Tortured Painslut Finds Her Ideal Man

I’m Gemma Marsdon, 30 years old, stuck working at a bloody petrol station in Penzance. Married to some wanker that couldn’t find my clit with a map, let alone satisfy me. Got blonde hair, medium build, big ol’ 38DD tits, and a fat ass that’s dying for some action.

Thing is, I’ve got this itch, this craving that just won’t quit. I’m think I’m a painslut, you see. I can’t seem to get off unless I’m feeling the sting of a good spanking or some other kind of delicious agony. But my husband, well that asshole is about as vanilla as they come, except when he beats me. Then, well lets just say, that is the only time he has ever made me wet and he doesn’t even know it.

So, here I am, reaching out to Master H. I heard he’s the man who can give me exactly what I’m after. No frills, no bullshit. Just someone who knows how to dish out the kind of pain that’ll make me scream with pleasure. I’m ready to risk everything to explore every twisted corner of my desires and find that release I’ve been craving.

At home my life feels like a relentless battle, fought against the man who’s supposed to be my partner. Behind closed doors, my life is a nightmare of verbal and physical abuse, orchestrated by the very person who should be my rock. His words cut deeper than any blade, slicing through my self-esteem and leaving behind gaping wounds that never seem to heal. He calls me names, belittles me, and crushes my spirit with a cruelty that knows no bounds.

But the abuse doesn’t stop at words; it extends to brutal physical attacks that leave me battered and broken. His fists rain down on me like a hailstorm, each blow driving me further into a pit of despair. In moments of blind rage, he pummels me with an intensity that defies comprehension, leaving my body bruised and my soul shattered.

I endure it all for the sake of our children, clinging to the hope that one day, I’ll find the strength to break free from his grip. But for now, I’m trapped in a cycle of pain and fear, suffocating beneath the weight of his violence. Each day is a struggle to survive, to shield my children from the horrors that lurk within our home. And yet, amidst the darkness, there’s a part of me that craves the pain, that yearns for the release it brings. It’s a twisted reality, but it’s the only escape I have from the hell that is my life.

The pain becomes my sanctuary, my refuge from the chaos and torment that define my existence. In those moments when his fists rain down upon me, I find a strange sense of clarity, a fleeting glimpse of liberation amidst the suffocating darkness. It’s as if the pain has the power to wash away the agony of his words, if only for a moment, leaving me adrift in a sea of sensation.

There’s a sickening allure to the pain, a perverse satisfaction that courses through me with each blow. It’s a reminder that I’m still alive, still capable of feeling something other than the numbness that threatens to consume me. And as the bruises bloom across my skin, I wear them like badges of honor, proof of my endurance in the face of unspeakable cruelty.

But beneath the facade of strength lies a deep well of shame and self-loathing, a gnawing sense of worthlessness that refuses to be silenced. I know I should despise the pain, should rail against the injustice of it all. Yet, in the twisted labyrinth of my mind, I can’t help but crave it, to seek out the very thing that brings me to my knees.

It’s a paradox, a contradiction that defies explanation. And yet, in the depths of my despair, the pain is the only thing that makes sense, the only thing that makes me feel alive. So I cling to it, like a drowning woman clutching at a lifeline, desperate for even the briefest reprieve from the suffocating darkness that threatens to consume me.

I reach out to Master H with trembling fingers, the weight of desperation heavy in my chest. The words spill from me in a torrent of raw emotion, my voice shaking as I lay bare the depths of my longing.

“Master H,” I begin, my words a whispered plea in the darkness of my despair. “I need you. I need your pain, your control. I need to feel something other than this endless torment.”

There’s a moment of silence, pregnant with anticipation, before his response comes, a beacon of hope in the abyss of my suffering.

“Gemma,” his voice cuts through the darkness like a blade, sharp and commanding. “Be here in ten minutes. You have the address; get here now.”

Despair hits me like a brick. The address he gave me is for a motel an hour from here. He knows where I am and how long it will take me. The anticipation of the punishment swirls within me, but so does the fear of his anger. But then, a realization dawns upon me. He is not my husband. There will be no anger, only pain.

With a mixture of apprehension and relief, I hang up the phone and begin to prepare to sneak out of my own home. The thrill of anticipation pulses through my veins as I steal away into the night, leaving behind the suffocating confines of my existence for the promise of release that awaits me in the darkness.

Standing there I knock softly, a voice greets me from behind the closed door, “Who is it?”

“It’s me, Master. I’m here as you commanded.”

“You’re late. Strip now, put all your fucking clothes in the rubbish bin at the end of the hall, then come back.”

My heart races with a mixture of fear and anticipation, but I cannot resist obeying his command. With trembling hands, I begin to undress, each piece of clothing feeling heavier than the last as I peel it away from my skin. Once naked, I gather up my clothes and make my way to the designated spot, where I deposit them into the bin with a sense of finality. Taking a deep breath to steady my nerves, I then return to the door and knock once more, my body thrumming with the knowledge that I am at his mercy.

Silence.

No response greets my knock. I try again, a bit firmer this time, hoping to catch his attention without causing a scene.

Still, there’s no reply.

My knocking becomes faster, more urgent, the desperation rising within me. Here I am, standing in the hallway of a busy motel, completely naked and vulnerable, with no indication of what to do next.

Finally, a response comes, “What do you want?”

The question could have a million answers, but I know only one will satisfy him: the truth. “Pain, Master.”

“Where’s your phone?” he asks.

I hold up my phone, momentarily forgetting that he can’t see it. “Here, Master,” I respond, finally remembering.

“You have two choices,” he states sternly. “It goes in the bin or up your cunt right now. I don’t want to see it until we’re done.”

You can read the rest of this session request, along with many others from Master H’s perspective, by exploring our new Patreon page.