The Chance Encounter
Anna is a beautiful young woman (well, of course she is, who would write about an ugly woman? I mean, this is fiction, after all). She stands 165cm 'tall' (sorry, no feet and inches today, metric it is), on shapely legs and looks at the world out of warm, blue eyes that form a nice counterpoint to her brownish-red hair. Her hair is cut at her neckline, framing her beautiful face. Her breasts are not overly large, but round and firm.
Her dancing partner did not show up today (Friday, by the way), and since I am new to this town (and this dancing club), I haven't found a partner yet. With neither of us having a training partner, we decide to team up for the lesson. Must be my lucky day. That feeling stays, right until the first Tango, third bar. I take a step backward, she a step forward. Suddenly, sharp pain shoots to my brain; the epicentre is located somewhere in my left foot. Have you ever made close contact with the tiny 7cm heel of a woman's dancing shoe, nickname 'steel drill'? Well, don't. Ever.
She apologises over and over. I notice she is very cute when she does that (apologising, not spearing my foot with her heel, obviously). I muster a smile and tell her not to worry. After all, since I'm the one who's leading, everything that happens is my fault anyway. "Well, then why don't you let me lead for a while. That way, you can at least be mad at me when I step on you again...". Great, she's funny too. "Let you lead? And give up the last bastion of male dominance in the world? Never!" She smiles at me, and I take up the heavy burden of leadership once more.
After the lesson, when I have changed out of my dancing shoes, and she has changed out of her instruments of terror, she steps up to me again. "I still feel bad about stepping on your foot. Can I try to make it up to you, say, by inviting to you to dinner?" "Well, cliché as it is, but I try never to decline a dinner invitation by a beautiful woman!"
Since, as she put it, "her cooking skills were not all they could be", and "she had done enough damage to me already", we decided to head for a nice restaurant. Mhh, French cuisine. You can say about the French what you will, sometimes they can be proud, overbearing, arrogant even. But after a real four hour French meal with all the trimmings, you are ready to forgive them anything. (Actually, I rather like the French, I just thought this might sound cool.)
Dinner was a pleasant affair. But let's face it, you are not here for the small talk, so I'll spare you and skip ahead to desert (mousse au chocolat, followed by a selection of cheese - if there is a heaven, I just found it!). The conversation had already covered the basics, and was now moving to more interesting things.
"So," she says, "you like a challenge? Is that a challenge to gain the upper hand, or a challenge just for the game's sake?" "Actually, it's a challenge to keep the upper hand. Naturally." "Naturally. Does that apply to all areas of your life, or just your work?" "Oh, it probably does not apply to all areas, but right now I can't think of any examples. Why, are you thinking of challenging me somehow?" "Ah, never mind. You probably couldn't handle me anyway." "You? Now that's rather impertinent. You are quite naughty, aren't you. Maybe I should do something about that." "Really? Well, why don't we go someplace else then and see if you can?"
'Someplace else' turned out to be my house, since it offered more comfort than her apartment. Since that was a little farther away than her place, 'go' meant driving. And since a French dinner wouldn't be a French dinner without wine, 'driving' meant calling a cab.
When the cab had driven off, and the door had closed behind us, without switching on the lights, I take her shoulder in my hand and say "Tell me what you really want. What you usually wouldn't dare ask at a first time. What you wouldn't tell your friends about. What you really, really want. Tell me." She just stands there for a while. I hold her shoulder, reassuring, but not demanding or eager. Finally, she speaks. "I... I want to..." She swallows. "I want you to hurt me. Bad." "That can be arranged." I put my other arm around her hips and hold her closer. "Define 'bad'. What do you consider being hurt bad. Clothespins on your breasts? On your nipples? A paddle? Candle wax? Just how bad is 'bad'?" "I want to be whipped! Tortured! I want you to stick needles in my breast! Can you handle that? Can you handle me? Tell me?!" "All right. There is one thing you need to know before we start. When we 'play', you will have two save words. Don't interrupt. The first one is 'yellow'. It is a warning. It means that you are close to your limit, that you are not turned on by what is happening, or rather the opposite. It is a plea for me to back off a little. Now, that one is optional for me. It gives me information about your state of mind (and body). I can ignore it, or act on it if I choose to. The second one is 'red'. It means 'stop whatever you are doing, untie me, let me go.' You should use it if you are in intolerable pain, if you think you will go insane if the pain does not stop, or if you are in any physical danger. However, be careful when to use it. If you do, the session is over, and we will not try again for at least two days, even if you want to. There are two reasons for the two-day delay. First, if you have to say 'red', something has gone very wrong. We both need time to think about it. Second, knowing that it will end the session prematurely will encourage you to hold out a little longer, to suffer a little more. Hopefully, it will also add to your arousal. So, remember, 'yellow' and 'red'. If you are gagged and need to speak, wiggle your fingers and toes. Of course, as long as you are not gagged, feel free to tell me about your current feelings. As I don't know you very well yet, it will give me a better idea of what you like - and what you don't like. Any questions?" Slowly, she shakes her head no. I take her to my bedroom.
The First Time
I adjust the lights to a comfortable level, then quickly move some small tables and cupboards out of the way. This reveals two small hooks on the floor, about 2 metres apart. Two identical hooks are just above them in the ceiling, covered by a lamp. First I secure each of her feet to one of the hooks on the floor, then I tie her hands to the ones in the ceiling. I pull the ropes tight, so that she is stretched a little, although her feet still touch the ground.
I gently stroke her lower arms, the insides of her elbows, her lower arms again. Her sides, her legs, her thighs, her hips, her belly. Her torso, just between the breasts. I circle the left one, then the right one. I trace my way back down to her belly button. Further down, to the left thigh. A short brush against her labia, then her right thigh. Smack. I hit her right breast. She yelps, more in surprise than in pain. I am using a riding crop with a broad leather end. It has a certain sting to it, but it's not really painful. I hit her again, on her other breast, then on the underside. The right one again. Now on her nipples. I cover her breasts with light, steady blows. She squirms in her bonds, moans softly. I increase the strength of the blows. Now her arms. Her armpits. Her belly. Her legs. Her moaning get louder. I hit her thighs. Suddenly, a hard blow directly between her legs. A shriek. Her thighs again. Upwards to her breasts. Her chest heaves in arousal. I'm leaving a red trail on her skin, covering more and more of her body.
She is squirming in her bonds, her hips moving oh-so-gently. She moans. That's when I exchange the crop for a whip. Her breasts and pubic area are my main targets - which translates into higher pitches moans and some screams. When I increase the strength behind the blows, her volume rises with it. Crack. Crack. Crack. Across her nipples now. Crack. The underside of her breasts. Crack. Crack. Between her legs. Crack. Another one on her pussy lips. Crack. Now right between the protective folds of her labia. Crack. Harder. Crack. She shrieks. In between, I caress her nipples, stroke her breasts, lightly touch her sides. Crack.
.... There is more of this story ...