Burning Bright

Layla was notorious among sex workers in the Chicago area. It wasn’t because of her beauty, though the thirty four year old dominatrix did cut a striking figure: ruby red hair tied into a ponytail that went all the way down her back, long legs that brought her over six feet in height, and a skin tight, full body leather outfit that hugged a full chest and heart shaped posterior.

But what truly made her stand out was her reputation as the cruelest, meanest bitch in the Windy City. Most of the men who hired her came away from the experience shaking and traumatized, slinking out of her playroom in shame to find more mild pursuits. The few who stayed, however, couldn’t imagine kneeling for anyone else.

If questioned, men on both sides would agree that what made her so effective was her sincerity. She was never just playing a role when she was on the clock; she genuinely loathed the men she was dominating, her hatred for them blazing like fire. She wanted them to suffer and beg and be reduced to miserable squirming worms. The fact that they paid her for the privilege was just a bonus.

What most people did not realize, however, is that hate is a finite resource. No matter how massive and red hot a flame is, over time it will sputter out and die.

Unless supplied with fuel, of course.

Layla was already in a foul mood when she slammed open the door to her dungeon. One of her clients had called while she was in the Uber, begging her to remove or at least rename the “crybaby” fee she’d charged to his credit card after he’d broken down sobbing in their last session. Like she gave a fuck if his wife was sure to notice it on their monthly statement and start asking questions. If he didn’t want his infidelity exposed, he should’ve tried not being a weepy little bitch.

It hadn’t taken long to bully the man into giving up and apologizing for wasting her time, but what pissed the woman off was that he’d dared to make the request in the first place. If one of her clients thought, even for a second, that upsetting his wife was worse than upsetting her, then she really was starting to lose her touch. She’d waited too long to book this appointment.

Her dungeon, her home away from home, was the basement of an otherwise unremarkable downtown office building. She’d paid good money to lease the entire floor, and even more to ensure building staff would stay out. This was her domain, and she insisted on being in charge of everything and everyone in it. She’d even persuaded the building manager into disabling elevator access, leaving the back alley stairs as the only entrance and exit.

The lights were still off, the room full of dark silhouettes lit only by the moonlight streaming  through the upper windows. Her normal business hours were during the day - it was much easier on her schedule, and she wasn’t the one who had to make excuses for why she wasn’t at work, or slink away in broad daylight after a session - but this wasn’t normal business. “You’re here already, right?!” she called out angrily. “Come the fuck out and show yourself!”

There was silence for a moment, and then one of the silhouettes shifted.

The redhead felt only slightly mollified when she flipped the light switch and saw that at least the agency had given her someone with the right look this time. Most of the men they sent each time looked like male models, goddamn wannabe Fabios stepping out of romance covers to ravish maidens in real life. This one was fat and ugly, with a pockmarked face and bulbous eyes. He looked like the sort of creep who jacked off to underage girls and had a dozen venereal diseases because only the cheapest whores were willing to touch him. Just breathing the same air as him made her skin crawl.

She pointed a manicured finger at him. “Don’t say a fucking word yet. Just listen. First, after we’re done here, you don’t breathe a word of this to anyone, not even as a joke, not even to the employers who sent you here. This stays between you and me, forever, and if that changes, I will fucking ruin your life. Nod if you understand.”

He slowly nodded.

“Second, I’m not here to be your friend or lover, and safe words and triggers are weak bullshit invented for pussies. I’m not going to waste time telling you my limits or preferences because frankly, there is nothing you can do to me that I won’t hate. I’m not looking for a good time, and you’re not here to show me one. You are here to RAPE me, HURT me, and make me sorry I was ever born. Nod if you understand.”

Another nod.

It wasn’t that Layla had secret submissive tendencies, or harbored unspoken feelings of attraction towards the male half of the species. Quite the opposite. She despised not being in control, despised pain, despised sex with men, despised everything that she had paid a small fortune to arrange for herself today.

Because that was the point.

Her career had faltered eight years ago, when she’d found motivation increasingly difficult to come by. It was harder and harder to work up the rage and bile that she’d built her name on when all of her interactions with men involved them cowering on the floor. She still found them pathetic and disgusting, but she didn’t HATE them, not enough.

And as she’d stumbled home drunk one night, trying not to think about her shrinking client list, someone had recognized her. It was one of the many men who’d been too weak for her services, and left her dungeon crying like a baby with her spittle still on his cheek. When he saw how inebriated she was, he manhandled her into a nearby alley, ripped off her clothes, and raped her while she struggled. Hours later, beaten and bruised, bound and gagged with the torn scraps of her clothes, and trickling cum from every hole, she’d been tossed into a nearby dumpster. He’d ended their night by pissing on her, calling her a lousy fuck, and then closing the lid. She’d laid there in pitch black, covered in garbage and urine, until a restaurant worker had come by to throw out trash in the morning

That experience didn’t awaken anything in Layla. No masochistic urges, or newfound empathy for the suffering of others. It just made her angrier. It was the worst experience of her life, and when she took her rage and frustration out on her clients in the days and weeks that followed, her popularity soared. She’d found the secret to success.

Once every couple years since then, whenever anger began to fade again, she called an agency that specialized in these sorts of things and arranged a refresher. The experience was never anywhere as intense or effective as that first genuine time, but it was enough to keep the fires stoked.

Layla stared at her rapist to be and almost smiled. She could already tell that this was going to be fucking awful. “Alright,” she growled. “Let’s get this over with, you ugly piece of shit.”

His speed caught her by surprise. In just a few long strides, he was in front of her, wrapping a meaty hand around her throat and strangling her. Layla was lifted into the air, legs kicking at his torso, her nails clawing tracks of blood down his thick arm. There was never a question in her mind about putting up a genuine fight; if her rapist couldn’t physically dominate her, then he was fucking worthless.

If her violent resistance bothered him, he didn’t show it, calmly balling his other hand into a fist and slugging her in the stomach. The redhead gasped, all the air in her lungs expelled in one violent motion. Her mouth flapped open like a fish as she tried and failed to draw in another breath.

The man punched her in the stomach a second time, and a third, each blow like a sledgehammer. By the seventh, lack of oxygen had made her stop struggling, and she hung limply in his grip. When he pulled her head closer to him, she could only glare at him with bloodshot eyes, her lungs rattling in her chest. “You’re a stuck up, arrogant cunt,” he growled in the raspy voice of a lifetime smoker. “And I’m here to teach you some manners.”

He pulled a pocketknife out and began sawing through the crotch of her bodysuit. He didn’t seem to care about not cutting her, and she winced as the blade sliced through her skin almost as often as leather.

Layla expected him to rape her now that he’d cut an opening for his dick, but instead he carried her towards one of her camera tripods. Sometimes she enjoyed filming sessions with her clients, especially the ones that she knew hated being recorded. Mostly she used the videos for her own personal enjoyment at home, but occasionally she would send a copy back to its co-star to remind him it existed. She never outright threatened to share someone’s videos around if they ever started getting any ideas, but they all seemed to get the message.

The tripod had three stubby legs that met at a long vertical pole where a camera could be mounted and adjusted. She realized what he intended, and a burst of adrenaline gave her oxygen deprived body the energy to renew her struggles slightly, but the choked dominatrix couldn’t stop him from sticking her on top of the tripod and pushing down.

Layla groaned as the thick metal pole sank into her cunt. Its rigid, bumpy sides stretched her wider than any cock ever had, and he forced her down until her cervix smacked into the top. It was only then he let go of her neck, leaving her impaled on the tripod and panting for air.

Fuck, she thought dazedly, with something approaching professional admiration. They’d been at this less than two minutes and it was already more intense than any of her previous sessions. She’d have to get his card when it was over.

Layla was still trying to catch her breath when he grabbed one of her feet and bent her leg back until it touched her butt. He held her limb in place with one hand while the other wound duct tape around and around to bind it in place, then grabbed a triangular leather sheath from her own equipment. That went over her bent leg, covering it completely and then tightened with various straps.

She’d recovered enough by now to kick and scratch at him some more, but he was able to grab her free leg and get it bent and bound like the other. Then he repeated the bondage with her arms, sticking her hands to her shoulders and leaving her elbows sticking out. “From now on,” he hissed, “you’re gonna crawl like the bitch you are.” She tried to rock the tripod and knock it over, but it wouldn’t budge.

“We’ll start with your tits,” he said darkly, and produced the knife again. He cut out two crude circles over her breasts, the knife once again drawing blood several times. She expected him to make the holes big enough to expose her entire breasts, but they were much too small, barely larger than her flat brown nipples.

Then he took out a set of pliers, took a firm grip on her left nipple that made her hiss and grit her teeth, and began to pull.

Layla’s whole body went rigid with pain as her nipple was stretched obscenely far. At first she thought his goal was just to torture her nipple - or maybe even rip it off completely - but he pressed the palm of his other hand against her suit. Slowly, the rest of her full breast began to compress and squeeze through the small hole he’d made, literally dragged out by the nipple.

When he was done, her entire left breast was bare, and the hole felt like a tight noose around the base of her tit. The compression not only hurt like hell, it made the rest of her breast bulge out, easily several sizes larger than normal. Her rapist released her nipple and gave the trapped, swollen tit an experimental slap. It hurt worse than the pliers had, and the redhead couldn’t hold back a squeal of pain.

Soon both her breasts looked like a pair of overstuffed balloons ready to burst, and she was eyeing the leather flogger he’d picked up from her own tools. Layla licked her lips. “You… shouldn’t use that one,” she said carefully, trying not to express any panic. That flogger was for special punishments, the kind she saved for idiots who thought that being groveling pain sluts meant they were able to enjoy even the most severe agony. She’d yet to meet a man who wasn’t sobbing and begging her for mercy after a little while. “That’s the wimpy one I use on soft baby bitches. If you’re going to flog me, use the hard rubber.”

To her regret, he ignored her. Worse, he started by sliding it gently over her tits, which meant he’d recognized exactly what it was for. Layla could do nothing but brace for what came next.

It took a few minutes for the nettles woven into the leather strands to begin taking effect. At first, she just felt MORE: she was acutely aware of the gentle flow of air in the dungeon as it brushed across her flesh, of the drops of blood running down her tits where his knife work had been careless, the many little pinpricks where the nettles had pierced her skin.

Then she began to feel the growing heat, like her breasts were being cooked over an open flame. The temperature quickly transitioned from merely uncomfortable to severe to white hot agony.

But it was the itching that drew an involuntary whimper from Layla. She’d watched in amusement as clients clawed patches of their own flesh off while screaming about millions of bugs under their skin. Whenever it looked like they were in danger of inflicting real harm on themselves, she didn’t go any easier; she just bound their hands.

Now it was her turn to writhe in her bonds, her hands clenched into useless fists, as the overpowering desire to scratch at her swollen tits nearly drove her mad. Her hypersensitive, enflamed, itchy breasts screamed at her for relief she couldn’t supply, the sensations growing crueler with each passing second…

And then he began actually flogging her.

Layla howled as the leather lashed against her balloon sized tits, every fresh welt like a hot poker sizzling against her flesh. She screamed until she was choking on her own spittle as her tormentor struck her dozens, then hundreds of times, seemingly not content to stop until the flogger had licked every inch of sweaty, burning skin.

By the time he was satisfied, the redhead had screamed herself hoarse, and her tits were throbbing orbs of pain. Even now that the flogging had stopped, they remained a source of constant agony, and she knew from experience that it could take hours before the effect of the nettles wore off.

Layla was so distracted by the pain that she barely registered that he was adjusting the height of the tripod. It wasn’t until he took off his pants and squeezed his prick - god, he was so fucking huge! - into the narrow valley between her bulging tits that she realized what he wanted. “D-don’t you fucking dare…” she whispered.

He leered at her. “Welcome to being my fucktoy, bitch.” Then he grabbed two big handfuls and started titfucking her.

The redhead wailed as he crushed her engorged fun bags, his dirty fingernails digging into her bruised flesh hard enough to break the skin. Her breasts felt like they were about to pop as he viciously mashed them against his hard shaft, scrubbing himself with her bloody welts.

The man leaned down and pressed his lips against hers, reducing her screams to soft squeals. He tasted disgusting, like old cigarettes and stale beer, and Layla couldn’t help gagging as his fat tongue hungrily probed her mouth. She tried to push him away with her own tongue, and he responded by slobbering and sucking on hers, mixed drool running down her chin as her attempted resistance was transformed into a sloppy French kiss.

Her squeals rose to a fever pitch as his grip somehow tightened even further on her tits, his calluses palms like sandpaper to her nipples as he bounced her jugs up and down. Semen began to fountain from his cock, and he finally broke off the kiss and released his grip on her tits so he could grab the back of her head and push her face down.

Layla shut her mouth, but not quickly enough to prevent several spurts of cum from shooting between her lips, and she couldn’t do anything about the ones that painted her face. By the time the last drops of his load dribbled down his head and onto her bulging tits, her features were coated in sperm and its taste was heavy on her tongue.

The man breathed a heavy sigh of satisfaction as he wiped his cock clean on her breasts. “Just had to get the edge off, bitch. You’ll need to earn my next load.”

The redhead spat a few times to try and get the taste of him out of her mouth, then gave up. She bared her teeth at him instead. “That what you call not being able to get it up again, pencil dick? Sorry, I don’t have all night to wait around for it to regain that mighty one inch heft.”

Her insults didn’t seem to phase him as he leered at her. “Next time will be straight up your shitter, but not until you learn to beg for it.”

“Do me a favor and whistle ‘Dixie’ when you’re up there,” she retorted. “Otherwise how will I ever know?”

Despite her attitude, Layla felt a knot of anxiety in her gut as he walked away from her to prepare some new torment. This guy was intense, nothing like the usual ones. The only rape she’d had that was worse than this was the real one eight years ago.

And that was good, really. She already wanted to rip this fucker’s eyes out with her nails and shit in the empty sockets, and he hadn’t even stuck his dick in her yet. The leather clad dominatrix could tell that this was the sort of experience that would keep her fueled with rage for a very long time. For the next few years, maybe even all the way through retirement, every pathetic sub who hired her would suffer in this dirtbag’s place.

She just had to make it through this session first.