"He's expecting you," she whispers, as though the walls are listening. "Downstairs. The first door on the left. The black one."
A black door? Well, aren't we the melodramatic one! I try to sneer, desperately grasping for something, anything to bolster my confidence, but it's in vain. His eyes had said there was a price to be paid. The color of the door was merely a reflection of what it held at bay, the price of my liberation. My bladder threatens. I need to pee, desperately. But, bracing myself I turn the knob and enter his lair.
I pause to allow my eyes to adjust to the variance in light, and the details began to separate themselves from the gloom. The room is sparsely furnished, I notice at last. There is merely an odd-shaped bench, alone near the far wall, and a large, leather chair, turned from me now in which I surmise the "Master" awaits. But the walls...oh the walls!
There, in stark relief hangs some sort of a wooden cross...no not a cross...an "X" to be exact. It is comprised of heavy timbers, secured forever to the concrete surface behind, its sturdy facade adorned with a multitude of steel rings and leather restraints. All along the walls I see hooks, each bearing things that make my flesh cringe. I should run, I think, my panic overcoming me. I should, but still I hold my ground.
"I know what you need," He'd written, and somewhere deep inside I fear he was right. As though on cue, the chair swivels in my direction and He comes into view.
He is different now, stronger, more ominous. The grey of His hair frames the deep blue of His eyes, and the cut of His leather vest makes His obvious strength a presence in itself. "You came," He says, a statement, no surprise. "You're frightened, I can smell it, and yet you're here. You've taken the first step."
There is no curl to His lips, not a smile, not a sneer. He just "IS". My bladder threatens to release and shame me even further. "Do you know what this is?" He asks, His hand gesturing at the room about Him, "...what it's for?"
I nod slowly, the details vague, but the import all too clear. I'm to be tested. My fear is on trial. This is a battle I must win...for the prize is life itself.
"Shall we continue?" He questions. "Your choice, Anna.
Silently He nods his approval, then dictates the rules of our encounter. "You will address me as 'Sir' at all times. I will be obeyed without hesitation or reservation. You will submit, immediately, or leave in failure. Is that clear?"
Again I nod, my voice a betrayal. I paste my bravest façade before me, but He waits until it fades and is replaced with the quivering mass it attempted to hide. We must begin at the beginning, visceral, without pretense.
"Undress," He orders simply.
* * * * *
Chapter One: That Morning
"Is that the best you can do, Mr. Johnson?" I reply acerbically.
He sneers. That awful, insolent look of his cuts me to the core.
"Yes Ma'am." He drawls confidently. But there is no deference, not in his tone, not in his eyes.
He knows.
"Then reread the chapter tonight, Mr. Johnson. I'll expect you to be prepared tomorrow."
He smiles, as though I've said something amusing.
"Oh, I will be Ma'am. Prepared, that is." The mask slips, and he allows the carnivore behind to peek beneath my prim and proper visage to the frightened child I hide inside.
"Class dismissed." I choke, my carefully bound persona coming unraveled before him. "Read p-p-pages..."
They pause, their pencils poised, but I can't continue. Instead, I wave my hand in the direction of the doorway in silent dismissal, and my charges scramble for the exit, eager to take advantage of their reprieve. All except one...
He's bolder now, here, alone in the dusty silence. His hand grazes the taut fabric of his jeans.
He knows.
"You didn't give an assignment," he whispers, his voice cutting into my discomposure. "They'll all be talking about that, you know."
"Well, YOU have one, Mr. Johnson," I reply, my voice cracking under the strain. "You know what I want you to do."
He laughs, an ugly sound that gnaws at the final vestiges of my dignity. A tear threatens, and I desperately hold it at bay.
"Yes, Ma'am," he replies once more, but this time he reaches for my hand. Then, brazenly, his eyes brooking no resistance, he presses it against the bulge of his zipper. "I know what you need."
I stand in shocked silence, terror warring behind my eyelids. He knows. Even at the tender age of eighteen, he knows. I'm an open book, and my pages are ragged and worn, dog-eared from perpetual rereading of the same taunting passage.
Finally, he squeezes my hand around his hardened flesh, then drops it discarded to the desk. The disrespect glowers in his eyes, and he turns to leave.
"Later, 'Teach'..." he throws over his shoulder, as though I've been dismissed. And I have.
My knees buckle and I drop heavily into my chair. The dam bursts, and a flood of tears ensue, ruining my mascara, dripping shamelessly from my chin.
Fear.
Even someone as untried as Ted Johnson can see it. I wear my competence like a coat of mail, something to hide behind, something that buffers me from the world beyond, but it's a sham. Underneath there is nothing but terror. The Mr. Johnson's of the world are everywhere, and they always know. They always see through me, and come to prey.
Quivering, I cross and latch the door, secure at last, then unlock the drawer that holds my purse. Reaching shakily inside, I open my tiny make-up mirror and examine the ruins of my face. I look terrible! Large wells of black mascara pool beneath my eyes, and dark trails run at will down my cheeks. I dab at them, my linen handkerchief bearing the blackened mess from my face. But, it's not enough.
Desperately, I spit upon the cloth, then apply it once more to the damage. Pink, abraded flesh now replaces black, and I feel my tentative composure returning. I can cover that with concealer, I think to myself. But how can I cover the conquered look in my eyes?
Finally, my façade is repaired, and I reach for my thermal lunch bag beneath the desk. Perhaps I've packed something to settle the overwhelming turmoil that now runs rampant in my stomach, I hope. What was it? I can't remember anymore. The only thing that fills my mind is the memory of what has just taken place, the scene of my undoing.
A ragged piece of aluminum foil plops sullenly atop the scarred surface of my desk. A pork chop, cold and greasy. The remnants of last night's dinner, not great then, and a disaster now. My stomach revolts, and I drop it into the wastebasket. Only yogurt remains, warm and runny. My thermal carrier needs help, as do I.
This too falls prey to my circular file. Is there room in there for me?
My stomach growls. I haven't eaten since last night. My "stage fright" has kept me from it, stolen the breakfast I should have enjoyed, and now I pay the price.
I'll have to go through the cafeteria line now. Just punishment for a life half lived. My fear rises once more, but the desperate pangs in my stomach call me forward. Four more classes to go. Can I wait? A cramp, hard and sharp lances through my belly. I need food. I need it now. I need...
"I know what you need," he'd said. Once more I begin to shake. He'd be out there now, in the cafeteria, laughing with his friends. Am I the butt of his jokes already, an appetizer for what is to come, or am I something he keeps to himself, all to himself, like a lion hovering over a fresh kill?
I stifle the tears once more. I can't cry now. I don't have the time to repair the evidence of my frailty before my next curtain call.
And so, donning my professional persona one more time, I regretfully unlock the classroom door and make my way into the milling throng beyond. All about me rise the happy, sad, and disconnected voices of teen angst, but I pass by unnoticed. I'm invisible...a teacher, not worth their notice. I like it that way.
Finally my goal is in sight, the cafeteria where the veterans of this institutional establishment serve up daily portions of mystery meat and starch. The same place where, as a concession to those of us who want to live for a few more years, the school district has placed a salad bar of minimal quality and questionable taste.
Looking neither left nor right, I grasp the salad tongs and attempt to fill my plastic container with limp lettuce and tired tomato. A few chunks of the ever-present U.S. surplus cheese, and something I can only hope came in a can labeled Spam, and I'm through. I could escape back to my classroom, I think eagerly, yearning for even a momentary reprieve, but no. He's here. He'll know he's won.
And so, I take an innocuous spot at the "teacher's table" among the classified and certified staff, and try to maintain a façade of scholarly decorum as I desperately attempt to digest the indigestible among my peers. The salad needs something, I think, and then I realize what it is. I've failed, in my condition, to gather one of the small packets of ranch dressing from the bins beside the cash register.
I check around me. Will anyone notice if I pass by. Will he notice? Will he snicker, or merely give me one of his bold, unnerving stares? I don't care, I decide, but just in case I hurry before I have to face the consequences of my decision.
I am gone perhaps 10 seconds, a few heartbeats at most, but when I return something has changed. Something is now lodged beneath my tray. I stop and stare, as though a viper were preparing to strike at my vulnerable fingers. Then, shifting my gaze uneasily about the table, I grasp it between my thumb and index finger and give a feeble tug.
Immediately it fills my shaking hand, threatening to unmask my state of mind. It's a note, very carefully folded and tucked precisely midway along the right-hand edge of the pink, plastic cafeteria tray. I'm impressed...such control. Such precision. Only a trained mind would be so exact. Is there more to Mr. Johnson than I suspected?
Quickly I tuck the folded paper into my pocket and dump my uneaten roughage into the trash bin. Then, slipping as innocuously as possible from the room, I hurry back to my bastion of chalk dust and solitude.
My heart is pounding by the time I reach the door, and I nervously finger the folded paper in the pocket of my tired, beige skirt. What is it? Must I leave this position much as I have the last two, the victim of my own shortcomings? Must I continue to search for my place among the viable?
The lock clicks behind me and I sink into my chair just as my knees fail. I lay my head atop the desk, like a schoolchild who's been disciplined, and sigh heavily. Then, reaching into my pocket once more, I lay the folded mystery before me.
The edges are evenly aligned, I notice, crisply creased and under control. The paper appears to be something unusual, perhaps a customized desktop notepad, but where would Mr. Johnson get such a thing on such short notice?
Carefully I unfold it and press the creases neatly atop my blotter...then I see it. My heart skips a beat, and my intestinal fortitude threatens to give way.
"I know what you need." It reads in bold, precise script.
I gasp, the blood rushing from my brain in mind-numbing torrents. I bend over and lower my head between my knees. I am conquered, stripped! My mind reels. I can't go on!
But wait, I know Ted Johnson's scrawling pencil scratches. His attempts at literacy resemble nothing even similar to this! Mr. Johnson has not penned this erstwhile correspondence. Someone else has entered the forum, and he knows how to win.
Once more I smooth the paper before me. I know this writing! I've seen it before, but where? And then it comes to me.
Hurriedly I shuffle through my daily memos, and there it is, the exact same hand on a note from John Sheridan, the school principal!
"I know what you need," it taunts.
I swallow nervously, my throat dry and uncooperative. What does this mean? What should I do? What CAN I do?
Then, in desperation I remove my Bic from the desk drawer and hold it poised over the message. I reply with one word...
"What?"
* * * * *
Chapter two
The final bell rings, and the last of my students scurry from the room. I've been distant today, preoccupied, and it's been noticed. My underbelly has been exposed, and my young wolf-cubs have enjoyed it. They leave for the afternoon, assignment-free, but frankly, I couldn't care less.
Quickly I make my way through the crowded corridor to my messagebox in the office down the hall. Will there be a response? Does he indeed know what I need?
Desperately, I scan the contents. A form letter from the teacher's association, a catalog for school supplies addressed simply to "Remedial Reading Teacher, Central High School"
Then I see it, folded precisely as I remember it. The same note, or is it? Again I am undone. Is it rejection or salvation I hope for? Perhaps I wish to remain faceless, ignored and invisible, struggling alone with my own inner demons.
I begin to tuck it into my pocket until I can secure my privacy once more, but then I stop. The weight of it overcomes me, and I can't hold off. And so, with trembling fingers I part the folds once more, and find that this is not the same memo, but a new one.
"I can teach you. Come to My home at 463 University Drive tonight, precisely at 6PM. Don't be late. Come prepared."
Come prepared? What does that mean?
I raise my eyes, and then I see Him. He's been watching my response. John Sheridan stands in His office doorway, His eyes probing the dark, secret recesses of my mind. His look is stern and competent. The hardened set of His jaw compliments the disciplined intelligence of His gaze. "I know what you need" it whispers to me once more. "Be prepared to pay for it."
I lower my eyes, attempting to eclipse Him from view, but still He's there. Finally, as though He has me already under His thumb, I again meet His gaze. Then, nodding slowly, I scurry like the frightened mouse that I am and rush headlong into the crush of bodies beyond. Tonight...tonight...tonight...
By the time I reach home, I am undone. The very walls taunt me. Should I eat? I should, but I can't. Should I shower and change? Yes, I think, I must. At least a quick one, and fresh underwear. Where did that come from? Did I need fresh underwear? Isn't that what you're supposed to wear in case of an accident? "Suppose you have an accident and they have to take you to the hospital," my Mother used to say.
I check my watch, and remember his admonition. "Don't be late," it had read. Ninety minutes. Yes, a quick shower and fresh panties, that would do. Then, I have to leave.
My ablutions take less time than anticipated, for my haste comes from my own insecurities. At precisely 5:45 I find myself sitting at the curb of 463 University Drive, my car idling nervously as I await the appointed time. I should turn the key and shut it off, but what if I change my mind? What if I need to escape?
Finally, the dashboard clock reads 5:57, and I reluctantly kill the engine and make my way toward the heavy oak door that cushions me from my fate.
It is a competent building, sturdy and in keeping with its surroundings. The hedges are trimmed, and the façade is well maintained, as is mine. The lines are precise and severe...a reflection of its owner?
Trembling, I curl my nails into my palm and rap once, twice, then wait. Immediately, a woman of unknown consequence opens the gaping jaws of the portal, and I enter.
* * * * *
Chapter Three
"He's expecting you," she whispers, as though the walls are listening. "Downstairs. The first door on the left. The black one."
A black door? Well, aren't we the melodramatic one! I try to sneer, desperately grasping for something, anything to bolster my confidence, but it's in vain. His eyes had said there was a price to be paid. The color of the door was merely a reflection of what it held at bay, the price of my liberation.
I descend the stairs, and again I knock.
"Come," a voice replies in steady monotone.
My bladder threatens. I need to pee, desperately. But, bracing myself I turn the knob and enter His lair.
I had thought that I was ready, but nothing could have prepared me for this. The room is cloaked in darkness, shuttered from the light by heavy, black, velvet curtains which shroud the high windows of this chamber from the world above. The walls are an institutional grey, with sandalwood candles flickering along their perimeter. It is a room with a purpose. It waits for me.
I paused to allow my eyes to adjust to the variance in light, and the details began to separate themselves from the gloom. The room is sparsely furnished, I notice at last. There is merely an odd-shaped bench, alone near the far wall, and a large, leather chair, turned from me now, in which I surmise the "Master" awaits. But the walls...oh the walls!
There, in stark relief hangs some sort of a wooden cross...no not a cross...an "X" to be exact. It is comprised of heavy timbers, secured forever to the concrete surface behind, its sturdy facade adorned with a multitude of steel rings and leather restraints. All along the walls I see hooks, each bearing things that make my flesh cringe. Various whips, handcuffs, a crop and a variety of items whose purposes I can only surmise.
I should run, I think, my panic overcoming me. I should, but still I hold my ground.
"I know what you need," He'd written, and somewhere deep inside I fear He was right. Finally, the door swings shut, aided by unseen hands, and I hear it click terminally behind me. As though on cue, the chair swivels in my direction and He comes into view.
He is different now, stronger, more ominous. The grey of His hair frames the deep blue of His eyes, and the cut of His leather vest makes His obvious strength a presence in itself. "You came," He says, a statement, no surprise. "You're frightened, I can smell it, and yet you're here. You've taken the first step."
I smile. He doesn't.
"Yes," [choking], "I'm here," I reply, thinking how inane I must sound, even to my own ears.
There is no curl to His lips, not a smile, not a sneer. He just "IS". My bladder threatens to release and shame me even further.
"Do you know what this is?" He asks, His hand gesturing at the room about Him, "...what it's for?"
I nod slowly, the details vague, but the import all too clear. I'm to be tested. My fear is on trial. This is a battle I must win...for the prize is life itself.
"Shall we continue?" He questions. "Your choice, Anna."
God, I need to pee!
But, nodding my head I accept the challenge. I will succeed. I must!
Silently He nods his approval, then dictates the rules of our encounter. "You will address Me as 'Sir' at all times. I will be obeyed without hesitation or reservation. You will submit, immediately, or leave in failure. Is that clear?"
Again I nod, my voice betraying me. The deal is signed. My fate is sealed. I paste my bravest façade before me, but He waits until it fades and is replaced with the quivering mass it attempted to hide. We must begin at the beginning, visceral, without pretense.
"Undress," He orders simply.
* * * * *
Chapter Four
My hands shake at first, but I am finally able to control them enough to undo the top button of my blouse. I pause.
"One penalty stroke, Anna. I didn't tell you to stop."
Quickly my hands resume their task, avoiding the ominous sounding repercussions. Now, my blouse is open and I can feel His eyes evaluating my full breasts and trim frame. Does He approve?
I fold my blouse, and He gestures toward the leather bench to my right. Then, unzipping my skirt I hurriedly place it also upon the bench. What next, I wonder in panic, what next?
Then, timorously I slip my fingers beneath my half-slip and lower it to the floor. Now I have only my bra, pantyhose and the pretty panties I chose to wear this evening. I want to stop, but my resolve saves me and I lean forward, reaching behind to release my breasts of their encumbrance.
They hang before Him, His eyes glinting in the candlelight like burning coals, igniting all they survey. I blush, the redness suffusing my pale features. Only my pantyhose and panties left.
I balance now on one leg, my mesh prison obstinate in the awkwardness of the moment. Finally, after no small measure of humiliation, they come free and I place them atop my pile of discards. I have only my panties left. Can I continue?
My last undergarment, chosen online so carefully, so long ago, has remained in my lingerie drawer for many, many months...years. Why I chose them tonight, I have no idea. Perhaps to bolster my confidence, for I think they flatter me. I rotate slightly to my left, obscuring the full frontal exposure that turns my flesh a timorous pink.
"No. Face Me," He states, as though He has the right. He does, and I know it. And so, turning back I slip my thumbs beneath the elastic band and disguise my humiliation with a flirtatious flick of my hips. He is not amused.
"Vanity. Another punishment stroke," He responds heavily. I am rebuked, and my gaze drops once more. It is He who pauses now, His inspection taking in the contours of my flesh, insinuating itself deep into my private places.
I shiver.
Then, rising, He circles behind me and discharges my instructions.
"Move forward, Anna. Bend at the waist and place your palms flat on the surface of the chair," He directs. "Then spread your legs."
I hasten to obey. No "punishment strokes" this time! I wait, seconds, minutes, centuries, and then He speaks.
"Do you know what these are?" He questions, dangling a pair of steel clamping devices before my eyes.
"No," I choke. "But I can guess."
"Sir!" he reprimands. "You'll address me properly, woman! Another punishment stroke!"
"No, Sir," I reply, trembling. "I'm sorry, Sir."
"Yes, Anna. You will be soon enough. In the meantime, I'll enlighten you. They're for those ripe breasts of yours, girl. For your nipples to be exact, and they're going to hurt. Terribly. Shall I continue?"
My body refuses to cooperate, my mind numb with fear, but I nod my assent.
"Speak up, Anna! Ask Me nicely. I want to hear you!"
I cringe. "Yes...Sir," I croak. "Please, Sir. My nipples..."
He pauses, as though trying to decide if my tone was sufficiently differential, then circles to my right and reaches for my vulnerable tit.
His touch, oh his touch is gentle! It strokes me, it caresses me until my flesh responds and blossoms and the womanly spring between my legs begins to flow. Then, milking my nipple, much as one would the teat of a cow, He stretches its swollen fullness to it's most extreme, and...
"OH!!" I cry out as the steel jaws clamp into my tender flesh, sudden tears fouling my vision. It hurts! It hurts so very much. I want it off...I want it OFF! But instead I suck in my belly and fortify myself. I will not fail...I can not fail.
He circles now to my left, the second clamp held at ready.
"Shall I continue, Anna?" He asks, His tone unbending.
I search for my voice. "Yes...Sir. Please...please."
He grunts. Satisfaction? Then He begins to tease and prepare my second tit for its trial. Again I feel the moisture flow heavily between my thighs. This can't be happening. It can't!
The pain this time is worse, heightened by my fear and anticipation of the act. I sears through my breast, a screaming accompaniment to the throbbing agony shared by its mate. I can't go on. I can't go on, and yet I do.
He circles to the rear now, and His hands caress my rounded orbs.
Slowly He traces the contours of my crevasse, parting it with his fingers and exposing my puckered star to His gaze.
"Have you ever had a man up your ass?" He asks, the crudity of his question meant to unbalance me.
I falter, but remembering the "punishment strokes" I regain my footing and offer a response.
"No, Sir," I whisper, my mind beating back the dull, dark pain that pulses like a living thing inside of me.
Slowly, He circles my anus with his finger, then plunging it into the slippery wetness that flows below, He coats it and returns to His mark.
At once I am impaled! My body shakes under the assault, and for a moment I forget the flaming circle of pain that tightens about me. He probes...He thrusts, and my tears begin to flow in earnest.
Finally, with a sucking sound He retreats, leaving the warm, slippery wetness of his digit behind. Without hesitation He circles back to my right, and quickly removes the clamp.
OH!!!
If the pain of application had almost undone me, it was nothing compared to the searing, red torment that lances through my nipple as the blood returns to my breast. I gasp! I open my mouth to protest, but only silence fills the room.
"Smack!" His bare hand connects with my left buttock, sending shock waves through my body and into my brain.
"Smack!!" Again!
I cringe.
He now circles to my left and reaches for the last clamp. I shuddered inwardly, anticipating the livid bolts of pain which are to come...and then they arrive. My knees began to buckle, but I hastened to bolster their tentative support lest I hear "Another punishment stroke, Anna."
Finally, I am free and the Master bids me stand once more. He resumes His seat now and again captures me with His intensity.
"You wanted to flirt, girl, to strut your stuff. Well do it now! Open that wet box of yours and let me see what you have. All of it. Spread your legs, jut your hips. Use your fingers and part your labia until I can see your clit and down into that dark, oozing hole you hide below. Be filthy...seduce Me."
A slight mewling sound escapes my lips, and my face reddens at the thought. What am I to do, what...
"Will you be at work tomorrow, Anna?" He interjects. You won't be able to sit if you keep collecting these punishment strokes! You've just earned another one! Stop whining! You're not a child! No child has breasts like those! No child has slime dripping from her vagina as you do! Open yourself!"
Another punishment stroke! How many now? I've lost count! Quickly I spread my thighs, hips thrust forward, and awkwardly display myself before Him. My vagina drizzles with slick arousal, and my bladder threatens insufferably. It shames me. I close my eyes, hips rocking seductively, and perform as commanded.
"You're positively foaming, girl!" He observes crudely. "You're sexually stimulated by this, aren't you! You like the thought of me stripping away your public façade, exposing your tender innards. I know what you need, Anna. Be prepared! Have you ever been spanked, girl?"
"No Sir," I reply quickly. "Never."
"Not even as a child?" He questions.
"No, Sir," I respond once again. "Not even as a child, Sir."
I can almost see a smile tugging at His lips...almost.
"Well, you be will today, Anna, but as a man spanks a woman, not a child. I will administer a quick set, perhaps ten strokes, just to open your eyes. Then, when you've had a taste of it, I'll allow you to beg for more. Am I understood?"
"Yes, Sir," I whisper, lips trembling.
"But first," He pauses. I want you to empty your bladder. I won't have you wetting yourself, or me!"
His eyes strip the very cover from my body now, and He continues.
"There is a door to the left, Anna. Do you see it?"
"Yes, Sir," I murmur. "I do, Sir."
"It is a small water closet, Anna, and inside of it you will find a clear glass vase on the shelf. When I give you leave I want you to scramble across the floor and retrieve the receptacle I've mentioned and place it before My feet. Do it...now!"
Quickly I skitter to the far wall, slamming painfully into the door jamb in my haste, and search the tiny room for the required item. It's small...so small, but the upper edge is flared to accommodate...what?
In a heartbeat I'm once again before Him, placing the vase at His feet as required. He pauses, as though deciding on the precise orchestration of the act, then continues with my direction.
He reclines, his feet between my own, and spreads my legs wide.
"Take the vase, Anna, and open your labia once more. Insert it tightly between your lips and fill the container."
What! What kind of man have I come to? Would He watch me relieve myself in so perverted a fashion? I ask myself the question unnecessarily, for I already know the answer. Yes.
Again I reach between my thighs and spread wide my nether lips, exposing the pink flesh which hides within. Then, inserting the clear glass, lens-like within my hairy slit I pause for permission.
"May I, Sir?"
He smiles now.
"Excellent, Anna! You're learning!"
I blush furiously, but it pleases me that He thinks I'm showing improvement. I want that. I need that.
But now the problem magnifies itself. He watches...He watches. Through the clear glass container, I'm sure He will see everything...the private workings of my body, the intimate gush of my urine as it fills the vase. Everything! Suddenly, my bladder fails me and I stand quaking, unable to do as directed.
"Relax, Anna, and let it come." He counsels, understanding my predicament. "Concentrate on the flow, on the wet relief it will give you. Fill the vase, but be careful not to spill any. You can't afford any more penalty strokes!"
I close my eyes now, blocking out the sight of His piercing gaze. His invasive stare pierces me as I stand straddling His thighs, exposed so obscenely. And then it comes. Slowly at first, a trickle, but finally gaining momentum as I gush forth, filling the vase with a sound like water cascading into a small fountain. He reaches forward. caressing my hip, then closes His other hand over my own and steadies the vase so that His view is improved. I want to stop...I want to stop...I want...
And then it's all over, the vase threatening to overflow.
"Place it on the floor, Anna, and wipe yourself with this handkerchief. Then put them both beneath the bench and approach My right side. With your pretty panties on, please, Anna""
Quickly I do as I'm told, carefully tucking the white square between my folds and soaking up the excess urine that threatens to drip from my private regions. Then, gratefully wriggling into my scant undergarment, I circle to His right and await further direction.
The replacement of my lacy undergarment is not long lived, however. For now He traces the flimsy wedge with His finger, probing within the meager triangle of silk until it fills the opening left vacant by the vase.
"You're wet again, Anna! So soon? Well, soak it up, girl, then pull those sweet panties down to your knees and lay yourself over My lap. Don't let them fall, mind you. I'll be watching!"
If it was difficult to remove the thin strip of lace the first time, it is almost impossible now. Desperately I try to close my mind to the heavy wooden brush which sits securely in the Master's fist and to the application of it upon my tender flesh. How will I account myself? How?
But, as directed, I lower my panties once more, anchoring them between my knees, spread wide to keep them from slipping any further. Oh how I want to yank them up one last time and run from this place, this man, but I can't. Again I feel a trickle of viscous fluid escape from my core. Have I no shame!
Awkwardly, I position myself atop His lap, my thighs spread wide in an attempt to secure my panties in the proper spot. He shifts beneath me, raising His knee so that I find my feet without purchase, suspended unsteadily above the floor.
"Do you have a 'safe word' in mind, Anna? One that will tell Me when you've had enough, or perhaps too much?"
I ponder the question. A "safe word"? Would I be needing one? Again I glance at the heavy brush, and the word "compassion" falls between us.
He grunts appreciatively, His hands roaming over my pale, rounded flesh, reaching between to probe my slick folds as I writhe before him, eager for the release that only He can grant. He strokes me, He caresses me, then with a powerful lunge He brings down the brush upon my vulnerable flesh...and I scream.
Again He strikes...and again. Left. Right. Left. Right, until I wriggle in agony and my hands involuntarily fly behind to stave off the blows.
He pauses not a mite, but captures my wrists between His massive hands and pinions them against the small of my back, holding me fast as He a pummels my ass.
"Ten," He announces finally. "Will you have more, Anna?"
[No...please, no]
But, I find myself mouthing the words that I dread the most.
"Y-Yes, Sir. Please..more..." I beg, like a Dickens waif.
And so He continues, redoubling his efforts as the room fills with the sounds of my demise. My wrists struggle, desperate to be free once again, but he holds me tightly, imprisoning me beneath the unceasing blows which rain down upon me. My flesh is on fire! No more...no more! You have broken me...You have...
And then it's over, my panties still stretched between my knees. He flicks them off over my ankles and allows them to drop to the floor.
He places his palm atop my steaming flesh, its welcome coolness doing little to ease the throbbing madness He has created. Once more he probes my slit, examining my copious response with His fingers, then pressing them to my lips.
"Taste it, Anna. It's the taste of liberation. One day yours, but not yet. Not yet."
Humiliated, I part my lips and he plunges the dripping mess inside. But, surprisingly, I find it less than repulsive! In fact, it appeals to me! Eagerly I suckle, drawing his fingers deep into my mouth, relishing the taste of...liberation?
He removes them finally with a quick "pop", then lowers me again to the floor.
"To the beams, girl. The night is short, and we have much to do before we're done with this session!"
THIS session? Is there more to come? I cringe at the thought, but curiously my sex begins once more to bubble its foamy delight.
* * * * *
Chapter Five
Quietly He follows me, then, in spite of His timely admonition He takes his time securing the restraints that hold me to the wooden implement.
Four buckles restrain each limb, leather bindings tightening securely so as not to allow for the slightest play. First one arm, and then the other falls prey, the Master testing the efficiency of my bindings until He nods in satisfaction.
Then, reaching about my waist, He likewise secures another thick belt of leather about my midsection, cinching me in such a way that my body puffs out obscenely both above and below. He examines His work appreciatively, then lowers Himself between my outstretched thighs.
He opens my stance, wider, and wider still until my weight is fairly born between my arms and the pins upon which I stood. Four restraints are likewise buckled about my lower limbs, each securely fastened and tested until the upper set spreads the soft flesh of my thighs and leaves my tender labia ajar once more. To these specialized, upper bonds are added thin strips of leather, each boasting a pair of small, blunt clamps. The purpose here is obvious, and the heat rises to engulf my face.
Watching my eyes, he parts my slit and secures each side with the clamps. Then, adjusting the degree until I am widespread and completely exposed, He fondles me, His lips curling at my starving response. I writhe against his hand, willing it to continue until I have been satisfied, until I have...
But then he stands, wiping my desperate slime against my belly and reaching to my left along the wall. Again I spy The Nipple Clamps, and my flesh shrinks in response, an involuntary effort to escape their fate. But wait, there's something more! On the floor He drops a gag of sorts, something with a rounded attachment. I have never seen such a thing, but immediately I divine its purpose. My head thrashes wildly, the only part of me left immobile, but he ignores my throes and takes my left breast in his right hand.
He pinches, He caresses, and in no time my traitorous flesh blooms between His fingers. I open my mouth in silent protest, but it's to no avail. Immediately I feel the cruel teeth bite into my all too eager flesh, and I part my lips to scream. But nothing escapes, only the muffled sounds of my torment, for now He places the gag into my mouth, its ball pressing intimately against my tongue, stifling all response.
"You may nod three times to simulate your 'safe word", Anna. Do you understand?" He asks.
Thrashing, I nod once...my assent clear...and He continues.
I writhe...I moan, but He continues onward as though He doesn't notice.
My nipple is a flaming dagger of pain by now, and I buck against my restraints. It is then that He introduces a new element into the production.
Reaching into his pocket, He removes two earplugs, the foam kind that swell to fit one's ear canals. What does He want with those, I wonder. I'm gagged, I can't be all that loud!
But, they are not for Him...they're for me. Gently He rolls them between his fingers until they form soft, compressed cones, then quickly inserts them into my ears. Sound retreats, and only the pounding of my heart remains in the dim world to which I have been exiled.
My eyes widen, perhaps to compensate for the diminished degree of sensation I have suffered. Then that too is eclipsed as He snugs a blindfold about my eyes. Sensory deprivation, I think they call it, but it's a misnomer. For now the raging pain in my breasts is increased tenfold, the focal point of all being.
[Compassion?]
I writhe against my bonds, the unknown taunting me in the dim silence. And then I feel Him, His hand fondling my sex, His fingers drawing me out until I override my throbbing nipples and rut like a dog in heat against His erstwhile caress. He plunders me, He pushes me to the very edge...and then He releases the clamps from my nipples and stills His hand as the waves of pain wash over my features.
Blackness. Total now, and for a moment the pain subsides.
Then I feel His lips close about my tender tits, suckling, drawing them into the warmth of His mouth, and I begin to flow once more.
My inner thighs are slick with my response by now. I can feel it oozing undiminished in warm trickles along my skin.
[Touch me...touch me] I beg in the dim silence of my mind...and He does. His fingers plunge deep inside now, and I ride them with an urgency I have never felt before. So close...so close! If only He would touch my clit, if only...
His thumb begins a maddening dance about my swollen bud, teasing, tormenting until I am beside myself. Then, just as I can bear it no longer, my belly contracting for the inevitable explosion I so crave...He stops!
I moan in agony, frustration my soul companion in the darkness. Quickly He removes the blindfold, and I see Him poised, crop in hand, for a new phase in my education.
He wastes not a minute, but levying a rapid underhand swing He lashes out at my inner thighs, first left and then right, causing my cringing flesh to tremble in its wake.
I cry out against the gag, and immediately it is removed. He wants to hear me. I understand. Could I help but do less?
Again He strikes, unmoved by my pleas as they rake His ears. They are not 'safe words'. They will not bring me succor.
He flicks my nipples now, those swollen, tender buds that have borne so much this night, and that now offer themselves in obscene relief to meet the onslaught.
Long trails of salty tears run freely down my cheeks.
[Compassion]
And yet my "safe word" remains buried inside.
Finally, He drops the crop to the floor and strides from the room, His passion spent for the moment. I stay, as I must, bound to the beams, wondering how long I will remain there until His return, and what that will ultimately entail.
Finally the door opens, and the woman from upstairs enters. She crosses to me and examines the darkening lash marks between my thighs.
"Oh! The Master was hard on you! And this is only your first time! But you've had an effect on Him...I can tell. He nearly knocked me down on his way upstairs! And, I think He had tears in his eyes!"
Quickly she removes my bonds and leads me once more to the water closet. Here she offers me warm, soft towels and fragrant soap with which to cleanse away the sticky overflow of my experience. I settle gratefully atop the commode, laving warm water over my breasts and in the valley between my thighs.
Finally, the housekeeper (?) returns and leads me back towards the chair.
"Is it time?" I ask.
She nods, almost apologetically. "Yes, I'm afraid so. He'll be in shortly. You're to wait, unclothed, until He's finished. It's almost over now." Then, setting a CD in motion inside the player, she leaves me to my own devices.
* * * * *
Chapter Six
The music swells, something classical. It fits, I think, feeling it fill me. It's so like Him. Intense, passionate, but with the stark truth that I feel when He's near. It's a good piece, and I wonder what it is.
Silently I kneel upon the hard floor before His chair. He'll expect that of me, this much I know. And so I wait.
Finally, He appears, His demeanor seemingly unchanged, and settles Himself into the chair before me, His hand is draped carelessly between His legs. Has He a swollen member Himself?
"You have earned twelve punishment strokes," He relates. "You have made frequent mistakes. Did you think I hadn't noticed them all?"
Rapidly I try to recall my errors, but in my panic the count is lost. Twelve strokes!
The music swells once more, and I try to lose myself in it. Surely I have not erred so grossly! But, it is a moot point. He says it's twelve strokes, and so it is.
He tells me then to rise and expose my backside for His inspection.
"Spread your legs and grab your ankles," he orders, waiting patiently for me to obey.
What will come of this, I wonder. Is this the precursor to my punishment, or is something else afoot? Without hesitation (I have learned!) I do as I am ordered, then wait until I feel His hands upon me once more.
Now, His touch is gentle, massaging my bruised flesh as he inspects my buttocks. Again His finger probes deeply between my cheeks, causing my sphincter to pucker in defense of its sanctity.
Will he penetrate me now, I wonder? Will his steely shaft find its way deep inside my bowels, ramming mercilessly until finally He fills me with His heated offering?
Once more I feel the tell-tale trickle of my juices, flowing shamelessly at the mere thought. Can He see it? Of course He can! I am spread wide for His inspection. All is on display. All is available. He has but to take what He wants.
He places His left hand atop my spine, bowing my back so that I am better exposed. I shiver. Delicious!
Then I feel my buttocks part, the chill air insinuating itself against my anus, filling the gaping maw of my vagina. He pauses, then resumes, His hands fondling that which has felt no hand but His.
"You're tight," He says, more to Himself than to me. "You'll have a hard go of it when a man reams you. But, you'll do well, very well indeed."
I glow under the compliment, wondering if He will be the one to take my innocence. But no, for now He kisses my battered flesh and tells me of what is to come.
"You will receive twelve strokes," He repeats. "One for each of your indiscretions, but I will be using a variety of tools to implement your correction. The first will be the paddle, much the same as the one on the wall in my office. Four strokes."
He pauses for emphasis, then continues. "The Hellcat is next. Quite a different sensation. You'll be surprised at the difference."
My sex is weeping once more, a gesture of sympathy perhaps? Again He pauses, then quickly moves on.
"The last is the cane, used in ancient times, and always a favorite in enlightened circles. Your flesh will remember this night, Anna. You'll remember it for days, every time your buttocks come in contact with the seat of a chair. Now, position yourself atop the bench."
The bench, I find, is a curious piece of work. Leather-bound, it resembles somewhat those benches used my men in weight training, with a flat surface on one end and a raised platform on the other.
I look about for instruction, and find it forthcoming. The Master now directs me to kneel on the lower portion, my ass exposed and vulnerable in the extreme. Then, pinching my nipple He guides my upper body until my breasts hang over the raised portion of the bench, similar to one suspended over a barbell resting in its rack.
Swiftly, as though He is eager to see it done, He cuffs my wrists behind my back and binds my knees to either side of the bench, opening me for His pleasure. I am prepared. I am at his mercy.
"Are you ready, Anna?" He asks. "Do you have anything you want to say before we begin?"
Yes, I think, my mind screaming for it to be over, and for me to be once more safely ensconced in the secluded safety of my apartment. Does He think I will use my "safe word" now? I could beg for mercy [Compassion], but I remain silent. I have not come this far to fail now. I will persevere, and I will be stronger for my fortitude.
"No, Sir," I respond. "Please...continue."
I am calm, I am in control...until the first crack of the paddle smashes painfully into my battered flesh. Oh! The pain! If I thought the hairbrush was an instrument from Hell, then this goes beyond description!
Desperately, I try to hold back my cries, but I am undone. Again the paddle whacks into my ass, this time on the other side, and I can feel the flames rise once more as I scream my torment.
Whack!
Whack! And he pauses to shift instruments.
Tears foul my face now, and he crosses to inspect my ravaged visage. Something wet plops onto my neck. Is he crying? What have I done?
The music swells once more, counterpoint to the thick emotion that lies heavily in the room. I try to lose myself in it, but the Master speaks.
"This time the hellcat," He explains, his voice strained and cracking. "It will wrap itself around your curves, insinuate itself into your recesses as the paddle was not able. It has seven strands, each knotted and soaked to make them more effective. Would you have Me continue, Anna?"
I raise my eyes to take in the weapon He holds before me. He will show me no mercy, unless I employ my safe word, of this I am sure. And yet something has changed.
"I am ready, Sir," I whisper, my voice belying my uncertainty.
It is His turn to pause now, and I wait with clenched teeth for the hellcat to strike. Then it does.
This time the Master has swung an uppercut between my parted thighs, and I feel the thongs bite deep into my slit. My head spins. Even the scream that threatens my lips falters in its extreme!
Again, same place, and the breath leaves my body in a tortured hiss. He moves to the side now, His fist rising to strike once more.
A third blow! Once more it follows the same path as the first two, biting into my pink flesh and lashing against my clit. I scream aloud now, unceasing until the fourth blow lands and the hellcat drops to the floor.
My ass is a ragged mass of pain, jagged bolts of agony striking like lightening long after the hellcat has ceased its attack.
One more, I tell myself. The cane. I look at the long tool as it hangs against the wall. I will not be sitting tomorrow. Of this I'm certain. I will rest tenderly for many days to come. But, I will be stronger for my resolve! I have begun my journey, and the progress has been hard won.
Again the Master comes before me, His face bearing the pain of my own discipline.
"This is the cane," He offers. "It doesn't distribute the pain as evenly as the paddle, nor curl itself about your womanly curves as the hellcat is wont to do. Instead it concentrates a pathway of distress in a linear fashion across your flesh. It is by far the worst of the three when wielded by an Expert Hand," He supplies, brushing the stiff rod against my straining nipples. "Would you have Me continue?"
His voice cracks at this, as though He would like to place the cane back against the wall and give me a reprieve. But I must not, I cannot, I need to complete this, and swiftly, before I plead for mercy, scream my safe word and go down in defeat.
"Please, Sir. Use the cane. Do what You will, and..."
WHACK!
A line of fire rises across my battered ass.
WHACK! WHACK!
Almost done now...I can persevere for one last blow I think, my vision fouled by tears, the room swimming before me.
WHACK! And it's done. I have won the battle, if not the war. My flesh is battered, but my spirit soars!
I feel His hands now, loosening my bonds, caressing the welts that rise red and ugly upon my darkening flesh.
* * * * *
Chapter Seven
"Get dressed," He commands gruffly, as though something has slipped, something that He desperately needs to keep in place. Then, sinking into His chair, He watches as I gingerly tug my garments over my aching body in preparation to leave. Then something amazing occurs.
"You must be hungry. Please stay and have a bite with me," he requests, his voice unsure, almost pleading. "You'll disappoint me sorely if you don't."
I am taken aback. A bite to eat, when every fiber in my body screams to be released from this place? I think not!
"I must be going, John. I really can't stay. Please accept my apologies."
He looks crestfallen, and rises before me, his lips pressing against my fingertips. "Stay, Ann. Just for a moment. I want to talk to you away from this room."
I hesitate, my flesh tingling as his voice caresses my body. My eyes (the traitors!) relay my suppressed hunger in my reluctance.
"Then stay," he repeats. "Just briefly...a few seconds perhaps," he pleads, leading me up the stairs.
"You've comported yourself admirably tonight. I knew you were special when I watched you open the note this afternoon," he offers. "You touched me somehow, in a way that I haven't been touched in a very long time. May I see you socially, Anna?"
A date? Is he asking me for a date??
Then, as if recouping something lost, He hastily adds, "Nothing changes in that room, your lessons will continue, but in the meantime will you accept my calls?"
He is in charge once more, and I find myself reaching out for His strength.
"Yes, Sir. I'd like that."
Gently he wraps his arms about me, then presses his lips against my forehead.
"Rest tomorrow, Anna. I'll engage a substitute for you. A cold soak tonight will help reduce the swelling, and a long hot bath in the morning will begin the healing process. I'll call you tomorrow night. Will that be satisfactory?"
Tenderly I trail my fingers along His cheek. There is so much to this man, I think...so much. And, I have all the time in the world to discover His many facets. Until then I will continue to grow beneath His hand, in His room beneath the house on University Drive.
I will survive. I will survive.
