In the early spring moonlight, the back of the river seemed to lift and heave like the body of a snake, flowing over rocks and stumps, braiding its way through copses of saplings on the flooded banks, pooling and forming eddies as it washed around the concrete pilings of the bridges.
“What does that remind you of?” I asked her as we drove along. “What does that make you think of?”
Huddled against the door, Lena glanced outside, then back at me. “What? The river?”
She turned and looked back out at the night. The water gleamed as the moon came out briefly, making it look even more like a reptile’s skin, then disappeared as the moon was covered over covered by the rushing, bruised-looking clouds.
“I don’t know. A flooded river. Why? Are you going to tell me something profound?”
I’d been about to, yeah, before she cut me off. Now the metaphor seemed too obvious and trying to impress her seemed kind of beside the point. It had been raining all day–all spring actually– and rivers were flooding everywhere, little creeks becoming raging torrents. The headlights picked out piles of debris and tree branches that had been left in the highway when the water had been even higher.
“I was thinking of how the river’s kind of like a person,” I said, pressing on. ” This is normally a pretty quiet little creek.”
“Teah. Kind of like a person, like we all are. When the pressure is low, we meander along in our nice, safe, channels with barely a ripple, placid little streams. But when that pressure gets too great, more than we can handle, we start to overflow and get wild, find new channels and carve out new paths, take routes we’d never think of taking normally.”
She looked at me in a way that made me sorry I’d said it. “So we’re going to play everything’s-a-metaphor?”
I hadn’t meant it about her personally, but of course that’s how she took it. I gave her a disapproving look, though, and she backed off. I was treading a fine line here between taking this too casually and making a great huge deal out of it. I was trying to feel my way.
All through dinner we’d been talking about her, her own personality, rushing in the dark around some immovable obstacles whose shape she’d just been starting to discern, leaving her feeling fragmented and split.
“Tell me then,” she asked. “If the river’s a metaphor for the things we do in life, what’s the metaphorical meaning of the pressure? What is that force that drives us?”
“I don’t know. Lust? Desire? Nervous energy?”
“Love?” she suggested.
I didn’t say anything for a while because I really didn’t know. The river left us for a bit, curving off to the right as the car entered the darkness of a forest. The air entering the car smelled of leaves and mud and I turned the heater on.
“You think less of me now?” she asked. “I didn’t really tell you anything during dinner you didn’t already know.”
“No. Of course not. But this is different, you know, being together like this. Before it was just words on a screen or on the phone. It’s different being with you in person.”
She turned back to the window. “You do feel differently towards me now. But that’s okay. I knew it would happen.”
She gathered her coat around her, not used to this kind of chill.
She’d been telling me about being assaulted when she’d been younger, about what she recalled, or imagined, or dreamed of it. It had been a constant theme with her, something that consumed her. The problem was, neither of us knew whether it had really happened or not, whether these obsessive images were memories, or fantasies, or some sort of mutated dreams or desires that she’d entirely made up.
In the end I’d decided it really didn’t matter. Either the episodes had really happened–and there was more than one of these memories–or things back then had been so screwed up that her subconscious interpreted them in terms of being assaulted. Whatever they were, they’d left some horrible images and emotional stains on her mind that oppressed her and filled her with constant anxiety and dread. They made normal sex impossible for her and poisoned her relationships. They’d left her fragile and depressed. Damaged, was the word she used.
We’d talked about it before. We’d talked about it endlessly online, in text, in voice, sessions lasting far into the night, into the morning. It had been almost a year, a year in which differences melted and we opened up to each other. In age and temperament we couldn’t have been more different, yet below this or because of this we’d become some strange blend of lovers and siblings, tied together. She’d become my lover, my protégé, my sub. I would tell her to do things and she’d do them. Tell her what to wear, what to read, when to masturbate and what to think about when she did, and she would. That was how she felt her experiences had affected her: she thought they’d made her inferior, worthy of nothing but punishment and degradation and other’s control. I had a different opinion of her submissiveness, though, and we’d discussed and argued about this for months without reaching any conclusion.
Yet in all this time we’d never met, never had sex, never even seen each other in person. Tonight was the first time we’d laid eyes on each other, when I met her at the airport. The meeting had been no shock, no surprise, we already knew each other too well. We’d had dinner and talked, and now the inevitable. How she reacted would settle the issue. Would being put in the submissive role trigger a flood of abusive memories, or would it open the gates to her true sexuality?
“I need to get some hand cream,” she said. “I don’t know why I didn’t think to bring some.”
“We can stop.”
“I don’t know why, but I didn’t expect it to be so cold up here.”
“You still cold? You want me to turn the heat up?”
“No. I’ll get used to it. I like the feel of the breeze. I like the night.”
I took her hand in the dark of the car. It was cool and dry.
“Of course I am,” she said. “Nervous as hell.”
I looked at her in silhouette, the curly, jet black hair falling to her jaw line, mysterious eyes, pouting, little-girl mouth. My gaze made her uneasy and she looked away, looking for the river again through the trees.
There was really nothing more to say.
Maybe dinner had been a mistake, a chance for tensions to built. Maybe I should have just taken her straight to the motel and let her relax, let us both relax, engage in some easy affection, some play. She was dressed the way I’d told her to dress: a simple black dress with spaghetti straps, black nylons and heels, a black winter coat. Maybe I should have let her change into something more casual and relaxed.
“This could be dangerous,” I’d told her at dinner. “I’m not sure what your reactions will be when we start to do this.”
She wore a metal filigree choker with a large black stone at the base of her throat, her public collar. It symbolized her submission to me, her servitude. She said she wore it everywhere, felt naked without it, but sitting in the restaurant with her and knowing what we were going to do, it made me slightly uneasy.
“I’m not worried about that,” she said. “We’ve done this online, in voice, and we both know how I react. I trust you, you know that. You’re not going to hurt me or take me beyond what I want.”
She always accused me of being too soft on her, of taking it too easy.
“That’s not quite what I meant,” I said.
She smiled. In the candlelight o the restaurant she looked olderand quite sophisticated, knowing. But then, she was older than her age–I suppose mature is a better word. Her pain had made her wise.
“You’re afraid I’ll freak,” she said, smiling. “You’re afraid you’re going to set off some trigger or something.”
“Based on your past, is that so unlikely? You know, playing these games and masturbating on line is one thing. It’s something entirely different when it gets real, when I take control of you, when I get inside you.”
Still smiling, she sipped her water. “We’ve been over that, Peter. I think your ego’s showing.”
I couldn’t help it. I still had grave concerns about this. Her need to submit, the fulfillment she found in it, were very possibly tied to her memories of being used and exploited, or so she felt. She was afraid that her need to submit was a way of reliving that traumatic experience, an attempt to come to terms with it or overcome it. She felt, in short, that it was pathological, sick. She suspected that she wanted to be mistreated because she felt her experience made her damaged goods and worthy of nothing else.
This is a subject that I had rather strong feelings on, because I’d always maintained that sexual submission was not a pathology but an erotic preference. Yes, there were women out there who sought out the role of sexual submissive because they had miserable self-images and thought they deserved to be punished and degraded, but I didn’t think this was the norm and certainly not the case with her. All the subs I had played with were very together women, confident, assured, and capable. Submission was just a role they chose in the bedroom, something they found particularly gratifying sexually. It had nothing to do with their own self-esteem or feeling of self-worth.
I was determined to somehow convince her that her submission was of this latter type. It was something to be proud of, rather than something to be shunned.
“Then what do you want me to do, Lena?” I asked. “What do you want to explore.”
She chewed her food and shrugged. “I want you to do what you always do, what you do on-line. Whenever you do that, it always works for me.”
Now, in the car, she’d grown quiet. The knowledge of where we were going and what we were going to do there was too strong and neither of us felt like talking.
I pulled into a strip mall where the road widened into a small town, and there was a drug store with its lights on. I pulled in so she could get her cream. The motel would be at the far end of town, where the road turned into highway again. It was cold and damp and a wind was blowing. I don’t know what people thought of us–an uncle and niece? Maybe a teacher and his star pupil, a musician and his protégé, possibly. Certainly not a father and daughter. The currents between us were too serious for that, too sexual. Luckily there was no one in the place, just the teen behind the register.
I took her cream and paid for it, standing behind her. I was close enough to catch a scent of her perfume and thought it strange I hadn’t noticed it before. The scent was dark and alluring, very mature. There was something very grown up and almost predatory about her. Her eyes were dark, deep, and knowing. If she was nervous, I couldn’t see it.
The suspended traffic light in the middle of town was blowing and bouncing, and the place was deserted. The river here went under a sturdy concrete bridge, then swung back in close to the highway, and there, standing around a bend on the land side of the road, was the motel, looking bright and garish in the dark, blowy night.
I’d already registered, so we drove right around back to the room. It was on the second floor, and given the possibility of another flood tonight, I was thankful for that. I’d left the lights on, and I parked below and cut the engine. It was suddenly very quiet in the car.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out a smallish box. She knew what it was; I’d showed it to her earlier, before we’d gone into the restaurant. It was a black leather collar, with a chromed buckle and three sturdy, chromed rings, a classic bondage collar.
“Put this on,” I said. “It’s time for the real one. ”
“Here? Shouldn’t we wait till we get to the room?”
“No. Here. This is where I take over.”
Lena picked up the collar and put it in her lap. She unhooked her choker and put it in her purse, then unbuckled the real collar, preparatory to putting it on.
“Shouldn’t you do this?” she asked.
She was right, so I turned in my seat and motioned her forward. She scooted up and half-turned so her back was to me, then shrugged her coat down to expose her bare neck and gathered her hair and pulled it aside. Her neck was warm and the metal buckle of the collar was cold. I could feel her goose bumps as I buckled it in place, the leather tongue sliding through the silver buckle, the pin penetrating one of the holes in the leather as I snugged it in place.
She shook her head no, but didn’t speak.
“Alright. Let’s go.”
We stepped out of the car and I got our stuff from the trunk and led her up the stairs to the second floor. Just then a squall of wind tore at us and it started to rain, nasty and hard; driven rain. She rushed up the stairs and pulled her coat over her hair and huddled under the overhang as I keyed the door and we went inside.
The sound of the rain was loud on the roof, sheets of it blowing against the window as we stood there, looking around at the two queen beds, a dresser, big TV, night stands with lamps, a table for a desk. Big bathroom, a rack for hangers, the whole room done in hunter’s colors: autumn browns and ochre and forest green. The lamps were a bit bright but I left them like that.
It was a classic featureless motel room, with no distractions: beds for rent, privacy assured. Immerse yourself in sin and perversion. Check out at eleven AM.
Lena looked around. “Not so bad.”
I put my bag on the table and closed the curtains to the rain, locked the door and turned the heat up in the wall unit to high. I wanted it to be hot in there. I wanted us to sweat when we fucked. I started unpacking some stuff while Lena checked out the bathroom and closet, then turned on the TV and started flipping through the channels.
“Think they have any porn?” she asked. “Something to put us in the mood?”
I knew she was joking but I didn’t smile. I was starting to feel it, the dominant taking over. It had started as soon as she’d put that collar on, and now I was aware of the dry heat of impending sex starting to stir in me. The door was locked, the beds were virginal, and Lena was willing. She’d said as much.
I wasn’t aroused yet–it wasn’t the wet heat of immanent desire–it was more a kind of grim efficiency, collecting my forces and preparing for battle. Things seemed to get very clear and there was no room for fooling around.
On the table I laid out a crop, some rope, a bandage scissors (always a good idea), a flogger and a vibrator; a red ball gag and a blindfold and some nipple clamps, a chromed leash. Lena stood by the TV with her coat still on, flicking channels and pretending to watch the screen, but I knew she was watching everything I did, cataloguing everything I’d brought: things meant to hurt or please, penetrate or immobilize, clamp, tie, hold, silence, and blind. Implements of control, violation, subjugation, all laid out like a collection of keys ready to be tried against the fastness of a lock.
She’s a very intelligent and perceptive girl, and anything but passive in the classic sense. Submission doesn’t come easy to her. It’s not something she just falls into. I’d have to take control of her. With each item I laid out I felt something in her stiffen and become resistant, draw back.
“Take your coat off, honey. It’ s soaked.”
She seemed to notice her coat for the first time. She took it off and threw it in the chair and waited, seemingly unaware of the way she was dressed, in clothes I had chosen for their power to arouse me– the snug black dress, the stockings and heels, the bare shoulders. She seemed unaware of what her very presence there was doing to me.
I went to her and put my hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes, and she closed them expectantly. She was there, and she was ready for my kiss, whatever it might be. After all these months and all this false intimacy between us, I touched my lips to hers and held them there, lightly, patiently, waiting to feel her attention shift to her mouth and the connection between us.
She didn’t disappoint. There was the shock of recognition, of her and me together and touching, the surge of sensuality. I opened my mouth and bit her lower lip gently and she made the softest sound in her throat, a sound of acquiescence and relief, of tension released. Her arms came up around my shoulders and she pulled herself against me. Her mouth opened and she offered it , eager and vulnerable.
I took her with my tongue. She had to be tasted, licked, invaded, and all became silence between us as we switched to the language of sensation. The rain beat on the roof and lashed against the window as we stood there kissing with that elemental oral hunger that makes you want to devour and possess. I’d been waiting for any sign of rejection, any sign of pulling back or of her traumatic past reasserting itself, but there was nothing. Just a kiss, growing warmer and deeper and more sexual with each beat of our hearts
I pulled her closer and felt her body soften, losing its residual tension. She was letting go, letting the resistance drain out of her, and more than that: pressing back, pushing herself against me, already eager for it, ready to abandon herself.
I let my lips leave her mouth and trail down the side of her neck till I tasted the leather of the collar, bitter and harsh. It reminded me of what we were doing, of her pledge to submit to me, and my hands tightened possessively on her ass, pulling her against me, pulling her against my hardening cock.
I broke the kiss and pulled away slowly, my hands on her shoulders to steady her. She opened her eyes and licked the taste of my lips from hers, then looked at me.
“What’s the plan?” she asked.
“Plan? There isn’t any plan. I’m going to show you what submission is like, and then you’re going to tell me how it makes you feel, if it’s bad or good.”
She considered that. “And what if I can’t?”
“You can,” I said. “It’s not like some kind of test you have to pass.”
I looked at her for a moment, then said, “Get down on your knees, facing me.”
I saw the quick blush, the sudden self-consciousness.
“Just like that? No extended foreplay? No words of love?”
“Get down on your knees and turn off that damned TV.”
Lena stiffened. “Fuck you. You can’t just order me around.”
I looked at her and she met my gaze, prepared to hold her ground. I’d been waiting for this. I’d been expecting it–her resistance, her sudden willfulness. I knew what it meant, why she did it. She wouldn’t just give herself; she had to be taken. She had to see that I wanted her and how far I was prepared to go to have her. She needed to know it wasn’t just a game.
I lunged at her and managed to grab onto her forearm, tightened my grip on it and pulled her towards me, throwing her off balance. She reached for my arm but I seized her hair and pulled her head down and to the side and she caught herself as she fell against the table.
“Okay, okay! Jesus! No need to get violent!”
“Don’t fuck with me, Lena. Now’s not the time!”
“Just ask nice, that’s all! Just don’t order me around like some slave.”
“Get on your knees!” I whispered in her face. “Who do you think you are? The Queen of fucking Sheba?”
“Okay! Okay! Just let go of my hair! I can’t get down when you’re holding my hair!”
She’d been like this when we played online–resistant and recalcitrant at the start–and it had been harder to handle then, when I had no recourse to force, to physical dominance. Now I was able to grab her, though. I was able to bring my strength to bear, and she was startled by the result, by my adamance.
But just because my reaction had been automatic didn’t mean I wasn’t still watching her, looking for some evidence of earlier trauma or abreaction. I was fully aware that application of physical force might trigger some buried memories or feelings of panic.
I let go of her wrist but kept her hair in my hand, reached to the table and picked up the leash. It was a long leash, made for a big dog, maybe six or eight feet long. I clipped it to her collar and then let go of her hair and grabbed the handle. The chain arced from her collar to my hand, hanging about six inches above the floor. I turned and put my foot on the lowest part of the leash and pressed it to the floor, pulling her head down.
“Alright, alright,” she said. “I’m kneeling!”
But I kept on walking up the leash, holding onto the handle and stepping on it, working my way towards her, bringing her end closer and closer to the ground till Lena was forced to scramble to her knees, pulled by the chain and collar around her neck.
I stood on it for a moment, wanting to make sure she got the message, then got off, allowing her to raise her head. She tried to gain her composure, straightening up and pressing her legs primly together, her eyes down, hands on thighs. She looked as if she were going to join in some children’s game.
“Not like that!” I said. “Knees apart, weight on your heels, back straight, chest out. You’re supposed to be offering yourself. Understand? This is a position of respect.”
Reluctantly, she straightened up, shifted her weight to her heels and shuffled her knees apart, but her expression still showed a willful resistance, a kind of scorn.
“Hands locked behind your neck. Show me your tits.”
She did as told, lacing her fingers together behind her neck and pulling her elbows back to stretch the dress fabric tight against her breasts. I watched her chest rise and fall with her breathing.
“Eyes down on the floor three feet in front of you. You don’t look at me, understand?”
At this she blanched. “Peter…”
“Quiet! You speak when spoken to, and only then.”
This kind of order-giving was more than we’d ever done in play, and I could see she bridled at it. I took the crop from the table and went to her, and hunkered down so my eyes were at her level.
“Listen: you’re either going to do as I say or we’re not going to do this at all. I’m not going to fight and argue with you, Lena. If you just want to get fucked then lie down on the bed with your legs open and I’ll fuck you, but if you’re going to submit to me, then you’re going to submit, with no talk-back and no eye-rolling and no hesitation. You understood?”
Her eyes went to the floor, and her face colored. “Okay.”
“No. Not ‘okay’. ‘Yes, Master’. That’s how you answer me.”
I stood up and left her kneeling there, hands behind her head.
“This is the position you’ll take when I tell you to kneel,” I said. “Just like this. Now, pull your dress up to your waist.”
She hesitated only a moment, then reached down and pulled the hem of her dress up, over her thighs, over the tops of her stockings and her garters, and tucked it into itself at her waist, exposing the bare flesh of her thighs, her black panties. The slight pout of her labia where they pressed against the tight, thin fabric was clearly visible.
“Keep your hands on your thighs and don’t move them. In fact, don’t move at all,” I said, and dragged the tip of the crop across her cheek, down her neck and over her breasts, tapping it gently against each nipple. I watched her closely for any hint of panic or discomfort, for some sign of resistance to being treated like this, but there was none. Her breathing was deep and regular. She flinched slightly when I tapped her nipples, but that was all.
I moved the crop to between her legs, to the inside of her right thigh, and slid it across the exposed flesh above the top of her black stocking. I knew what the crop must feel like, the leather rough and cool, its touch soft yet menacing. I slid it up till it almost touched her sex–almost, but not quite–then down again, and around toward the back of her leg.
Lena kept her hands on her thighs, but her fingers began arch as she pressed her nails into her own flesh to fight the maddening tickle of the leather against her skin.
When I switched to the other leg, she let her breath out in an audible sigh, a sound of impatience, of unsteady control, and the abductor muscle on the inside of her leg twitched.
“What?” I asked. “What are you feeling?”
“God!” she exclaimed through clenched teeth. ” Touch me already! Please! You’re driving me crazy!”
“When I’m ready,” I said. “When I’m ready.”
I continued to slide the tip of the crop up and down the insides of her upper thighs, slowly, softly, as the rain drummed on the roof and spattered on the concrete walkway outside. I was hard now, hard and aching for her, and I thought I could detect the smell of her arousal apart from the smell of wet concrete and river mud. I stepped up close to her, close, so my right foot was between her thighs. I pulled down my zipper and fished out my cock through the open fly of my shorts. It stood out like gangplank.
“Suck it,” I said. “Suck it using only your lips. No tongue, no teeth. Leave your hands where they are. Show me how soft your mouth is.”
I saw her eyes on my cock, on the drop of pre-cum glistening there, then they flicked up to my face, where she saw me glaring at her, eyes glowing. She immediately dropped her gaze.
I slapped the crop lightly against the inside of her thigh. “You want me to touch you, you’ll do as I say.”
She leaned her face forward and opened her mouth, captured my cock between her red lips and extended her neck, taking me almost half way down. I felt the moist heat of her mouth on my cock and her breath from her nostrils blowing on my shaft as she sighed. She took more, and her tongue nervously lapped at the underside of my dick despite her efforts to keep it away. She sucked a little, trying me out, then slid her head forward and took more. And then more.
Women and cock. Some of them just love it in their mouth, love the strength and hardness, the feeling of potency, and love just as much the control oral sex gives them over their man and his pleasure, the moans they elicit, the shudders of excitement. Lena was a woman who loved it, who loved that sense of control as well as the raw, living feel of it in her mouth. Her mouth was hot and wet and close and I could feel the warm greasy slip of her lipstick on me as she began to pump her head back and forth.
“Good girl. Good girl.” I tangled one hand in her hair and began to guide her mouth back and forth on my tool, watching her lips slide up and back, her mouth constricted into a submissive ‘O’. I moved her head easily, like she was on bearings, up and back, up and back, my cock making wet and viscous sounds as it slid in and out of the vacuum of her mouth.
Steeling myself against the pleasure, I reached down with the crop. It was a delicate shot, I aimed it precisely, then drew my hand back and slapped the crop against the bulge of her labia, right on her pussy, right through her panties.
The blow came as a shock to her and her eyes flew open. She moaned around my cock, but she didn’t stop sucking.
Slappp!!! I spanked her pussy again, continuing to work her head back and forth on my prick, holding her hair and pumping it in and out.
And then Whapp!!! I hit her again.
“That’s a hot little whore pussy you have there, isn’t it Lena? Hot little piece of ass. She gets you in a lot of trouble, doesn’t she? Makes you want to do terrible things.”
I slapped her pussy again. And yet again.
“She’s the reason you’re so bad, isn’t she? She’s the real trouble-maker here. That hot little cunt. That little hole between your legs.”
Lena moaned. She grunted each time the crop hit her cunt, but I wasn’t hitting her that hard. A little slap, a spank with the inch square piece of leather that tipped the crop, that’s all it was. It was the shock of what I was doing that got her; the indignity of being spanked between her legs while her mouth was being so brutally fucked inflamed her, made her moan and slaver and labor over my cock as I pumped it in and out of her mouth.
She was sucking me hard now, cheeks hollowing, tongue all over my cock despite my warnings, trying to pull the cum out of me, trying to make me shoot it in her mouth. If she was having any negative reactions to this, experiencing any of those feelings of self-loathing or despair she claimed came upon her whenever she remembered her earlier abuse, they sure didn’t show now. She looked like a woman in the throes of submissive transport. She was sucking me hard, trying to make me cum, hoping to distract me from noticing just how much she loved what I was doing to her, whipping her pussy, driving her towards orgasm despite her shame and humiliation, despite punishing the very source of her sex.
Slap!! Slap!! Whap!! Slap!!
The blows came faster and firmer. I was spanking her pussy steadily now, a little faster than she could bob her head, wanting to see if she’d move her head in rhythm to the blows. Saliva was leaking from her lips, running n twin streams from the corners of her mouth making her look wild and dissolute, drunk on cock and abuse, when suddenly I stopped, pulled my hips back and lifted her head off my prick.
“God! God!” she moaned, licking her lips and sucking in great gobs of air. She looked disoriented, totally disheveled, her hair a mess, eyes heavy and lips swollen, her red lipstick smeared and worn.
“How are you doing?” I looked down at her.
“God, Peter! Why’d you stop? Why’d you stop? I was close!”
“You were, huh? Going to come from getting your pussy whipped like that? And who gave you permission to orgasm? Who said this was about you coming?”
Her eyes flicked up to my cock, red and swollen and dripping with her saliva, then went down the floor. She dug her nails into her legs.
I glared down at her but in reality I was terribly pleased. She’d just been used and violated, and if such treatment were going to trigger any kind of bad reaction, it would have shown by now. But there’d been no flashback, no sudden recoil, no signs of trauma at all at what I was doing to her.
Maybe I’d better explain myself here. Maybe I’d better explain how ordering a girl to her knees and fucking her mouth while I slapped her pussy with a whip was in any way morally different than simple, outright abuse. Maybe I should try to explain the difference between BDSM and assault, between submission and victimhood.
Or maybe I should let Lena describe the difference, because as I pulled her to her feet and made her take off her dress, I asked her: “What are you feeling now. Tell me how it feels.”
She peeled her dress up over her head and threw it aside She was naked from the waist up as I’d told her to be, wearing only her panties, black garter belt, stockings and shoes. She’d been shy about her body. I knew that from talking to her, but she didn’t show any shyness now. She hardly even noticed her nakedness now. She was excited, aroused. Her dress had been an encumbrance.
“God! I’m on fire! What did you do to me? Your hands in my hair…”
“You liked that, didn’t you? It feels good to be used, to be taken. It started you up, didn’t it?”
She seemed confused, half intoxicated, but I didn’t waste any time. I turned her around and lashed her wrists together behind her back with a length of rope, then turned her to face me. I pushed her back against the bathroom door until she banged into it, then pressed her up against it and was on her immediately, kissing her, biting her mouth, my hands sliding up to find her breasts and squeeze, grabbing them and flattening them against her chest.
She moaned into my mouth and bit me back as I kissed her and I might have smiled had I been less excited. She was such a hot little vixen, more responsive than I’d even dreamed. When I pressed my leg up between her thighs, she pushed her pussy at me and began to rub herself on my pants like a bitch in heat. I could feel her warmth and moisture through the fabric of my pants.
Here’s what it is: women are every bit as sexual as men, but some have these inhibitions to overcome. Social pressures, self-image, the need to appear lady-like, it takes some women a lifetime to shake these restrictions, if they ever even do. But when a man comes down on them like this–a man they love, a man they want– comes down on them with all his lust and his twisted desires, they no longer have to worry about all that. They’re no longer responsible for their actions, they’re no longer in charge of themselves. By forcing her and tying her, I was setting her free, taking the decisions away from her. She was mine now, and all she had to do was stand there and experience it.
I let go of her breast and slid my hand down her belly, down beneath the elastic of her panties, touching her, feeling the softness of her shaved mound, her pubic protuberance. Her bites became harder, more urgent as I teased her above the hood of her clit, rubbing her skin but not her pussy, then slid my finger down and curled it beneath her in the moist heat of her vaginal swamp. I softly touched the hot, sticky lips of her pussy.
She jerked her hips at me in mindless reflex and let her head fall to her chest. I grabbed her hair and pulled her head back so I could see her, so I could see her face as I violated her. I held her head against the door as I slid my lips down over her chest, over the soft bulge of her breast, captured a nipple in my mouth and began to suck. It was tender and silky beneath my lips, but soon became stiff, hard, suffused with blood. My finger meanwhile had found the swollen lips of her sex and slid up and back, opening her up and exposing her.
She needed it. She needed it already, and as my finger plowed back and forth in the swollen tightness of her slit, it opened her up enough that a stream of her wetness dripped into the palm of my hand, hot and viscous, overflowing with readiness.
What is it about a woman with her arms tied behind her that does this to me? That turns me into such a sexual animal, a beast. Her defenselessness, her vulnerability. No, it wasn’t just vulnerability. It was her eagerness, her offering. She’d agreed to this, to be used, tied and bound, and now her nakedness and the hot wetness of her pussy was being given to me, pushed at me as her body reacted without her conscious control.
The panties had to go. They had to go. I wasn’t about to mess with the garters and clips, so I took the bandage scissors off the table and just cut them off her, cutting them at the hips as I held her head against the door. I pulled them off through her legs and tossed them aside and there she was–naked for all intents and purposes, her arms levered up behind her back, her legs slightly spread. I held her head there against the door till she opened her eyes and looked at me, and then, never breaking the gaze, I slid my finger into her.
I wanted to see her eyes when I entered her. I wanted to see the look on her face, and I wasn’t disappointed. Her eyes locked on mine, innocent and violated. I had my finger inside her, and I saw it in her eyes, the hunger, the humiliation, the surrender and desire. I covered her mouth with mine and put my tongue inside her. Still holding her head against the door, I moved my finger inside her and felt her quiver.
“This is what it’s like,” I whispered. “This is what it’s like to be taken, possessed, to be used for my pleasure.”
Her eyes were closed now. Her lips were parted and her breasts lifted with her rapid breathing, up and down, up and down, her nipples still shiny wet with my saliva. I tried to put another finger in her but she was too tight, too firm, her sheath unyielding, so I relented and satisfied myself with sliding my thumb around her clit as I fingered her, lewd, invasive. She opened her eyes and looked at me, her eyes pleading.
“No,” I said. “You’re not to cum. No orgasm, no climax. Not till I say so. So just hold it in. Keep it back. You’re mine now, and you do as I say.”
Lena whined through her teeth as I continued to work my finger in and out of her pussy, my thumb sliding around the wet, nubile bud of her clit. I let go of her hair slowly, slowly relaxing my grip, and she kept her head there pressed against the door. From outside came a peal of thunder in the distance as the rain continued to drum on the roof. I hadn’t even seen the flash of lightning.
“You’re to stay here,” I told her.” Stay right against the door like this, legs apart, just the way you are now. Don’t fucking move!”
Slowly I levered myself away from her, lifted my weight from her. I kept my finger in her pussy till the last moment, then removed it. I held it to her lips.
“Taste,” I said. “Taste what your surrender is like.”
She closed her eyes, turned her head in refusal, so I grabbed her face and turned her back to the front.
Her lips opened, the pinkness of her tongue appeared. I slid my finger into her mouth and she closed her mouth on it, began to suck on it docilely, a baby at her mother’s tit. I let her suck it, started moving it in and out like I was fucking her lips, like a little prick. There was another flash of lightening and the lights dimmed, then came back on, flickering nervously. Seconds later came the muttering of thunder. The storm was settling in, the front moving on, leaving these dark, wet clouds above us. Out behind the motel, the river would be heaving between its banks, thick and gleaming like a gleaming black serpent.
“Tell me how you like this,” I asked, pulling my finger from her mouth. “Tell me how it feels, being tied like this, being taken.”
She looked at me with the eyes of a criminal. “God! Can’t you tell?”
“Is it like your memories? Like what happened to you?”
“No, no. Nothing like that. It’s just… intense. I didn’t think it would be so intense.”
Seeing the lights dim had been nice, so I left her there while I turned off the bedside lamps that had been illuminating the room. I opened the curtains to let in the runny, aqueous light that seeped through the rain-sheeted window from the parking lot, illuminating her in a square of pale white and nacreous green. It gave the whole scene a surreal, undersea glow, illuminating her body standing in the doorway.
Lena stood where I’d left her, waiting for my next move.
When you dom, you have to control yourself. You have to let yourself go, but only so far and no further. This was her first time and there was the issue of her past to consider, the horror of real sexual abuse. I was afraid of pushing her too far too fast, of overwhelming her with my needs and demands. I had to know where to draw the line.
It’s a mystery to me what I want from these women anyhow, tied-up, bound, rendered helpless and vulnerable. To fuck them, own them, possess them, make them let me do what I want to them and admit me to their bodies, but something else as well. Their souls, their surrender, the molten chaos of their orgasms, the feel of them melting around the hard thrust of my cock, the loving, intimate violence of male on female sex. It was something primal and primitive, something that could not be rationally explained.
But here I paused, my conscience getting the better of me.
“I’m going to untie you,” I said. “I think we’ve done enough. I think you need time to…”
“No!” she said.
The wet light from the window was washing down her body like liquid. Her eyes were dark and certain.
“No. I don’t want to be untied. I want you to take me like this. I want you to do it. Do everything.”
I looked at her but she didn’t look away.
“Peter, I want this. It feels good, it feels right, like how I used to imagine sex would be, hot and passionate and hungry. I want you to do this, to take me like this. I feel like I belong to you, and I want to feel what it’s like.”
I’m really not a dom’s dom. I’m really not one to impose my will on a woman just so I can feel a sense of control or superiority. What I am is more like a teacher, or maybe a guide. I like to take women to parts of themselves they haven’t visited before and don’t know very well, and there we explore. I like to take them to the edge where rationality and inhibition disappear, and all that’s left is the things you can express by one body thrusting into another, by mouth fusing to mouth, soul to soul.
But it’s hard in motels. There’s no decent places to tie a girl; no solid hooks or poles or fixtures, not like at my place, festooned with chains and pulleys and rope. I could throw a rope over the top of the bathroom door to raise her arms, but that was a hassle and would take time to set up. The bed, being a motel bed, of course had no legs to tie a rope around and the plain fake-wood headboard was bolted flush to the wall. But this time I’d come prepared. I had some special tie-downs attached to flat pieces of steel designed to slide far enough between the mattress and box spring to provide secure anchors for tying her. I would have my way.
I got them out now, pulled the duvet and blankets off the bed, and slid the tie-downs in place, one in each corner. I got the four leather cuffs with the chains and clips attached and dumped them on the bed.
“Come here,” I said. Sit on the bed.”
I took her upper arm and led her to the bed, turned her around and sat her down. I slipped the handle of the leash over my arm, then took two of the cuffs and got down on my knees and buckled them around her ankles. Lena watched in something of a fog, as if this were happening to someone else. When her ankles were cuffed, I clipped them together with a short, two-inch clip.
“What are you doing?” she finally asked.
By that time I was standing back up and loosening the bonds on her wrists so I could cuff them too. “Cuffing you. What does it look like?”
She seemed to take a long moment to digest what I’d said, and in that time I got both cuffs on her wrists and pulled off the rope and tossed it aside.
“But why? What are you going to…”
I took her right wrist and pulled it over to the upper right tie-down, causing her to lose her balance and start to topple onto her side. She stopped herself with her left hand and said, “No! Wait! Wait!”
I clipped her wrist to the chain on the tie-down, about four inches from the edge of the mattress. “What? What is it now?”
“You’re going to tie me to the bed? Is that is?”
“Yeah. That’s about it.” I reached for her left hand and she snatched it away.
“No, wait! Wait, I can’t do this! Don’t!”
“What are you talking about? I just had your hands tied behind your back.”
“I don’t care. I don’t want to do this.” She hugged her left arm to her chest against the leash, her fingers curled into a stubborn fist. She turned her face away from me.
“I don’t understand. How is this different?”
“I don’t know! It just is. I don’t want to be tied down to a piece of furniture, stretched out like that.”
I looked at her, but she didn’t look panicked, she didn’t even look frightened. She looked pouty and hurt, stubborn, like a spoiled child.
“Is it about what happened? Does it remind you of the assault?”
She waited a while before answering, then said, “No. It has nothing to do with that. Nothing at all.” Her face was still turned away.
I was bewildered and uneasy, still worried about her traumatic past. The rain beat on the roof as I sat there at a loss, looking at her naked body in shoes, stockings and garter belt, primed for sex. As if now aware of her nakedness, she drew her knees up towards her body, her ankles still clipped together.
Something in that simple, modest gesture made things suddenly clear to me, made me instantly understand. She wasn’t afraid, wasn’t panicked– she certainly wasn’t having some kind of traumatic flashback. She was being coy, making me work for it, refusing to comply in her own violation. So far she’d put up hardly any resistance, and that had been easily overcome, and now she was feeling like maybe she was being too easy, too biddable and compliant.
At the same time, she’d made no move to free her right wrist from the restraint. She hadn’t touched the clip holding her ankles together. She was waiting. Waiting to be forced, waiting to be compelled.
I felt a sudden surge of anger-tinged desire, realizing I was being toyed with, played. I’d been sitting with her on the right side of the bed. Now I got up and went to the left side where I’d have more leverage.
“It’s a little late for that, Lena.” I grabbed her left wrist and pulled it up toward the tie-down. “It’s a little late for that now.”
Faced with my adrenalin-fueled strength, she was no match. She tried to keep her arm down, but I easily overpowered her and felt her give up, her arm relax. I pulled it tight, stretched her arm out till her left wrist was almost off the mattress, and clipped it in place.
Lena struggled, or she tried. Her ankles were clipped together, her wrists were bound and arms stretched. All she could really do was roll her hips from side to side and thrash, and her heart really wasn’t it in. I got her ankles chained down easily enough, bringing them both to the left tie-down while I affixed her left ankle, then taking off the short clip and pulling her right ankle over to the other one.
By now she’d stopped struggling at all, and I drew the chains, tight, tight, really stretching her out till the corners of the mattress started to curl up. I want to give her no slack to work with.
I was sweating when I finished, and I was hot for her, ready to take my prize, but a glance at her face showed me something else: she was loving this. Loving the struggle, the fight, and loving not only her resulting state of helplessness, but the level of angry arousal she’d ignited in me as well. I was hard, throbbing, and my muscles felt big and swollen, like after a workout. I forced myself to be calm, to keep it under control.
She was spread wide, exposed, vulnerable, and there was nothing she could do about it. Stockings and shoes and garter belt now framed her loins in black and in the center was the glistening slit of her sex. The leather cuffs creaked softly as she shifted her weight, trying to get comfortable, but how comfortable could she get when she was lying there with her legs apart, beyond decency, beyond shame.
“It’s true,” I said as I picked up the flogger. “Some people panic when they’re tied like this. A kind of claustrophobia, I understand. You’re not going to panic, are you, Lena?”
I dropped the thongs of the flogger against her tits and dragged them lazily down her body. She looked up at me intently but said nothing. When the thongs drifted down over her hips and thighs, some of them sliding over her pussy and dropping between her legs, she closed her eyes and shuddered slightly.
“It actually feels good being tied down this way, doesn’t it? You can’t move, you can’t resist, you can’t stop me from doing anything I like to you. Do you like it?”
Her eyes were closed and her lips compressed, but she didn’t have to say anything. In the weak, watery light I could see her pussy glistening, swollen and wet with her own arousal. She was dripping with it, overflowing.
I laid the flogger down on her chest, coiling the thongs under the handle so it looked like a nest of snakes between her tits, then sat down in the chair and leisurely took off my shoes and socks. I stood and unbuttoned my shirt and slid it off. It was quite warm in the room by now and both of us were sweating. I was hard and throbbing against my pants, but I left them on, savoring the pressure and discomfort. It would give a certain urgency to what I was going to do. I merely adjusted myself to ease the tension, pointing my cock up.
“Whatever happened to you when you were young, I don’t think it has anything to do with how you feel now,” I said, slowly retrieving the flogger from her chest. “There’s a difference between being sexually exploited at an age where you don’t even know what sex is, and giving yourself over to your lover as a mature woman and putting yourself in his hands. There’s nothing sick about this as far as I’m concerned. How you want to think about it is up to you, but you want it, you want to know what it’s like, and you deserve to know. More than anyone I can think of, you deserve to know. So let’s see what we can learn.”
I began swinging the flogger slowly over her thighs, back and forth, letting the fall of thongs brush against her skin as if I were sweeping her off, preparing her for what was to come. It was a light suede flogger that I was very fond of, because it could be make to tickle like velvet or sting like rawhide depending on the force behind it. I brushed it against her maybe a dozen times, getting her ready. Then I reared back and whipped it across her thighs.
Lena gasped, pulled tighter, and I flogged her again.
“No!” she said. “Don’t! Not with the whip, the flogger, whatever it is. Don’t”
I stopped and looked at her, surprised. This was starting to be more trouble than it was worth.
“I don’t care if you hit me, if you punish me, but not with the whip. Use your belt. That’s yours, a part of you. Use your belt instead.”
“My belt? You know that’s going to hurt more than the flogger.”
“I don’t care. I don’t care about the pain. Use your belt.”
I looked at her for a moment and saw she was serious. She wanted he belt. I put the flogger on the table and unbuckled my belt, pulled it through the loops and doubled it, then wrapped it around my hand a couple times to shorten it.
The first few strokes were gentle, tentative, just laying the leather on her skin with a lazy overhead delivery. The belt was capable of doing much more damage than the flogger, and I was hesitant to use it. I let it slap softly against her thighs, her hips, brushed it against her tits.
“You can do it harder than that,” she said. “You can do it a lot harder than that.”
“Don’t rush me,” I said. “I didn’t ask for your opinion.”
I pulled my wrist back and flicked it against her thighs. Harder, then even harder. Finally I hit her hard enough to make the belt slap against itself with a frightening crackk!!
Lena groaned and gasped and her nipples stiffened visibly but she never told me to stop, never told me to ease up, and she never asked me why I was doing this to her. I suppose it must have been obvious from the look in my eyes why I was doing this. In fact, I could feel it in my eyes myself, their heat and sinister glow. I was doing this because I wanted her, because I wanted to make her feel me, feel my need and desire. I was doing it because she had the gall to make me want her this way, with hunger and anger.
Whack!! Slap!!! Crack!! I was leaving marks now, stripes on her thighs and belly, across the mounds of her tits. It was a type of power, a type of possession, a type of punishment and an incitement to arousal all in one, bringing the blood to the surface of her skin and making her sensitive, stimulated.
I was sweating now and so was she. The room was too hot and I went and turned down the heater, then came back and let the belt drop against her pussy and dangle there. I watched her face as I slowly dragged it over her sex.
She closed her eyes and pressed her lips together, trying not to feel it. Refusing to feel it.
I did it again, letting the leather fall against the moist valley between her legs and then slowly dragging it out, over her belly, watching her hips lift and her thighs flex as she tried to capture it.
“Mmmm…” I slapped the belt lightly against her pussy. “Is that good? Is that nice, baby?”
I really didn’t have to ask. I could see the answer on her face. She was biting her lip now, her eyes still closed and her brow furrowed as she concentrated on the sensation, either accepting it or trying to block it out. It didn’t matter what she did, really, because she couldn’t deny the crudeness and obscenity of what I was doing. It was rude, insulting, exciting and degrading all at the same time, whipping her pussy with my belt.
I moved down near the foot of the bed to get a better angle, and I began to thwack the folded belt against her swollen labia, steady, rhythmically, watching her stomach muscles flex and thighs tighten as her wrists and feet twisted in the bonds.
“Oh God!” she moaned. “Oh God I don’t believe this! I don’t believe this! Peter! Peter!!”
Whap!! Smack!! Slap!! Whack!!
It was terrible, delicious, sick, suggestive. She loved it; she wanted it. She lifted her ass from the bed seeking the belt, exposing herself to it, while at the same time her face was clamped shut in a look of total denial and disbelief. She looked as if she were no longer in control of her body, that it had taken over and it wanted the belt, the punishment, the surrender, without regard for what she wanted, and it wanted it desperately.
I saw her climb towards orgasm, saw her open her mouth wide to breathe. and screw her eyes shut against the intense and shameful pleasure that was looming over her. I saw her thighs tremble with the strain and her stomach pull tight and quiver. Her fingers wrapped around the chains and pulled, pulled as her entire body clenched tight like a spring, ready to explode.
She stayed like that for a second, for maybe two seconds as she fought to contain the wave of excruciating pleasure, but it was all too much, too much, and she couldn’t resist. The orgasm rolled over her like a physical wave, and she heaved her body off the bed, reaching for it, reaching for that terrible pleasure. I thought she was going to scream but she bit it back, choked it back, shaking her head in denial and disbelief as he hair whipped her face and the vicious ecstasy seemed to rip her apart and throw her aside, showing her no respect and leaving her no dignity.
I stood there with the belt, high on the cruelty and savagery of what I was doing, watching her, amazed. She’d never been so responsive, so wild and unrestrained, and it drove me crazy, made me nuts. I dropped the belt and undid my pants, shoved them and my shorts down together and stood by the bed hard and aching, my cock throbbing with each beat of my heart. I knew she might be unbearably sensitive after an orgasm like that, but I was on fire for her and near climax myself. I climbed on the bed and got between her legs.
I didn’t even wait. I didn’t even tease. No caresses, no words, just me on my knees, falling over her and catching myself on one arm while I grabbed my cock with the other hand and placed the head against the swollen lips of her pussy.
Lena was panting, moaning, her pussy was hot and sticky, pursed like a lover’s lips, I pushed forward and the head of my cock wedged into her, splitting her open, her labia clinging to me and stretching to accommodate my cock. I pushed the head in and felt the tightness of her sheath, the semi-cartilaginous muscle that guarded her entrance. I pushed, putting my weight on my cock and the muscle stretched, dilated, and then slid smoothly up the stalk of my cock as Lena arched her back in a sudden spasm of pain.
“Oh God!” she cried. “That hurts! It hurts!”
“Okay. Okay. I’ll take it slow. Relax. Just relax. Get used to it. It’ll stop hurting. Just relax.”
I reached up and brushed her hair from her face so I could see her. Her lips were swollen, eyes closed, nostrils flared as she panted for breath. Below, halfway into her, my overexcited cock jerked in pre-ejaculatory spasms, which I just managed to control. But I could feel her muscles relaxing, accepting me, adjusting to me.
Lena smiled weakly. “God! I can feel that! Did you do that? I can feel you inside me.”
“Yeah,” I said. “That’s the idea.”
She smiled again and looked at me. “Oh yeah? So that’s what this is about?”
Wise-ass to the end.
“Ready?” I asked, and she nodded.
I pushed again, pushed, and felt her tissues open, her pussy expand and admit me as a welcome stranger, an inaugural guest. She waited till I had it all inside her, and then I felt her hips lift and push tentatively against me.
“Is that it? Is that all of it?”
“That’s all of it.”
“Oh God, that’s good! Oh my god, that’s so good!”
I pushed with my hips and let myself down on top of her, resting my weight on my elbows on either side of her head. I opened my mouth and covered her lips with mine, and she was immediately there, opening in response, tongue finding mine and caressing it eagerly. I kept myself still, wanting her to get used to the feel of my cock, but even as we kissed her hips were lifting up to absorb me, rocking slightly to move me around inside her, testing the possibilities. She broke the kiss and turned her face to the side to breathe through her open mouth and started moving in earnest now, grinding her pussy up against me straining for more.
She was tied down and could hardly move but she did her best, until finally I decided the time was right and pulled my cock partway out of her then slid it back in.
“Oh yes!” she hissed. “That’s it! That’s what I want.”
“You want me to untie you?”
“No, no! I love it like this. I love being held open like this. Just fuck me. Give it to me.”
So I did. I lifted my ass and pulled my cock partway out, then slid it back in. She moaned with a rush of escaping air, but the moan was only partly discomfort, partly something else.
I did it again, and this time the sound she made was that of a woman getting fucked–pleasure, relief, astonishment that anything could feel so good. I felt her hips lift within the limited confines allowed by the bonds.
“Oh God, Peter! This is it. Harder! Harder!” She grabbed onto the straps and pulled, her arms flexing. She had to know she was tied down, that there was no escape.
Her words set me on fire and I knew now that there was nothing to hold back, there was no problem, no trauma that had to be addressed, no tender spots to be avoided. The pleasure she took n being tied was simple and universal, the urge to be restrained during sex, to be taken and controlled and overpowered by desire. It was the inward-falling mountain, the darkness of yin, the surging and moon-dappled rush of the river in flood.
The bed creaked as I fucked her and she pulled at her bonds, spread wide for me and defenseless, offering me everything and holding nothing back, and the sound of rain on the roof was joined by our hard and labored breathing as I worked myself off inside her, hands clutching her ass and pulling her up to me, mouthing her breasts, oblivious to everything but the pulse of her body beneath me.
At some point I put my hand down there, an awkward angle but I wanted to feel the cylinder of my prick going into her. I must have stimulated her clit, because suddenly her cries took on a fervent urgency and she turned her head and sunk her teeth into my shoulder.
“Harder, Lena! Harder! Show me what it makes you feel like! Show me how it feels!”
I felt her teeth dig in, her jaw shudder with the strain. The pain knifed down my arm and spine and set off the obliterating rush of pleasure that triggered orgasm, and suddenly I was pushing deep into her, pulling her hips up to me and groaning: “Coming! Coming! Oh God, baby! Here it is! Here! Here! Here!”
I managed to lift myself off her and push her hair out of the way so I could see her face as I came inside her, the look of pleasure, pride, and completion as she felt my cock throb with each ejaculation. It was a deep, desperate, and delicious release, each slug of cum leaving my cock like a charge of molten metal, burning with life and saturated with my essence, cast into her furnace with helpless abandon and pure love.
And as Lena felt me cum and pushed her hips up at me to take my seed and meet her own shattering orgasm, I saw her look of bliss turn into a smile, a smile of relief, triumph, and acceptance. A smile of victory and surrender and peace deep as a river.