceal an erection.  As far as erections went, Jung’s was fully outlined by the dress, and he was cupping it with a look of absolute pain on his face.

When the door closed, I gestured for him to come over, and with wobbly little princess steps, he obeyed.

“Bend over the bed,” I commanded.

Jung bent over with a long, high groan as he exhaled, the dress squeezing his ribs; he leaned on his elbows, which sank only a little into the firm mattress.  He tilted his head up to look at me, hopeful, but I ignored him as I went to open up my trunk.  Jung tried to peek inside, but the dress wasn’t very flexible and he seemed rooted to the spot, which served my purposes very well.

I doubt he would have recognized half the instruments in the trunk, anyway.  Many were packed away and some, like the spanking bench, needed to be assembled.  (Fortunately the Meridian happens to have very knowledgeable staff who are happy to assist with these kinds of tasks!)

“I expect all of my slaves to be capable of taking a lashing,” I said, drawing a whip from the trunk with a small snap of my wrist.  The tail of it uncoiled and flicked playfully, like a cat’s tail; Jung’s eyes followed it worriedly.  “Are you capable, Jung?”

“…yes, Mistress,” said Jung after a moment’s consideration.

“Good.  Hitch up that dress and let me see your ass.”

Jung reached down, falling forward onto the bed, face-first.  He hadn’t been lying about not knowing how to wear heels, I guess.

He managed to scrunch up the dress to his hips, showing off his ass, which was muscular and had very little hair, just a broad, tan expanse of skin.  A blank canvas.  Perfect for my purposes!

I drew back the whip and then, without any warning at all, I cracked it horizontally against the back of his cheeks, drawing a thin, single line of blood, as thin as a razor.

Jung shrieked loud enough that I’m sure the whole hotel heard!

“Ow!  Rach– I mean, Mistress, what was that for?” he whimpered.

“For wrinkling my dress.”

“But you told me to pull it up–” he began.  I was already drawing back the whip to strike another blow; it snapped neatly against his skin, the tail biting into his virgin flesh with a deliciously satisfying sound.

“And that is for questioning me.  …stop whimpering, Jung, I know you can take it.  You have a tattoo.  Hold up the dress; if you get blood on it, you won’t like what happens next.”

Jung seemed to understand this; he lifted the dress up more, getting it up past his hips so that I have a full view of his body below the waist.  Despite all of his complaining, his sizeable cock was swollen and I could see it pressing into the bed.  When I brought down the whip and his body jolted with the shock, it pushed his cock against the sheet; I found a rhythm to my whipping, each blow causing him to rub himself against the bed.  I felt like a puppet-mistress, and what I was making my puppet do was to hump the bed while wearing a too-tight dress, hitched up to bare himself to me like a sacrificial offering. 

Every time the whip landed, every time I pulled my puppet’s string, his body reflexively jerked forward; in this way, he would learn to associate and then blur pain with pleasure, and to understand that all of the best sensations were gifts from me to him.

I laid out a criss-crossing roadmap of lightning streaks of red on Jung’s backside, but I didn’t whip him more than ten times; I didn’t want to cut too deeply and get blood on my dress!  I stopped when the first lines intersected and a bead of red appeared; this was my cue to switch to something a little more old-school.

I retrieved the wooden paddle from my trunk next, to tenderize Jung’s behind, to get his meaty backside nice and pink and puffy.  Jung whimpered, grinding himself against the bed as I slammed the thick, heavy paddle against his body; it absorbed the impact magnificently, but Jung began making a soft keening noise, and when I paused to check on him I found his eyes watery with tears and his chin streaked with drool.

I tsked.  “You’re going to make a mess of the bed.  I’m going to sleep here tonight, you know,” I said.  I tossed the paddle onto the bed and slowly peeled away my panties, stepping out of them slowly so that Jung could enjoy the sight of my perfectly shaved pussy.  It was as swollen and pink as his ass; watching his body writhe under my punishment had gotten me wet and excited.

“Open,” I hissed.

Jung opened his mouth, and in one single motion, I stuffed my panties into his mouth.  He let out a very muffled yelp of surprise, the noise softened considerably.

“Much better.  …this is certainly interesting,” I said, dragging my finger down his left arm.  A sweeping tribal tattoo gave Jung a hint of rebelliousness, but he certainly didn’t seem inclined to rebel against me!  “Do you like needles, Jung?”

Jung gave his head a tiny shake, his eyes still watering.  His mouth full and the dress binding him, all of his breaths were labored and ragged.  It was clear, to both of us, that he was helpless.

I rolled him over so that he was on his back; his ass and legs were still hanging over the bed.

“Sit up,” I commanded.

Jung pushed himself back onto the bed, letting out a cry of pain when his tortured ass slid onto the bed.  He wouldn’t be able to sit for a few days!  I straddled him, putting my hand on his throat. 

“…Do you trust me?” I asked, dropping my voice seductively.  I often ask this after I ask men if they like needles.  It’s a way to scare them.

Jung stared up at me, tears leaking from the corner of his eyes.  He seemed to be considering how to answer.  After a moment, he nodded.

I found that as surprising as his request for a pen.

“That’s not very smart of you,” I said, reaching down to pull the panties from his mouth so he could respond.

“…it’s the truth, Mistress,” he replied quietly, and my eyebrows shot up.  Was he serious?  If so, he was… surprisingly satisfactory.

“Do you know why I punished you?” I asked.

“For wrinkling the dress and questioning you, Mistress.”

“But do you know the real reason why?”

“…for fun?” he guessed.

Okay, he definitely had my number.

“Because you let the cheesecake melt,” I said.

“I’m sorry, Mistress.”

“Fortunately, the rubber bands are still okay.”  I paused, waiting.  Under me, I could hear Jung’s heavy breaths.  “…well?  Aren’t you going to ask?”

“What are the rubber bands for, Mistress?” he asked obediently.

I smiled, pushing off him and going to get them.  I hooked my thumb into one and aimed it at him; Jung tilted his head up to look, just as I released the rubber band and snapped it against his ballsack.  He let out a yell that gave the first one a run for its money, his entire body jack-knifing on the bed as much as it could within the tight confines of the pink dress.  I giggled and stretched a second rubber band out, aiming it between his legs.  Jung cupped his ballsack protectively.

“No, no, no, no, no–”

I lowered my improvised slingshot.  “No?” I repeated.

Jung clamped his mouth shut, shaking his head frantically.

“Don’t you remember the safe word?”

“Yes,” said Jung.

“What is it?”

“It’s umbrella.”

I raised the rubber band and shot it at Jung’s balls; I got another bulls-eye.  Jung cried out and rolled over, groaning and sobbing. 

“That’s for saying the safe word.  You say it when you need to say it.  Not for shits and giggles.”  I stretched a third rubber band over my thumb, stretching it out with my other hand and watching Jung.  Jung looked over at me, his expression pained.  I waited to see if he’d say it; I could see he was debating whether or not he was in over his head.  Whether it was worth it or not.  A lot of boys, after only a little bit of pushing, drop out.  Good riddance, I say.  I expect my slaves to be absolutely, irreversibly obedient to me and my rules. 

Jung reached out with a shaking hand and grabbed my panties from the bed, stuffing them into his own mouth, and then, with a very deliberate effort, removed his hand from his throbbing cock and balls, offering me a target.

I stretched out the rubber band and released it, striking him a third time, and his body folded in on itself.

I snagged the other three rubber bands and went to push open his knees.  Jung was keening, all of his blubbering absorbed by the makeshift gag; I could see his hands gripping the sheets, his knuckles white with the effort of holding on.

I put my hand around his stiff cock and slid a rubber band around it, twisting it and then looping it over, stretching it nice and tight.  Jung’s cock was hard in my grip and it only got harder as I handled it, tying three rubber bands along the shaft to squeeze it.  Jung was clearly sensitive but the bands kept his orgasm in, just as the panties kept in his moans; his foreskin was fully retracted and the head of his member was a dark puce that glistened in a way that made it feel like it was silently begging for abuse.

“I bet you want to cum, don’t you?” I said.

“Ymmff!” whimpered Jung, squirming on the bed.

I went to my trunk and rummaged around; the tool I was looking for was quite small.  I found it and held it up for Jung, then reached out to pluck the panties from his mouth.  “Do you know what this is?” I asked.

“No, Mistress,” said Jung.

“Guess.”

“…it looks like a golf tee,” he said.

I laughed.  “That is such a spoiled little rich boy answer!  Hold still.”  I reached down to cuff his cock; it had turned a shade darker from the rubber bands, and the head was prominent, the slit quite large and already leaking.  I held the tip of the small silicone plug up to it, and then, I think, Jung realized what I intended to do.  His whole body tightened and he squeezed his eyes shut; I stroked his shaft in my hand, making sure his hole was moist and his cock ready, before I eased the small, flexible plug into him.  The little rubber dilator was quite small, but I knew most guys haven’t tried sounding and that even the tiniest of instruments can feel enormous to an amateur. 

Once I had Jung’s penis plugged, I pulled away the rubber bands carefully, and then I set to work, stroking his cock with the urethral dilator still in him, masturbating him both inside and out!  Jung’s ample cock deserved such treatment.  And he was rock-hard for all of it; despite the punishment his ass and balls had taken, he’d never lost his erection, living up to his nickname! 

Needless to say he came quickly in my hand; his hips jerked upward and he moaned, pumping into my fist.  The plug kept the cum in, and I held it, waiting for him to ride out his orgasm, before I slowly let go.

“Stay,” I commanded, rising. 

I went and fetched the plate of cheesecake and, carefully, I eased out the plug and pointed Jung’s cock down over the slightly gooey slice of cake, drizzling his cum across it.

I picked up the fork and cut off the end.  Sitting on the bed with the plate balanced on my knees, I used one hand to angle Jung’s head up, and the other to offer him the bite.  He spat out my panties and leaned in, wrapping his lips around the fork and swallowing the cake with a look of rapture.

“I thought the cake was for you,” he said, after a moment.

“Ew, no.  It’s got your cum all over it.  Plus it’s sort of melting.”

Jung smiled dizzily.  “Thank you, Mistress, for the cake,” he said.

“Well, you’ll need it to get your strength up.  After all, you have a big punishment coming up.”

“What?  What did I do?” asked Jung, looking alarmed.

“I didn’t give you permission to cum.”

Jung stared at me incredulously, his hair tousled, his face red and streaked with dried tears, and then, to my surprise, he began laughing: a full-bellied laugh that brought new tears to his eyes, tears of mirth.

I had brought Jung to the Meridian to put him through his paces, to test him, to break him.  I had never expected that he would weather my punishments with such natural talent, or that, at the end, he would seem so cheerful and content.

Hung Jung wasn’t just a “triple sixer.”  He was also a natural submissive.  I had been searching for a weekend fling and instead happened upon the strangest of accomplices.  One who not only endured punishment, but craved it, who savored it as if it were a slice of rich, creamy cheesecake topped with a frosted strawberry.