Friday.
Early morning. My phone goes beep beep and I see Paul's name on the screen. There is a mild physical response from me… a sort of erotic equivalent of an eyebrow raised in expectation. This has been going on for a few days every time I see his name on screen. Ever since he told me that he was gong to send me an email about next Sunday, with instructions on "how to be prepared, what to wear and where to be waiting for me". He knows very well that I like it when he takes charge. The text message tells me to check my email.
I open the email. And get something of a shock. I had been expecting something along the lines of a quick note telling me, say, to wear no knickers and to be waiting in the bedroom when he arrived. The email that I actually get blows that idea out of the water, and it takes a while for me to digest it.
First, the tone of it. Rather impersonal; very curt. Not like the Paul I know. That puts me on the back foot. Then I take in the meaning of the words. He is going to send me detailed instructions nearer the time, but for now he is telling me to make sure I have black underwear, candles and chilled white wine for Sunday. So far, so good -- no problem there. Except that he says that if I fail to do this to his satisfaction (whatever the fuck THAT means), I will be punished.
The word 'punished' sits there on the screen and I stare at it for a while, trying to take in the implications and trying to get my head around how suddenly the way in which he and I usually interact has changed so much. I read on. He shows me a list -- rather worryingly "non-exhaustive", of five punishments. I am allowed to veto any item on the list but if I do so I will automatically receive a punishment chosen from the list. In a confusion of shock, apprehension and a smidge of incipient arousal, I notice the loophole ("Aha -- if I veto all five, he can't punish me for it, because the punishment has to be a remaining item on the list") and also I'm thinking "Okay, this is serious. This is basically the point at which I can say "Sorry, Paul, I don't want to play this game; let's forget about whole thing", OR I can take a deep breath and go with it.
I decide quite quickly to do the latter. For at least ten years, my masturbatory fantasies have often revolved round a scenario of this type -- and I've always had the longest, most powerful orgasms when they have. Why would I deny myself this?? I never thought I would have the opportunity to make the fantasy a reality. Well, that's not strictly true. There was Sam, last year, at whose Chinese clinic I was getting acupuncture for muscle-pain. After giving me several presents every time I went to the clinic (earrings, fans, bangles…), Sam said, out of the blue, that he was into D/s and that I should go to a club with him; that it would help muscle pain and tension if I acted as his sub. Wrong man (totally unattractive) and wrong time (I was still living with Chris). That weird moment after telling me that… the weird moment when he announced that this week's present was a necklace and proceeded to sit me in front of a mirror, stand behind me and very slowly, rather ceremonially, put a pearl choker around my neck. I let him do it, knowing what was going through his mind, but I never wore it to his clinic again -- and I saw the hurt in his face the first time. But I digress. Wrong man, wrong time.
Finally, a man to whom I am very sexually attracted, who I have fantastic sex with, is there shoving my fantasy in my face. I owe it to myself to play along.
I have to consider the five punishment options over the weekend, rather than deciding straight away. I quickly realise that this instruction is calculated to have a significant mental effect on me. My first reaction is that the only one I can possibly accept is the spanking by hand. But as Friday goes on, and all through the weekend, I argue with myself and reason with myself…
Spanking by hand. This is okay. He first spanked me - was the first person ever to spank me -- a few months ago. I liked it. He always leaves me wanting more of it.
Spanking by belt. The thought of it… the image of it… I am, all at the same time, scared, alarmed, worried… and intensely aroused. A combination of feelings that I will quickly learn to expect from him. Of all of the options, this is the least far removed from what I have experienced before. My gut instinct is that if I can accept one more punishment, this should be it. But a BELT??? How wide will the belt be? How stiff will the leather be? How hard will he be spanking me with it? WHERE on my body will he be spanking me with it? Scary. Scary scary. It plays on my mind. All through Friday. I change my mind about whether I need to veto this option at least a couple of dozen times. And then I take a leap of faith. I cannot ignore the fact that the thought of it, in amongst the negative reactions, turns me on like hell and makes me unbelievably wet. I have spent all of Friday at my desk with a dark patch on the crotch of my jeans where the cunt-juice is just flooding out of me. I take the leap of faith and I promise myself that I won't veto the spanking by belt.
Dripping candle wax. There is just negative stuff, no arousal, when I initially contemplate this. But I owe it to him and to myself to consider it properly. I go and get a candle. Light it. Wait for some of the wax to melt. Dribble some onto the fleshy part of the inside of my forearm. FUCK -- OUCH. Not just the initial pain, but the continuation of it -- the intensifying of it -- until the wax cools on my skin. Okay. Again. This time from further away, to give the wax time to cool a little on the way down. This time I feel the familiar lurch of arousal in the pit of my stomach. Pain, intensifying after the initial hit, but tolerable. Maybe I can allow this. But again the doubts crowd in. How close to my body would he hold the candle? Where on my body would he allow it to drip? I park this one for the night and go to bed. I can't even face contemplating the other ones on the list -- not properly -- not yet.
I have made myself come three times during the day. Every time I have come so hard it's taken my breath away. But every time I've been back where I started within a couple of minutes -- desperate for his touch on me.
In bed I imagine him with a belt in his hand, about to bring it down on my body with a thwack. I imagine candles burning, ominously, in my peripheral vision. And I come so hard that I get a painful rectal cramp that won't go away for an hour.
Saturday.
I wake up and realise that my cunt, my crack and my inner thighs are sticky and wet. I am not a morning person by any stretch of the imagination and it always takes a least until 11 a.m. for my libido even to think about waking up. But here I am, early morning, just woken, up, drenched and horny as hell. I wash in the shower. I can't wash my cunt clean because it just keeps on streaming.
I don't know if I'm allowed to, but I text him to tell him how I've woken up.
Back in bed, I lie there, imagining candles near the bed, imagining his presence in the room. I squeeze my legs together rhythmically while I pinch my nipples as hard as I can and pull hard on them. Eventually I can't stand it any more and I rub my clit hard and fast and come like a ton of bricks.
A text from him saying he is enjoying my responses. Saying there are further tests to come. I came only a minute ago but his text has instantly made me want to come again. He says I will have to self-monitor on the test and report to him if I fail to obey. I assure him I will. He seems pleased. I am ridiculously aroused.
I decide to save it. I have to go shopping today. I realise I want to be fucked so bad that I REALLY want a dildo in the house. I text him to ask his permission to buy one. He gives it. He also praises me for asking his permission. Hey, maybe I do have an inkling of how to behave with him. I walk the dog. As yesterday, with a spreading dark damp patch on the crotch of my jeans, getting very cold in the wind. As I walk I think of candle wax. I don't know if I can accept it. I want to. I want to please him, and also I want to push my limits and really experience whatever is to come at the limit of what I can tolerate. And that thought -- the thought of being taken to the limit, makes me so aroused that my knees are literally weak. I can't decide about the candles. Not yet.
Still walking, I contemplate the next option. A live webcam broadcast on a sex site; a close-up of me masturbating. And if I fail to get a big enough audience, a further punishment of his choice. I did check with him what he meant by 'close up' (and incurred a punishment for doing so). Clearly it would be entirely anonymous. So why does my gut tell me to veto this? Is it because it's the first option on the list that is more about humiliation than pain?
I get home. A text from him. He tells me I can buy a dildo but not use it until I get his permission. He refers to himself in this text as my Dom. Seeing that word on screen provokes an instant physical response in me -- my cunt muscles contract with arousal and force out a sudden flood of cunt-juice. I'm gonna have to clean up and change before I go into town.
I do so and drive towards town, my mind working over the webcam option. If he says it would be anonymous, I believe him 100%. So what's the problem. I consider the humiliation question. Over and over, searching my feelings. I sit at a red light imagining the scenario and trying to work out what my problem is. I get honked at for still sitting there in a reverie after the light has turned green. I put it all out of my mind as best I can until I am parked up in town.
I go for a coffee. Still thinking. I realise the truth -- this fantasy, this scenario, would not be complete without humiliation. It's part and parcel of the whole D/s experience, and my fantasies for years have involved both pain and mild humiliation. So anonymity isn't the problem. Humiliation isn't the problem. And then I realise what it is. The problem is that I don't want the video steam passing through my computer and through my wireless, non-secure broadband link. Suddenly all is clear. I realise that if he had chosen instead to take anonymous pictures or video with a standard camera, I'd have accepted this option with only a little work on my reservations. It wouldn't bother me that he would have the pictures or footage permanently, or that he could post them on the internet. The sticking point for me was using my computer and my non-secure internet link.
So be it. I decide I have no choice but to veto the webcam option. A shame in a way because in theory the idea turns me on very powerfully.
Still drinking my coffee, I get a text from him saying that I cannot use the dildo unless I send him a text picture of it and get his approval. Stronger control. The idea of stronger control makes me wetter. So does the knowledge that he clearly feels free to move the goalposts. I am about to book a manicure. I ask him whether he wants me to get my nails painted. His response is friendly but dismissive. I feel embarrassed for asking. Clearly I DON'T know how this whole scenario works. I decide to get my nails painted -- something I've done maybe three times in my life -- because when I look at women masturbating in porn, painted nails against their cunts in the image turn me on just that bit more.
I go to a high-street sex shop and, in amongst the novelty vibes and hen-party outfits, I see EXACTLY what I want. A glass dildo with a large textured head and a curvingly ridged shaft. Perfect. I can't wait to fuck myself with it. But I need to get his approval.
Back to the coffee bar and into the toilet. A quick text picture of the dildo in my hand.
No response from him.
I go to Marks & Spencer. I need clothes for my date with Simon on Saturday. I always turn up to first dates in jeans and a t-shirt. But Simon's special. I've already fallen for him without meeting him, just from the chats we've had on the respectable dating site where we met, and on the phone. He deserves for me to scrub up a bit and wear a skirt and heels. Heels. Ugh. Painful, risky -- especially with my sprained ankle -- and I walk like a pantomime horse in them because I've never learned how to wear them properly. But he deserves it.
My mind is on Simon as I look at skirts. A text message arrives. The dildo is approved. I smile and feel a rush of arousal at the thought of using it. I read on. He tells me I won't be allowed to pleasure myself for a full week leading up to his arrival next Sunday. My reaction is immediate and strong. THIS IS NOT FAIR. THIS IS BEYOND THE PALE. HE CAN'T DO THIS TO ME. I text him back -- "fucking hell!", with a tone of voice in it. Instantly I receive a reply from him. All it says is "Punishment incurred". And the sudden realisation makes my knees buckle so that I have to grab the clothes rail in the shop and stand up properly again. The realisation is a big one and it has come out of the blue. I realise that HE MEANS THIS. He will enforce his control and I have to understand this and I have to submit to his will.
I have to submit. I have to be his sub.
The effect on me is mostly mental. It feels enormous -- a complex mix of desire, trepidation, excitement… and it has taken me by surprise. I text him -- "That just made my knees buckle in the middle of M&S". His response: "On Sunday I'll make your knees buckle in the middle of S&M". No doubt he means it. But there is humour in his message -- the familiar kind of humour that I recognise as belonging to the man I've known and trusted until this last week. And that humour releases something in me. Suddenly I'm grinning. I KNOW this man. I may not know him as a Dom, but I know him. And I trust him 110%. He has earned that trust and there is no question at all in my mind that Paul, the man I know, would never put me or keep me in a position that I did not want.
I buy the clothes. I walk out of M&S with my head held high. I realise that for weeks I've been feeling very unattractive and down. I've put on weight and spraining my ankle meant I couldn't even walk it off. But right now, walking tall as I move along the street, I feel like the sexiest, most desirable woman in town. It doesn't matter that it's pissing down with rain and I'm wearing tatty jeans, trainers and my horrible sexless dog-walking anorak. Right now I am the most confident, most alluring, woman in probably the whole county, never mind the town. And, what's more, I'm the best fuck and I give the best head.
I have candles at home. White ones. I've been meaning to get nicer candles fro the house, and something in my gut tells me that I may be punished if I don't get coloured candles. I go to the nice home decor shop and carefully choose five 12" candles in different colours, and some simple holders for them. As I'm paying, my thoughts return to dripping candle wax. Do different kinds of candles -- different waxes -- have different melting points? If I haven't yet vetoed the wax option for sure, then I probably want to get wax with a low melting point. But I wouldn't know how to do that, even if there is a difference…
I start to drive home, contemplating dripping candle wax. Still I can't come to a decision. It's the thought of the way the pain momentarily intensifies after the wax has stuck to the skin. That thought simultaneously scares the shit out of me and makes my clit so swollen that I practically come from the seam of my jeans moving against it as my feet move on the pedals.
At home… and the dildo is all that I hoped it might be. The head is thick -- a stretch for my cunt at first until I've been fucking myself with it for a while. It's good and long too -- I can force in as much length as I can physically take. It feels sooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo fucking good and it feels amazing when I come hard with it deep inside me. Coming without penetration is wonderful. But it will never be a match for coming with a full cunt. And the dildo is rock-hard as my muscles clamp down on it involuntarily as I come. I feel really fucking dirty. I feel like a slut. It feels good.
I am struggling to imagine how I will cope with no masturbation -- and no contact with my new toy -- for a week. It's not possible to imagine it.
The rest of Saturday and most of Sunday consists of lots of dog-walking and a hell of a lot of masturbation. At one point I pull the dildo out of me, coated in cunt-juice, and put it in my mouth, imagining it's his cock. Feeling his cock in my mouth always makes my cunt drip anyway. The thought of it in my mouth during Sunday's scene makes me almost swoon (good job I'm already lying down!!).
While I fuck myself, I fantasise about his fingers and his cock in me on Sunday. And then I remember something. He told me in a text that he may decide not to let my cunt feel his touch on Sunday. Shit. Would he seriously do that to me? Allow me to get as aroused as he knows I WILL get on Sunday - and not give my cunt what it will be SCREAMING out for? I wouldn't put is past him, although I console myself with the knowledge that he likes to watch me come.
I suddenly realise that I have no idea of how I will feel after the scene ends on Sunday. For all I know I will be in shock/feeling post-traumatic/feeling lost/feeling all "weirded out"… and I realise that I want the old Paul, my friend, the man I feel safe with, to stay with me after the scene in case I need comfort or reassurance. I can't keep this to myself and so I email him.
Early evening and the text I've been expecting comes. I am not to give myself any physical pleasure from now until I see him in a week's time. I was expecting it and now, oddly, I get a little thrill from it. I go upstairs. Wash the glass dildo. Put it in its little velvet pouch. Get his toy box out and put the dildo in there. Notice the other equipment in there as I do so and feel my stomach lurch in apprehension and arousal.
A very powerful mix, that - fear and desire.
He replies to my email. Says he'll stay around for a bit after the scene. Says he won't stay the night. I'm disappointed. I see an image of myself alone in the house, feeling all lost and vulnerable, with no dog, even to touch and hold, as the dog is booked into kennels for the night. But he has his reasons and I'd rather accept he can't stay all night than give up the whole idea of Sunday's scene.
He says in his email that he has some concerns about the long-term effect of all this on me and about how it may affect a future vanilla relationship for me. Yes. He has just voiced a concern that has been niggling away at the back of MY mind. Time to let it come to the front of my mind and actually deal with it, because it's important.
I have an addictive personality. I know that. That, plus this sexual 'escalation', could be a dangerous combination for me.
I think of the most similar thing in my experience that I can dredge up. For years and years I fantasised about threesome with two men. I never really thought I'd be in a position where it might be possible. And then a man I was sleeping with offered it. I initially leapt at the chance and then over time the doubts crept in -- one of which doubts was "What if I do this and it's all I imagined it might be, and normal sex will never be enough for me ever again??". It was a real concern, as I did -- and still do -- want to be able to have normal relationships, driven my love and intellectual attraction rather than just by the horn.
I went through with the threesome. It was, without doubt, the best and most exciting sex I have ever had in my life. (Until next Sunday???) It was a one-off. I still fantasise about it, over ten years later, and I'd jump at the chance for a similar experience, but it has never 'spoiled' normal sex and relationships for me.
That gives me some comfort about next Sunday. But at the same time I am aware that a threesome is an entirely different animal from a D/s scene. For me the attraction of the threesome was largely physical -- the idea of being on the receiving end of double the stimulation and double the penetration. The D/s thing s different. I certainly want it for very physical reasons, but it goes much deeper than that. It's a powerful psychological thing too.
I decide that I want this. I want what is happening now and what will happen on Sunday. I can't remember ever wanting anything so badly. And life is short. I decide that I'm going to give myself over to this entirely. I want it so bad it hurts.
And I really think I will be okay. In amongst all this control and constant arousal in the lead-up to Sunday, I am still excited about meeting Simon. And sex with someone you love can be bog-standard missionary with a little cuddle afterwards and can still be extremely powerful.
Monday morning. I wake up full of doubts and fears. What's the white wine for? Does he know how much I paid for this mattress? I don't give a fuck about the bedding, but the mattress…..Does he know about tit-torture? About how to do it safely with no permanent damage? Does he know about the damage that can be caused by under-lubed forced anal? (He may not have a friend, like I do, who got internal ulcers from vigorous anal with not enough lube… and even thinking about that I get all aroused - the thought of being fucked HARD and DEEP… forcibly… in the ass - but I'm still worried…) Does he know how hot candle wax is?
And then a moment of clarity.
He's far more experienced than I am. I trust him completely. He knows what he's doing. He is my Dom and he knows what's best for me. I can hand over responsibility. I can let him do the worrying. I am, ultimately, safe in his hands.
And suddenly, and for the first time, ALL IS WELL WITH ME.
I text him about my veto options. With the sudden release, everything seems crystal-clear to me. I have to veto the cold shower -- that was never in doubt -- it conjured up and image of me, miserable and shivering in my own bathroom. NO fucking way! And I have to veto the webcam because of my fears about the non-secure internet link. But I know now that I can accept the belt and the wax. I am in his hands and I have, now, finally accepted that fully. There are still nerves and apprehension, but in a good, arousing way.
Speaking of arousal, keeping my hands off myself is very hard but I'm determined to try my best to obey him on this.
There is a task in my inbox. I have to write the story of the scenario so far, for him. He will mark it and I will be rewarded or punished accordingly. My first response? A piece of cake -- I love writing about my sexual experiences -- have done it for publication before now.
I put the idea to one side for now. A busy day at work, then I'll walk the dog and then I'll write it because I'm going to be working evenings Tues-Thurs and won't have time to do it unless it's tonight.
I realise I'm going to have to practise walking in heels, If I'm to cope on Saturday. So I wear heels round the house all through Monday. For the first time in my life, I see the attraction of heels. I feel sexy as hell walking around in them. Feeling taller is good. Sexy. The way it alters my stride so that my hips sway more than usual. Sexy. The way it tilts my pelvis. Sexy. The way I can feel muscle tension in the back of my calves, the back of my thighs and the front of my thighs when I walk. Sexy. Why have I never realised this before? The answer is obvious -- because I've never worn them when already in a ridiculously high state of arousal before.
Hmmmm… the arousal. Washing my cunt without pleasuring myself in the shower was an AGONY of frustration. And, later in the day, mid-afternoon when I AWAYS feel the need to come, was almost impossible. The arousal seems to be building. God knows how I'm going to survive a week with this ever-increasing frustration and arousal. But then, in the back of my mind…. my GOD -- imagine if by some miracle I DO last the week -- imagine how fucking HARD I'll come on Sunday… and then a further realisation… he may not allow me to come on Sunday. OK, OK. I'll cross that bridge if and when I get to it.
I walk the dog after work, the cold wind freezing the sopping-wet crotch of my jeans. Get back and sit down to write this.
I don't know if it's what he wanted. There's a lot in it about my feelings and contemplations. Maybe he didn't want that. Maybe he wanted something more akin to the porn I've written in the past.
All I know is that I started writing this and I haven't stopped typing since. I've just told it like it is.
If that's not good enough then I know I'll be punished for it. The thought of which just makes my cunt drip faster while I feel the knot of apprehension in my stomach.
Part Two
I text him to let him know the task is complete, and that what I've written is waiting for him in his email inbox. He told me he would mark it on Wednesday and today's still Monday. I don't hold my breath.
I am on the phone to Simon, two hours later, when I receive a text telling me I have mail.
Still talking to Simon, I go and sit in front of my laptop and open my email account. I don't open the email yet. I wait until the phone conversation is over -- another twenty minutes. Then I open the email. I do it with my heart in my mouth… what if he hated what I wrote? What will that mean for me?
His email tells me that he had expected what I sent him to be good, but that it has exceeded his expectations. He has found it a very erotic read, but also it has given him an insight into how he is affecting me. There is no punishment. Instead, I am to be rewarded -- with TWO rewards.
The first reward is an assurance from him that I'm right to trust him 100%. He tells me that the old Paul is still alive and well and is still looking out for me, under the veneer that is the Dom alter-ego. And that I can rest assured that Paul is far stronger than the Dom is.
I am surprised to find that I am crying. That I have read that sentence three or four times in a row. Surprised because I thought I already was comfortable -- already 100% sure that I could trust him. But the reality is that, if that were the case, I wouldn't be crying now with gratitude and relief on reading his assurances. It is only now that it has become clear to me that all this is part of the mind-fuck. Part of the experience. My feelings are not consistent. On one level I know I can trust him, and yet on lots of other levels I have no idea whether I can trust him or not. In the light of this it is hardly surprising that I will return to this email of his, and re-read those assurances, several times over the coming days.
I get some sort of a grip on my emotions and read the rest of his email. Find out what my second reward is. It's a good one. He is giving me his permission to bring myself to orgasm, as long as I do it within a one-hour window. I glance at the clock. There is only half an hour left. Time to get to work!
Being allowed to touch myself when I thought I would have to suffer for another six days… well, it is a very intense experience. I try to go slowly and savour the building pleasure, but my body doesn't co-operate. I come fast and I come hard.
And I sleep very deeply afterwards. But not before texting him to thank him. And getting a reply from him -- "You earned it" -- which makes me grin like an idiot.
Tuesday. The day passes with no word from him. He knew I was going to be very busy with work, and working long hours, until Thursday afternoon. Is he respecting that and allowing me to do what I need to do? Or is he ignoring me as part of the mind-fuck? Whatever… I have a chance to get a huge amount of work done. And the same again on Wednesday. My arousal doesn't go away. I am always wet. And I think about him and his plans for me a lot. But I do have a chance to do my work and do my long hours.
Thursday morning. A text from him telling me that in the next 24 hours he will text me six times, each time with a simple question. For every question that I fail to respond to correctly and within five minutes, I will incur a punishment of his choice. He tells me that this is a test of my attentiveness.
My first thought is that the mobile phone reception in my house is terrible. Often after spending a while in one room I will pick up my phone and move to another room, and find that three or four text messages will come through all at once, because reception has been restored after a break. With a five-minute window to answer his texts in, I could be in trouble here.
Back at my desk and deep in my work, I half-expect a text question to arrive. But there is nothing. At lunchtime I walk the dog. I'm enjoying watching the dog run around and sniff around and mess around, and a woman with some dogs of her own comes across and strikes up a conversation. We admire each other's dogs and she starts telling me about the dog she had to have put to sleep ten days earlier…how much she misses that dog; how hard it was to make the decision that it was finally time to put him out of his misery; how the rest of her dogs are coping with his loss…
… and I hear my phone go beep beep. And it occurs to me that this could be a timed question from Paul. But there's nothing I can do -- I have to listen to this woman's grief. Then two of her dogs start bothering my little dog, and my dog starts to get uncomfortable, and the woman does the decent thing and walks on with her dogs.
I get out my phone. It is indeed a message from him "First question -- what is the square root of 169?". I see I have about a minute left to answer this. Mental arithmetic is not my strongest point but, in a panic, I decide that 13 x13 = 169. I send him my answer. Just in time -- I get a confirmation from him that the answer is correct and in time. A relief.
The next question comes just a few minutes later. "Second question -- what colour is a robin's chest?". For a second I wonder if this is somehow a trick question. But I answer straight away. Red. A reply from him "Correct, and impressively attentive". Again, I grin. Realise I'm now on tenterhooks, waiting for the next question… hoping I won't miss the next question and run out of time. He certainly has a hold on my mind.
I have to go out tonight, to the beauty salon. To get my cunt waxed completely smooth for him. He knows this.
Late afternoon. A text. "Third question- how wet is your cunt?". Well... I was slightly wet, slightly aroused. But seeing these words on my phone screen, when I'd been expecting another simple general-knowledge question… I am very quickly much wetter and much more aroused. I respond to his text. Again, I am praised for my attentiveness.
And then, very quickly, another text. "Fourth question -- is your cunt smooth now?". I reply to tell him no -- to tell him that my appointment at the salon, on the other side of town, is at 7.30 p.m.. More praise for my prompt reply.
I finish up my work. Get into the shower and wash my cunt. Again it is streaming and can't be washed clean. This is a worry. I have to go to the salon. I have to strip from the waist down. I have to lie with my legs open -- with my cunt open -- while she peers at me, and holds me, and -- oh shit……… she'll be able to smell my arousal, not just see it…..
I arrive at the salon, go straight through to the back, to their bathroom, and wipe myself as dry as I can in there and try to think unsexy thoughts (an impossibility at this stage, with what he has done to my mind).
She calls me through and I take a deep breath. She's seeing me a couple of minutes early. As she starts work I talk. And talk and talk and talk. The more I talk to her, the more she will be distracted and will have to look at my face rather than my cunt. I kind of feel that I can cope with this. She can clearly see that I am aroused, but neither of us is acknowledging it. She carries on with her work. At the other side of the room, in my bag, my phone goes beep beep. I glance at the clock. 7.30 p.m. on the dot.
He wouldn't, would he?
All done and dressed and paid up, I pull my phone out of my bag. Yes, he would. He has. At 7.30 p.m. on the dot, just when he knew I would be unable to reply within five minutes, he sent me the fifth question. "What's my favourite colour?". I am, at the same time, a little indignant (he has put me in an impossible position), and a little amused (how fiendishly fiendish of him!) and a little frustrated (he probably thinks I don't know his favourite colour, but I remember him telling me once, months ago… it's blue). And then I read the next text message from him. "Out of time -- punishment incurred". And now, mostly, I just feel nervous and very aroused.
I spend the evening downstairs at home, playing with the dog and reading a book and thinking about what is to come in the next few days. Late, I go upstairs to bed. As I turn the corner on my landing, phone in hand, a text from him arrives. "Sixth question -- are you asleep?". Instantly I reply -- "No". And instantly he responds. "Not attentive enough, young lady -- punishment incurred". It must have happened. The patchy mobile phone reception in my house has tripped me up.
I undress, thinking about his questions and about yet more punishment. I look down at my cunt. TOTALLY hairless, totally smooth, and rather pink from the waxing. I can see my glistening clit, swollen and fat, poking out, begging to be touched. I can feel the cunt juice escaping and starting to move down towards my inner thigh.
I am not allowed to touch myself. That knowledge only makes my cunt wetter. Only makes it ache even more to be touched. But I won't. I am determined to obey him. Already I have incurred enough punishments. And twice during the week I've found myself distractedly pinching my nipples and have had to confess to him -- I have incurred his disapproval for that too. NO more. I will wait. When -- and whether -- I am allowed to have physical pleasure… well, that's entirely in his hands now. None of this makes it any easier for me to resist stroking my cunt, feeling the baby-soft, still pink and sensitive skin or touching that fat, red, aching clit…. But I will stay strong.
Friday morning.
A text to tell me I have email.
And what an email it is. Before I even open it, the title of it -- "Detailed instructions for Sunday" -- just that title has one hell of an effect on me. I have to take a few deep breaths to get up the courage to open the email, all the while feeling the rising arousal in the pit of my stomach.
I open it and I read.
"Slut,
Here are the details for our encounter on Sunday. Compliance is mandatory and punishment will result if they are not met to my satisfaction
Your cunt will be smooth....very smooth. Your hair will be freshly washed and sweet-smelling. Your toys will be laid out neatly and conveniently.
White wine will be chilled and waiting and iced so that it remains chilled; clean glasses will be to hand.
Parking will be available for me on the drive, the front door will be unlocked but capable of being locked by me once I am inside, the hall will be dimly lit....all other house lights will be turned off
You will be in your bedroom which will be lit by candles, you will be seated on a dining chair with your back to the bedroom door, you will be dressed only in black knickers, your nipple decorations and a blindfold
You WILL NOT look round when you hear me arrive; you will sit still and will not squirm. You may not be entirely certain that it's me....you may not be entirely certain that I'm alone....but since you trust me 100% then that is not an issue....but perhaps may add an extra edge to your emotions and imagination.
Should any of the above not be carried out to my satisfaction then you will be punished in a manner of my choice
You will respond in a submissive and cooperative manner to all verbal requests and physical prompts that you receive. Should this not be carried out to my satisfaction then you will be punished in a manner of my choice
If you please me you will be rewarded in a manner of my choice
Be ready by 6.30pm. Final instructions and timings will be sent on Sunday.
I will not stop if you say "No". I will not stop if you say "Stop". I will stop immediately and at any point if you use the safe word which is HELICOPTER
If you are not clear on any of these points do not dare to seek clarification, use your initiative."
I re-read this email a good half-dozen times in a row. My heart is beating fast and I'm breathing quite shallowly. I don't know whether I'm intensely scared or intensely aroused. The reality is that I'm both.
I find my eyes -- and my mind -- return to, and linger over, certain parts of his email.
He refers to me simply as "Slut". How very far we have come in only eight days. Until last week he always treated me with implicit respect, with gentle affection, and with a gentle, teasing humour. Now I'm just "Slut". Not a person. Just a role.
It half-amuses me that he refers to the toys as mine. I always think of them as belonging to him, as he's the one who uses them. On me.
His instruction that I must not turn round or squirm when I hear him come into the room… that's going to be a hard one. I am bound to be in a very nervy, edgy state at that point… how on earth will I manage to stay still? Manage not to squirm?
Manage not to flinch?
Why does he say I may not be entirely sure that it's him or that he's alone? Yes, I do, as he says, trust him 100%... but yet again there are, at the same time, levels on which I've no idea whether can trust him or not. He knows me well enough to know that, in the right circumstances, I'd be open to a threesome or to sleeping with a man he chose for me. Yes. IN THE RIGHT CIRCUMSTANCES. And these would not be the right circumstances. My courage, my risk-acceptance, even my nerves, are all stretched to the limit already. All I can do is hope that, when I hear those footsteps, they will be his, and they will be his alone. This is something that's going to play on my mind. A lot.
The safe word is HELICOPTER. The safe word is HELICOPTER. The safe word is HELICOPTER.
What if I forget the safe word? I'm human -- I am most likely to forget the safe word when I'm most stretched mentally and physically and emotionally: I am most likely to forget the safe word at the precise moment when I need it. And then what?
The safe word is HELICOPTER. The safe word is HELICOPTER. The safe word is HELICOPTER.
I have to text him. "I lost my nipple decorations a few weeks ago". An instant reply. Two words. "Your problem".
Okay. My problem. There's not a hint of Paul in all this now. Paul has gone. From now on I'm dealing only with the Dom. A thought flashes across my mind. Maybe it's not too late to call a stop to all this, to send the Dom away and ask Paul to come back. But of course it IS too late. Or, rather, I owe it to myself not to back out now. I just need to find the courage, the nerve, to see this through.
The safe word is HELICOPTER.
All through Friday, the email preys on my mind. Just as it was supposed to. The mix of feelings just gets stronger and more consuming -- and more contradictory. I feel fear with impatience, a cold trepidation with hot arousal…. trust with utter, lost, vulnerability. He knows exactly how to fuck with my mind. He knows exactly what he's doing to me.
And then a weird day. Saturday. My first date with Simon. I meet him for lunch. We get on really well, and love talking with each other. We talk and talk and all of a sudden nine hours have passed and it's time for his last train home. At the station he suddenly pulls me over against the wall and kisses me. He takes me by surprise. And his kiss makes my knees go weak. And of course a week's worth of pent-up arousal and a hundred other responses drive me to kiss him back. I think we both feel a little dazed and restless as he gets on his train.
I'm in my taxi home when I receive a text from Simon. He refers to me as a 'very sensual woman'. Yeah, no shit. No wonder. What woman wouldn't be, after the week I've had?
Later, it is very, VERY difficult for me to resist touching my cunt in bed. To be mouth-kissed by a passionate man when already in a high state of expectation and arousal from a week's build-up… if the Dom could see me now, I know he'd be proud of my restraint and self-control… I hope he would be.
The safe word is HELICOPTER. The safe word is HELICOPTER.
One more night and then he will be here. The safe word is HELICOPTER.
I wake to the alarm clock, from a dream. In my dream, I am stuck in the middle of The Strand in London, surrounded by cars, and by motorbikes -- couriers - weaving in and out. I need to get to the pavement. I feel scared. I don't know how I got into this position and I don't know how to get out of it but I am confused and scared and it's noisy and I realise I can't see the pavement any more -- not on either side…all there is now is smelly, hot, noisy, honking traffic, inches from me on all sides. And then more noise. Worse noise. And I look up and it's a helicopter, dropping down a rope ladder to me.
The safe word is HELICOPTER. My mind has been working on this more than I knew. Taking me back to when I worked in central London, and I used to see the air ambulance from my office window, speeding around.
Two things occur to me as I wake up. One: I am probably not now going to forget the safe word (thank god -- one less thing to worry about, maybe). Two: TODAY IS THE DAY.
I spend the day distractedly. Constantly aroused. Tense. Wishing I could pleasure myself, bring myself to orgasm, if only for the stress-relief that that would bring.
I meet a friend for lunch. My mind is only half with my friend as we chat. When I get home I realise I need to park around the corner to allow room for him to park on my drive. Ousted from my own property and denied the convenience of parking near my door. How appropriate.
I keep myself sane by going for a very long, brisk walk. I re-read his email. Check the instructions. I don't want to get anything wrong. I take my laptop into the bedroom and make the initial preparations.
I clear the top of my dressing table. Empty the contents of his toy box onto the bed. I have to sit down for a while and take a few deep breaths as I look at it all. I simply have no idea how I feel at the moment. A mix. The only thing I recognise for sure in that mix is fear.
Carefully, slowly, I set out the contents of the box on my dressing table. I feel like a window-dresser in some kind of obscene department store. One, two, three, four, five… six lengths of red rope, each carefully wound into a neatly-secured loop and laid together on the table. The nipple clamps. No ordinary nipple clamps. Heavy-duty vices with thumb screws, linked by a heavy chain. The black rubber flogger… a hundred thin rubber strands… he's used this on me before. It's capable of a deliciously fluid, cool, teasing caress. And it's capable of a stinging, but superficial, punishment. Is it capable of more? I guess I'll find out later. Next item. The vibrating butt plug. I know he likes to fuck my cunt while that thing is buzzing away deep in my ass. Will he use it tonight? Well, he'll do whatever the fuck he wants to do tonight, won't he? That's the whole point of tonight. And that's exactly where my fear is coming from. Deep breath. Next item. The new glass dildo, glistening in the dim light. That thing is capable of a lot, in the right hands… But what about the wrong hands?
I sit down again. Collect myself -- as much as I can, anyway. I look across at the dressing table. There they all are. All laid out. I hope I've done it neatly enough for him.
There's one more item in the box. The blindfold. I leave that on the bed. I'll be wearing it as I sit waiting for him.
Next I get the candles and put them around the room. Some near the bed, some to light up the toys. One on the chest of drawers, where I will put the wine and the glasses.
The scene is half-set. If only I were anywhere near half-ready in my mind.
Another long walk. It does help. Fresh air and some brisk exercise. And something strikes me. For the first time in over a week, I am not feeling aroused. Not at all, in fact. My cunt is dry.
Oh shit. Is this my body telling me to back out? To cancel the whole thing?
My mind is too bound up in this whole thing though. For good or for bad. My mind is NOT going to let my body back out of this, however much fear there is now. I'll see this thing through. I will. I doubt I even have a choice in the matter at this late stage, anyhow.
5. 30 p.m. An hour to go.
I check the fridge. Chilled white wine, and ice in the freezer. I get down my champagne bucket and fill it with ice. Set it on the kitchen counter and go back upstairs.
I get into the shower and I use my Chanel shower gel all over. I wash my hair with it -- twice; his instructions were clear -- my hair must be sweet-smelling or I will be punished. A thought crosses my mind… what if my hair ends up smelling of fear rather than of Chanel No. 5? Well, worrying about that won't help. Quite the opposite.
I blow-dry my hair, spritz myself with perfume. Put on some silk-and-lace black knickers. Check my watch. 5.55 p.m. It's all starting to feel unreal now. It's as if I'm an observer, watching myself going through these preparations. An odd dissociative thing. No doubt a mechanism for coping with the fear. There's still no arousal. Will the arousal come later? Will I be in trouble if it doesn't?
I put on my big, fluffy, comforting dressing gown and pad downstairs to make the final preparations.
Beep beep.
"Your punishment for vetoing the cold shower is to drink a pint of water at 6 p.m. You may not now piss without my permission. Understood?". I reply. "Understood". This is way, way, WAY beyond any kind of situation I ever thought I'd find myself in. I try not to think too hard about the implications. I measure out a pint of water and drink it quickly. It doesn't stop my mouth from being dry with nerves and fear.
And now another text from him. "You will be sitting waiting as instructed at 6.30 p.m.. You will then wait for me."
Not long now. I put the front door on the latch so he can turn the handle and let himself in. I get the wine from the fridge and put it in the champagne bucket, with the now-slick ice-cubes. Carry it upstairs and return to grab two crystal wine glasses. I place them next to the wine, on top of the chest of drawers.
I take the straight-backed chair and place it, facing the chest of drawers, with its back to the door. I place it carefully in the middle of the space. Plenty of room for him to walk around it on all sides. I sit on it. Partly to gather some composure -- or at least try to -- and partly to see what I can see from the chair in the cheval mirror. What I can see is the bed. Somehow that seems appropriate.
I check my watch. Five minutes to go. I go back downstairs. Check that the front door is on the latch. Turn off all the lights except the little dimmed lamp on the hallway table. Pad slowly upstairs. Feel the urge to go for a piss. Tell myself he won't know if I do. Then realise that I'LL know if I do. And I need to be able to look him in the eye (if I ever have the blindfold taken off) and tell him the truth. I don't go for a piss.
I close the bedroom door behind me. Remove my dressing gown. Stand in front of the mirror. Take in the sight of me in only the silk-and-lace knickers. The lace is at the lower part -- it's no use in disguising my totally bare cunt. I'm aware that my cunt is still dry. Not one ounce of arousal.
6.28 p.m.
I sit down on the chair. Put on the blindfold.
And I wait.
And I wait.
As I wait, I realise how noisy my house is. The heating is noisy. Joists creaking as they expand and contract. The water in the radiators making a strange ticking noise. The click of the thermostat as it trips on and off repeatedly. Every noise makes the breath catch in my throat. My back is poker-straight with tension. I try to loosen my neck and shoulders but they don't want to be loosened. I'm too short for this chair, really, The edge of the seat is cutting into the back of my legs.
Maybe I could remove the blindfold and get up and walk around the room a bit, to loosen things and get the circulation flowing again. Check the time, even. I have no idea how long I've been sitting there.
But of course I don't move, and I don't remove the blindfold. What if, in amongst all the noises that are making me jump… what if I didn't recognise the sound of him coming into the house? What if he's just outside the bedroom door, listening and waiting for me to break the rules and move?
Jesus, I need a piss already.
I sit there. And I sit there. Jumping at every creak, every pop, every little natural noise that my house makes.
It feels like an hour has passed. Maybe an hour HAS passed. I hear a car idling outside the house. Then a car door shutting, and the car driving off. My body slumps slightly in the chair, with the relief.
Another ten minutes, or maybe it's another half hour… my body is stiff and tense and tired and I don't think I've ever felt so jumpy. Still no arousal. The only thing growing is my desire for a piss.
And then the sound of a car again. And this time I'm sure I hear it moving slowly on the gravel on my driveway. And then the engine gets cut and a few seconds later a car door opens and then shuts.
And then, unmistakably, the sound of my front door opening and then closing again, with a slam.
In my head I hear the words, screamed. "FUCK. FUCK. THIS IS IT. FUCK".
My heart is beating incredibly loudly. Thumping. Getting faster. I can barely breathe. The safe word is HELICOPTER.
Part Three
For some reason I have been expecting to be made to wait for a while once the front door shuts. Wait at his leisure.
And so it is with rapidly rising panic and what can only be described as terror that I hear the steps coming VERY quickly up the stairs. And -- oh CHRIST -- I can hear a metal clanking noise moving up the stairs too. And far too soon, far too forcefully, the bedroom door opens behind me.
There is a frozen moment. Looking back, it feels like a whole minute. In reality it must have been no more than a second. And, in that frozen moment, every last fibre of my mental and physical concentration goes into forcing myself NOT to move. NOT to cringe. NOT to flinch.
And once that moment is over, I know I have passed some sort of test. I am still. There is no noise in the room. No noise at all. But I sense the presence behind me. Part of me wants to cower forwards, away from the presence. But I stay still. I want to be a good girl. More specifically, I don't want to incur more punishment.
The safe word is HELICOPTER.
I manage to breathe in. It's the first full breath I've managed since the front door opened. I breathe out slowly. My ears are straining. I am concentrating on the presence in the room. I THINK it's still behind me.
And then, loud on the wooden floor, slow, staccato footsteps. Circling me at a short distance. FUCK. A predator circling its prey. FUCK.
My mind is working fast. While trying to force myself to breathe and not to cower or flinch, I experience the blind panic of the cornered victim. And there are words in my head. Breathless, panicked words. "Is it him? It sounds like a man, but is it him? I can't smell anything -- I can't smell his usual smell. What the fuck am I going to do if it isn't him? This is too much. There's only so much fear and stress I can take".
The safe word is HELIPCOPTER.
The presence is behind me again. Silent. Waiting. Watching. I sit totally still. I'm not sure my senses have ever before been so acutely on the alert, on edge, straining.
And then, out of nowhere, and quickly…. a soft touch on the back of my head, moving my hair, and a face is roughly pushed into my scalp and it inhales deeply. I jump. Cringe, but manage not to move away from the touch. And it's over as quickly as it started.
It's lucky I'm sitting down. The act of sniffing me. It seems more animal than human. And it has a very powerful effect on me. In amongst the blind terror and the difficulty breathing, that animal act has given me something. It has given me just a hint, just a suggestion, of arousal.
The footsteps start again. Circle me again. End up in front of me. There is another still silence. And then sudden, overwhelming fright as I hear the LOUD, heavy, metallic, grinding noise coming from a couple of feet directly in front of my head WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?? WHAT THE FUCK?? It sounds like a very, very, heavy chain. The noise stops and my breath freezes in my lungs. My heart is beating fast and almost deafeningly.
I try to steel myself for whatever is about to happen.
And I hear the sound of wine being poured into a glass. And I feel my body slump slightly in the chair with the sudden relief. That metallic sound… it was the ice and the bottle moving against the champagne bucket. I want to laugh. But, relief or no relief, I'm still WAY too scared even to smile, let alone laugh.
More footsteps. They stop close to me, by my side. A rough hand comes out of nowhere and twists my head to the side. Lifts my hair again, and again the animal inhalation at the back of my head. It strikes me -- deep in the gut -- just how vulnerable I am.
And then hot breath near my ear. And a voice.
It's HIS voice.
The relief is indescribable. It's him. It's not some stranger. It's him.
Even though it's his voice, it's different. I realise I haven't heard his voice since long before the first text message ever arrived. And it's different. There is none of the normal gentleness. None of the normal smile in the voice. This voice is his, but it's flat. It's authoritative. It's cold.
"Good. The room is set out as I instructed. The wine is chilled. Sweet-smelling hair. Good".
I tell myself that I can relax a little. And then I feel a hand on my shoulder and the way my body flinches away makes it clear to me that I'm very far from being relaxed.
I try to breathe regularly. Slowly. He moves again until his footsteps stop in front of me. I wait. My head is slightly bowed.
He moves behind me again. One by one, he pulls my hands behind me, behind the back of the chair. And I feel the rope on my skin as he ties my wrists together. The extent of my vulnerability becomes crystal-clear.
Again, footsteps. He stops in front of me and waits. No doubt enjoying the sight of me on the chair, cowed, bound, and at his mercy.
Suddenly I feel his hand under my chin, gently (GENTLY! I didn't expect THAT), gently lifting it so that may face is upturned. And he gently removes the blindfold. I keep my eyes shut. His gentle hand still under my chin, he softly tells me to open my eyes.
In the candle-light, his hand directing my gaze, I look into his face.
He is looking me in the eye, intensely. I can't read the look he is giving me and I want to look away. But I don't. I think I may be punished if I look away. There is a lot of power in his look. I don't look away but I unfocus my eyes. Again I am put in mind of animals. The way a dog will challenge another dog by staring it in the eye. The way that one of the two dogs is forced to take on a submissive role, and does so by being the first to look away…
I look away. I lower my eyes.
He moves, and I look up. He takes hold of the wine bottle again. This time I know what that loud noise is, but it still makes me flinch. He pours more wine into the glass. Just the one glass. The other glass sits there untouched.
He stands in front of me. Takes a long, slow draught of wine. Smiles. More to himself than at me. Looks me in the eye again. "Very nice wine, nicely chilled -- well done." Again that authority, that coldness, in his voice.
A word pops into my head. 'Menacing'.
It looks as though the wine is for him, not me. My mouth is so dry. I am so on edge. Why didn't I think to have a glass of booze before he arrived, to take the edge off the nerves? Too late now.
I feel his eyes travelling over my body. It makes me feel like an object. I bow my head.
Again, his gentle fingers under my chin. I look up and see that he is bringing the wine glass to my mouth. He holds the rim against my lips and pours a little into my mouth. Just a little. A small sip. But it feels good - cold and wet - in my bone-dry mouth. Seems a small sip is all I will get. Maybe a good thing. My bladder makes itself felt again. I am getting quite desperate for a piss.
He crouches in front of me, so that his eyes are level with mine. He fixes me in the eye. He talks to me gently.
"When did you last make yourself come?"
I tell the truth. "Last Sunday". And I watch his eyes.
He is not satisfied with my response. He stares me in the eye and waits. With the panic rising again, I search my mind… what have I said wrong? And then it hits me -- I last made myself come on Monday, a day later. It was my reward for having written well.
I blurt it out, now "Sorry," shaking my head. "Last Monday".
He waits a second and then looks deep into my eyes, very seriously. "I believe you".
Three words that are very good to hear, right at that moment.
He leaves me sitting there, tied up, on the chair. He moves over to the bed. I hear the metal clanking noise that I heard earlier when he was coming up the stairs. I turn my head slightly. I can see his back and part of the bed in the mirror. See him pick up two metal poles, one longer than the other.
What are they? Spreader bars? I peer harder into the mirror and he turns his head and catches me watching.
His voice is stern. "What are you looking at?"
Softly, meekly, I say "Nothing", and I turn my head away from the mirror and bow it.
He strides over to the chair. One-handedly pulls and turns it fast, leaving me still tied, still sitting on it, but facing the bed now.
He sits facing me on the bed. Once again, that intense look into my eyes. And he speaks softly but with condescension.
"How many punishments have you incurred in the lead-up to tonight?"
He waits. Stares.
Right at this moment I can barely remember my own address, let alone the litany of my misdemeanours and punishments. I know that if I attempt an answer it is bound to be wrong. So I tell the truth. In a whisper.
"I don't know. I'm sorry".
He reels off the list.
"Two for vetoing the webcam and the cold shower. The cold shower punishment was drinking a pint of water. The other is yet to come. Two for not being attentive enough. One for questioning my methods with the webcam. One for your attitude when I told you you were not to pleasure yourself for a week".
My mind is racing. I have no idea how many punishments that is, even.
He sits calmly, brings my eyes back to his.
"That's six punishments incurred... so far".
Again, that word pops into my head. 'Menacing'.
He starts to tell me what the punishments will be. I hear as far as "you will be spanked six times with the belt for refusing the webcam", and then my mind cuts out and the rest is just noise. Maybe it's a self-defence mechanism -- my mind can't cope with the prospect of what's to come, so it stops me hearing it…
He steps behind the chair and unties my wrists. It strikes me that he's still fully dressed, which puts him in a rather more comfortable position than me. It also strikes me that something is about to happen.
A strange, almost fatalistic, calm comes over me. I am conscious that it is really just a façade, containing the fear and apprehension. The ropes are still attached to my wrists, dangling now.
Jesus, I need a piss.
He tells me to lie face down on the bed. I do as he says.
He picks up one of the ropes attached to my wrists. Pulls it firmly up and out so that my arm is extended as far as it will go, and ties my wrist to the bedpost. Walks round the bed and does the same on the other side. My legs are together.
I wait, my heart in my mouth.
Silence.
And then…
THWACK!
A sudden, stinging slap with his hand, right across my buttocks. I couldn't help the sharp intake of breath, but I know I must try not to react further. A second's pause. I hear him say, calmly, "One".
And then again, and harder. THWACK!!! Instantly followed by his imperious question. "How many?"
In the confusion and shock I don't know what he means. Is he asking me how many times I will feel that hand? I think he said six. Yes, I'm pretty sure he said six. So I say "Six".
I hear him tut.
"How many?". Panic. Confusion. Maybe he wants me to count the strokes. Okay. That was the second. I try again. "Two". His response is instant and his tone of voice is not pleasant.
"Two WHAT??".
I don't know. I don't know.
"I don't know".
He barks it at me. "Two, SIR!".
Meekly I repeat it. Two, Sir.
And again that hand comes down hard. Stinging as it hits the place that's already stinging from the last stroke. It forces the breath out of me and I manage to grunt "Three Sir".
No pauses now. THWACK -- "Four, Sir".
THWACK. Shit. That was much harder. There is a second or two before I am able to speak. I practically shout it. "FIVE, SIR".
And then the hardest stroke. Really hard, but I'm expecting it and the instant it hits I grunt out "Six, Sir".
A pause. Right across both buttocks, my flesh feels hot, and stinging. With something of a shock I realise that that was just the beginning. That was my gentle introduction, no doubt. He has spanked me before tonight. But never that hard.
Fucking hell. Real fear. And… what is that? A little throb in my clit?
I feel his hands on my knickers and he pulls them down.
I am totally naked now - and I feel totally naked. In more ways than one.
Gently, he runs his hands over my buttocks, as if to soothe them. When he speaks there is gentle approval in his voice. "Nice and pink".
He stands up at the side of the bed. A movement and then his belt is on the bed near my face, where I can see it. Then he picks it up.
And something completely unexpected happens. Something that feels totally incongruous… totally inappropriate…
A strong, overwhelming wave of sexual arousal builds in my stomach and spreads right through my body.
It's the sight of the belt. The knowledge that he is about to use it on my naked buttocks. I want it so much I practically have to stop myself from urging him to hurry up. In amongst the confusion, the apprehension, the fear, the arousal… I have half a second to raise an eyebrow and be surprised at my response to the belt.
He moves back out of my sight.
I hear… or sense… his arm going back, ready to bring the belt down on me. A moment's pause and then the belt makes contact with my buttocks.
FUCKING HELL.
I have never felt anything like it before. This HURTS. More than a sting. A sharp, shocking, PAINFUL blow. Maybe I was a little hasty in wanting to feel the belt.
I manage to get the words out, although my voice is hushed and breathless.
"One, Sir".
And again. A little harder. A little sharper. A little more painfully.
And two things happen at once, I hear myself say, loudly, "Two, Sir", and I feel my hips buck away from the bed as it to offer myself for more.
Yes, I want more. My clit is throbbing and my mind is very aroused, picturing what he's doing, waiting for the next stroke…
Four more strokes to come. They come rapidly as I count them out, and each one comes a little harder. After the fifth, I feel something approaching desperation and I realise it's because I don't want him to stop on six. My whole body is responding to the strokes, to the punishment. I want more.
I count out the sixth stroke, my hips lifted off the bed, silently inviting more.
But there are no more.
He unties the ropes. Goes and sits on the chair. Tells me I have to take my next punishment over his knee.
I don't like the idea… but what choice do I have?
Submissively, obediently, I put my body over his knee. His large, warm hand softly runs over the skin on my buttocks… and then he slaps me. HARD. My nerve endings are jangling now, and my buttocks already feel bruised from the belt.
But I know how this works, now.
"One, Sir".
Six hard thwacks on my sore, bruised buttocks. And the humiliation of being over his knee. What kind of weird, fucked-up universe have we wandered into here?
This is so far beyond any experience I've ever had before that it really does feel like another world. Who am I? Who is he? What the fuck are we doing here?
And I realise I don't care. I just want it to go on. Of course I'm scared. Of course I feel WAY out of my depth. Of course.
But I am as aroused as hell too. He hasn't touched me sexually yet. Maybe he won't touch me sexually. But he's now getting very strong sexual responses from me.
I need a piss. So very badly.
He tells me to stand up. He grabs the ropes attached to my wrists and he walks me over to the door. Pulls my wrists above my head and ties them to the big hook on the back of my door (a perfectly innocent hook for hanging my dressing gown on, until right this second). I stand there, face to the door, my arms stretched up so far that I am half on tiptoe… and I wait. My bladder is way too full and my buttocks are SORE and they feel INFLAMED.
I wait.
The first stroke from the belt comes without warning and it FUCKING HURTS. Knocks the wind out of me.
I want more.
"One, Sir".
The punishment is more severe with each stroke. I start to feel weird. Strung out… as if in a dream… it's a good weird.
I am utterly his.
The fifth stroke jolts me back to reality rather viciously. Before I know it, the shout is out of my mouth.
"FUCK!"
He stops. Pauses. Says "What was that?".
Scared again. "I'm sorry. Five, Sir".
"You will be punished with an extra stroke for that impudence". And stroke six comes down so hard that it almost makes my ears ring. I manage to get the words out… "Six, Sir".
There is one more stroke to come and it's going to be a hard one. I start giggling. I have no idea why. Mental confusion, being taken to the limit physically… I don't know.
He is not pleased. "I'm sorry- it's nerves". The belt hits me hard in my bruised, sore buttocks. I want to say "Seven, Sir" but I can't because I'm still giggling. God knows why. The pain is intense.
Again the belt comes down on me. The most punishing stroke so far. It's as though it hits the words out of me. "Eight, Sir". And I'm not giggling.
There is at least one more stroke to come. I want it very much.
The ninth stroke makes my knees buckle. I don't fall because my wrists are secured to the hook.
He stands close behind me. I can't wait any more. I can't hold off any more. "Please… please… I need a piss…"
He tells me I have two choices -- I can piss as I stand there, tied, or I can go to the bathroom -- and piss as he watches.
Picking the lesser of two evils, I allow him to lead me to the bathroom. With the ropes still dangling from my wrists, I sit on the toilet. He crouches in front of me, facing me, and looks me in the eye. Of course I can't let go. In my head I'm shouting "Go away, go away, leave me alone, just for one minute".
Still he holds my gaze. I'm not happy. I stare back. And then that gentle but menacing voice again.
"Such pretty eyes…. and such defiance in them".
Yes, he's read my eyes correctly. I am angry. Can't piss with him watching me, however hard I try… can't go any longer without a piss. Nevertheless I lower my gaze.
An eternity - or ten seconds - later, he tells me to look at him. He looks, quite kindly, into my eyes, and gently asks "How close are you to saying the word?".
For some reason that makes me angrier. I try not to show it. I hold his stare. Quietly, pointedly, defiantly, I say "Not close". And his eyes soften. He asks me what I want. I tell him I want to be left alone for one minute. To my astonishment he says "I will allow that" and he leaves the room.
As I piss, feeling a lot of the tension leaving my body, I wonder if I can walk back into the bedroom and announce that the night I over. That I've had enough.
But I don't want to. I don't want it to stop.
As soon as I walk back into the bedroom he tells me to lie on my back on the bed. I obey and again he stretches out my arms and ties my writs securely to the bedposts. Then I hear clanking and he's got a long metal pole in his hands. He forces my legs apart roughly, until my ankles are near the corners of the bed.
It is a spreader. He secures my ankles to it. There's nothing I can do now. I can't move my arms or lift my body off the bed. I can't close my legs. I am utterly exposed and at his mercy.
Slowly, standing at the foot of the bed, admiring the sight he has created on the bed, he undresses.
There is a cold, dirty, contemptuous look in his eye. A look that tells me he's going to use my body as a THING. It makes me feel very uncomfortable and it makes my mind spin, trying to imagine what's coming next and whether I'll be able to cope with it.
His cock is erect and looks even bigger than its seven-and-a-half inches. Fat and hard and scary and……. Oh fuck, I just want it buried deep inside my cunt. I want it really badly.
But he doesn't put it anywhere near my cunt. He straddles my shoulders and, roughly, he forces it into my mouth. Fucks my mouth, hard and fast, with his full length. Normally I love to deep-throat him. But that's when I can control the speed and the angle and when I can pull back when I need to. Lying on my back, unable to move, with his cock being shoved hard into my throat… I can't breathe. I start to panic. Try and snatch bits of air each time he pulls out an inch or so… but he slams back into me too fast. I can't breathe.
The safe word is HELICOPTER.
But with his cock in my throat, and with my body and arms and legs immobilised, I can't speak and I can't stop him.
He carries on fucking my mouth, forcing his cock repeatedly deep into my throat. He pulls out for a split second and I wrench my head to one side, inhale quickly… and I shout it.
HELICOPTER!
He freezes. Moves his hands to the ropes as if to untie them. Breathlessly, urgently, I say "I'm okay. I'm okay…. But I couldn't breathe… it's okay…".
He goes and takes a slug of the iced wine. Comes back to the bed, moves on top of me, and puts his mouth on mine. An icy little dribble of wine escapes his lips and I lick at it… and then I lift my head a fraction and suck the wine through his lips right out of his mouth.
It feels like the most intimate thing I have ever done with this man, and it makes me want to cry. It also makes my clit throb.
He picks up a candle. Holds it over my body for a second, watching my face as I stare at it and try not to flinch and cringe. And then he tips it and the pain as the wax hits my breast, near the nipple, and the intensifying of that pain… I let out a grunt of panic and alarm. He doesn't stop. He punishes my other breast in the same way.
FUCK that hurts. And not in a good way. Not at all in a good way. He can read my reactions but he doesn't stop. He dribbles a trail of wax down my stomach. This is NOT GOOD. It hurts. It's beyond what I can take. Way beyond what I would ever want…. And then a splash of hot wax on my pubic mound, on the bare, soft, sensitive skin there. I daren't protest for fear of more wax. My teeth are gritted so tight, grinding with the pain, that they are creaking inside my head. Then a huge spilling of wax onto the very top of my inner thigh and I scream out, wordlessly, in pain. I can't take this. I can't take any more. I don't have it in me.
He seems to sense I can't go any further. He puts the candle back down and I experience the biggest flood of relief I have felt all night.
His body moves down the bed. I think he's going to let me have a break. So it comes as a surprise when I feel his fingers on my clit, pulling and rubbing its length as if it were a miniature cock. My response is instant. I can't stop myself from groaning rhythmically as he pulls on my clit. I had got to the point where I was convinced he wasn't going to touch me sexually at all tonight - and the surprise and the intensity of the sensation are overwhelming. Before I can really take in what's happening, his fingers are shoved inside my cunt. Three fingers? Four? He has big hands. I am stretched tight around his fingers and, just as he puts his mouth on my clit and sucks on it rhythmically, he starts fucking my cunt with his hand. He punishes my cunt, stretching it as far as it will stretch and then a little more. Finger-fucks me roughly, urgently… and after what can only be a few seconds, my orgasm builds fast and deep and it hits me like a ton of bricks. Every cell, every part of my body, comes and comes HARD and doesn't stop coming for what feels like forever. He finger-fucks and sucks until I scream at him to stop. I can't take any more. The intensity, the sensitivity, becomes unbearable.
I am still reeling from the orgasm when I realise his body is next to mine… his head is next to mine. And he puts his arms right round me and he hugs me to him and squeezes me tight... and, softly, warmly, into my ear, he mutters…"It's all over. It's over. The nasty man's gone. It's me. It's Paul. It's Paul. You can cry or laugh or talk -- you can do whatever you need to do".
He unties my wrists.
I cling to him. I do want to cry and I do want to laugh. I don't want to talk. Not yet. Mostly I just want him -- Paul -- to hold me tight. And he does hold me tight. And I'm so glad to be with my friend, to be being held by my friend, to feel safe and warm… I am a little tearful, but I feel safe and cared for and I know that everything is okay and that everything will be okay too. Mostly I feel grateful.
Epilogue
The bruises on my buttocks, two of which were very obviously shaped like the end of a belt, don't fade at all for several days, and are still visible over a week later.
As I write this, two weeks to the day after that night, all I can really think about is how much I want some new belt-shaped bruises there.
You might say I'm a convert.
