Degrees of Freedom
Caution: This BDSM Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Fa/Fa, Consensual, Romantic, Reluctant, Slavery, Lesbian, BDSM, DomSub, First, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Masturbation, Fisting, Sex Toys, Exhibitionism, Voyeurism, Slow,
Desc: BDSM Sex Story: Chapter 1 - A lesbian D/s love story.
"No ... I ... I'm busy this evening." I felt how I blushed. Not because I had lied to him. I would indeed be busy this evening, most likely on the net, discussing cartan components, tensors and, if I got lucky and the right persons were online, Richardson elements for the classical Lie algebras. I blushed because I always blushed when a guy asked me out. In that old joke about the intro- and the extroverted mathematicians, I'm the one looking at her own shoes.
"C'mon, Zoë, you can't always stay home. You need to get out once in a while."
"What I need to do is finish my paper." I turned back towards the screen again, trying to shut him out. It was quite rude, I admit. He wasn't a bad guy, not at all. But I've never been the outgoing type of woman, and in the last six months and seventeen days I had more or less avoided all unnecessary social contact. Going out to watch a stupid Hollywood flick, then to a pub full of drunk students and talk about things that didn't interest me in the least was such an unnecessary social contact and the last thing I wanted to do.
Furthermore, decomposable tensors and secant dimensions at least didn't try to get in my pants. And, although I'm certainly no expert on dating or when it comes to relationships between women and men, I knew that when a guy asks a woman out on a date, it's all about getting into her pants.
"How about Saturday?" David still leaned against the desk. "We could go punting, then dinner somewhere nice."
I finished the sentence I was writing before I once again turned to look at him, realizing that this was a mistake even as I did so. It's easier to say "No" to someone if you don't have to look at them.
"I don't feel like it. Sorry, David." I hoped it sounded final enough and that he would get the message. I also hoped he would not be offended.
"OK. I see. Bye," he said and walked out, slamming the door to the cramped office. So much for the not being offended part. A flake of paint fell to the floor and the windows rattled. At least none of the panes broke, which wouldn't have been much of a surprise, considering the state of the building where the institute was crammed in. Pure mathematics never get the bulk of research money. It had been like this at the Swiss Federal Institute of Technology where I had recently made my master and it was certainly no different at the University of Cambridge where I stayed now for a doctorate.
After another two hours I called it a day and went home. If you can call the little overprized room I rented in the basement of a terraced house home. But it was at least a place where nobody bothered me. Plus I had my own shower and a little kitchenette. It rained and by the time I turned into my street I was drenched and cold, but I actually enjoyed that. It made me feel alive after a long day looking at a screen.
"Ah, the Swiss miss," my landlord greeted me when I locked the bicycle to the fence. He was old, at least eighty, but that didn't stop him from leering after me whenever he had the chance. He was also my prime suspect in the case of the underwear that went missing from my laundry. "How are you on this awful day?"
"Hello Mr. Winters. I'm wet and cold and I want to take a shower. Have a nice evening." I squeezed past him and went down to my room. A shower and a bowl of cornflakes later I fired up the Mac again, but for once I didn't go to my favourite geeky math site but opened YIM too look whether my friend Karin was online.
She was, and so we chatted for a while and she made me promise to come to Zurich when I went to the congress in Geneva the following week. She also wanted to know whether I was seeing someone. Of course she did. And of course I wasn't.
"Not all men are scumbags, honey," she said. "There's someone out there for you, but you have to go out and grant yourself the chance to find him." She had said that before and deep inside I knew she was right.
"Uh huh. But I don't feel like going out right now."
"That's what you always say."
"Because it's true." It was even more true since I found out that Eric had had an affair with another woman. The fact that he had an affair wasn't what had hurt me the most. But that the bastard had actually proposed to me while he was screwing someone else, that had been really painful. Still was painful, actually.
I had hoped that moving to Cambridge would help me get over the whole affair, but as a matter of fact it had gotten worse. I wasn't lovesick, generally fed up with men or particularly sick of Eric. I was just tired of all people. And so I worked up to fourteen hours a day which suited me perfectly fine because if I kept it up I'd publish a lot of papers during my doctorate and publishing a lot of papers was the best way to get my name known and getting my name known was important to get good post-doctorate posts. And that in turn was essential if I ever wanted to fulfill my dream of being a full professor at one of the top universities.
Erin looked perfect. Athletically svelte and supple as a brine soaked willow wand, her long auburn hair cascading down her back. Lips stretched around the pure white ball-gag as she hung from the padded wrist cuffs, arms and body forming a perfect 'Y' that showed off the tight leather corset and it's accessories to perfection.
Another series of flashes and it was time to add the spreader bar that held her ankles wide, forming the classic 'X'. A few moments to mark her breasts completed the composition. The final set of flashes caught a look that would only become apparent later.
Finally the session was over and the cuffs released, no cheap vinyl or fake restraints here, other use them, here they use only the real thing, every single accessory custom built or purchased from the specialists who made their living producing high quality bondage and fetish equipment. Erin seemed reluctant to go change, glancing around as if committing everything in the studio dungeon to memory, finally with a soft sigh she turned towards the small changing room and bathroom, a single backward glance which I captured with the last of the camera's memory.
I had already transferred all the memory sticks to the hard-drive by the time Erin stepped softly into the office, as usual her subtle scent capturing my attention. Turning I watched her move closer, her hair still damp from the shower, partly subdued into a loose ponytail that swayed as she moved, her usual T-shirt and jeans, feet stuffed into hiking boots, the long waxed jacket flapping around her long legs as she moved to stand besides my chair.
Long moments as her eyes flicked over the photos on the twin screens, a silent pause, no words left, we had both accepted the inevitable, sad smiles and a last long look at each other before she turned away towards the door, leaving me to my screens and memories. Her parting words filled with a meaning few would understand. "Goodbye ... Mistress..." I would have turned, offered a last good-bye, but the picture filling the screen held me spell-bound, one of the very last before I released her. Zooming in I could see the ephemeral beauty of her eyes, a single tear poised in the corner, the look so fragile, forlorn, wistful and mourning, such a contrast to her suspended position and the glossy red leather that matched the diagonal marks seared across her breasts. This one would never be published, no matter how saleable, this one was mine alone.
The next frame was the first of three I shot as Erin was walking away, head turned to look back over her shoulder, her eyes smouldering, a look of such passion in her eyes, a silent invitation that two frames later had changed into tender resignation. These too would remain in my private collection, treasured memories of a very special girl.
Some time later, the best shots cropped and watermarked, I clicked 'Send', dispatching the results of a mornings work to the various magazines and private collectors who formed the core of my customer base. At first Cambridge had seemed an unlikely place for a specialist studio but amongst the students there were always a few brave, rebellious or desperate enough to exchange time in my dungeon for money. Some rejected the opportunity because it conjured images of sleazy 'money shots' and tawdry sex, others seemed disappointed, even annoyed when they discovered that modelling in my studio leads to nothing more than good photographs and a lucrative boost to their study costs.
Erin. Erin was different. Erin would be almost impossible to replace.
Closing down the office I walked through the darkened studio, my dungeon, lit now only by the soft glow of the safety lights, along the corridor and out into the small gallery. Bright and warm, purposely inviting, even though the blustery rain beat intermittently upon the big glass windows. Dee looked up as I entered, her laptop open behind the small counter, the ever-present sketch book beneath her poised pencil, I sometimes wondered if she drew in her sleep, or even consciously decided what to draw ... I knew her sketches covered a range of subjects and disciplines, from cartoons of the Mona Lisa eating a burger to classical caricatures of many who frequented the gallery.
Dee ran the gallery with a careless efficiency, smoothly transforming from introverted artist to effervescent sales girl quicker than the time it took for the doorbell's chimes to fade when a customer entered. None of the dungeon pictures ever made in into the gallery, we carried the usual selection of local artists as well as a wide selection of historic prints showing the various university buildings and local scenes. Thanks to Dee we also had a growing collection of fractal pictures which had proved very popular with the mathematicians, both Professors and students. Thank you Benoît Mandelbrot.
Leaving Dee to lock up the shop I shrugged into a long raincoat and stepped out into the early evening rain, heading for the river and a much needed breath of fresh air. To much time in the dungeon or sat at the computer leaves me feeling cloistered, I needed to feel the wind in my hair and the rain on my face. A little time to myself before I set about finding a new girl to replace Erin, if that was even possible... ?
The next few days went by quickly and without anything worth mentioning, except that on Sunday I didn't go to the institute but packed a picnic, sat on the bike and cycled across the country. It was a warm and sunny autumn day, the first leaves starting to turn yellow and red and I enjoyed the wind in my hair and the sweat on my body. I got home tired, almost exhausted but that was exactly what I had needed.
And then, Wednesday morning, I sat in the plane, my palms sweaty and my stomach revolting. I knew that my fear of flying was silly, chances that I was killed in a plane crash were infinitesimal compared to, say, coming down with cancer, especially given my family's medical history. But fear, like all emotions, is by definition irrational and so here I was, gripping the armrests until my knuckles stood out white, as if this would help me in any in way should the plane go up in a billowing cloud of smoke. But it didn't and we landed safely at Geneva Airport.
As usual the congress was quite inappropriately named. 'Geeky get-together' would have more suited the occasion. But then again, congresses on pure mathematics never drew thousands of participants, simply because in most fields of pure mathematics there were just a handful of people who actually understood the theories. And so I presented my paper, talked and discussed with the other scientists, went for dinner with the same colleagues, listened to them presenting their own ideas and findings the next day, talked to them some more and felt really good. It was so much easier to talk about Lie algebra and geometry than about anything else.
At noon on Friday I took the train to Zurich and enjoyed the fantastic sight of the golden vineyards of the Lavaux, the snow covered French Alps in the background and the azure lake in between. Then it got much less beautiful when the train followed the arch of the Swiss Plateau, that ugly, heavily populated conglomerate of suburbs, highways, villages and industrial zones that more or less covers the country from Lake Constance to Lake Geneva. In Zurich I took my time walking to where Karin lived, crossing the Platzspitz, once widely and infamously known as 'needle park', now again a beautiful park used by everybody, with old trees, wedged in between the two rivers.
I sat down at the river, looked at the old railway bridge from which I had once been foolish enough to jump and remembered how I had drifted semiconscious in the water when the impact had knocked the air out of my lungs and wrapped my bikini top around my neck. Eric, then just one of the guys of the group of people I hung out with, although the one I had had a secret crush on for a while already, had jumped after me and pulled me to the river bank, not too far above the grill of the power station towards which I was drifting. Then we had lain on the rough, sun scorched asphalt of the narrow pedestrian path along the river, passionately kissing and completely oblivious to our surroundings.
With a sigh I got up again, shouldered my bag and walked the short distance to Karin's flower shop. Peeking through the window of the shop I wasn't surprised to see her behind the counter, binding a bouquet for a customer, her belly round and taut and looking as if it was about to burst any second. Once the guy had left with his flowers I went in and we somewhat awkwardly hugged and kissed each other, then I helped her close the shop and we went upstairs to her flat.
"Chris isn't here?"
"He's working late. He wants to do as much work as possible now so he can take a few days off once the baby decides it's ready."
"It's overdue, right?"
"Yep, the date was Monday and to be honest I wouldn't mind at all if it had come two weeks early. Carrying around a dozen extra kilos is a drag, I tell you."
"Well, then you rest now while I prepare dinner." She knew me better than to voice an objection and went to have a bath.
The evening went by fast with talking and gossiping and thankfully Karin didn't go into the subject of me and my relationships.
The following day I spent in the flower shop helping Karin and was surprised that I still knew how to bind a nice bouquet of flowers. I had helped Karin getting started with her business after she one day announced that she was done studying law, that she wanted to do what she really liked to do and that wasn't being a lawyer but working with flowers. Two weeks later she had found the little shop and a few people who loaned her money, then we had worked day and night to turn the place into a little paradise of flowers and plants, the long hours of painting and renovating usually turning into even longer hours of sitting together in her kitchen, drinking cheap Chianti and eating even cheaper Spaghetti all' aglio, olio e peperoncino.
"You still like to bind things?" Karin asked me when we were alone for a short time.
"What makes you think I like to bind things?"
"All I say is 'O'," she replied giggling. The memory made me smile, too. One day, shortly after Karin had moved in with me, I had found 'The History of O' lying on the floor in the tiny bathroom where she had forgotten it. I had started to read it and later that day I had asked her if she dreamed about such things and whether she had any experience. She did and she hadn't and then she in turn asked me whether I had liked the book. I had and then one thing led to the other until she went down to the basement, brought her climbing rope and we tied each other up. As far as I was concerned it had been without any sexual connotation, just two girls fooling around. Well, almost without sexual connotation.
I knew that Karin had a bit experience by now, but it seemed as if it had never gotten serious, merely playing with ropes and blindfolds in the bedroom whereas I had never followed up on that evening.
"Yeah," I said dreamily. "I've almost forgotten about that." And then I wanted to add that maybe we should have given it a real try but just then two women entered the shop and the moment passed.
The weekend went by without a trip to the hospital and so Karin's belly still got in the way when we said goodbye early on Monday morning. Another dreadful flight and a bus drive later I was back in Cambridge where it rained, one of those annoying drizzles that seem to be nothing at all but still get one wet in a surprisingly short time. On a whim I decided to walk the two kilometres to the University without bothering to go home first.
Sunday BDSM brunch. The americanism seemed almost more blasphemous than the theme when set against the backdrop of Cambridge's genteel erudition. An eclectic mix of street-chic, urbane-casual and kink-couture, every taste from Anne Desclos to John Norman.
My customary white silk and black leather suited my monochrome mood, avoiding the antics of the exhibitionists as I stood detached and introspective. The monthly meetings attracted both regulars and a constant stream of new faces most of whom never returned, the inquisitive, the desperate or just those seeking the next thrill. Amongst them I had found Erin, maybe that was why I had come?
Her walk caught my attention. Long graceful legs topped by hips that swayed just enough, enough to show restraint yet hint at so much more. Athletic body, attractive face framed by long auburn hair shot through with natural highlights. A short denim skirt and matching waist-coat concealed little and promised much, simple yet overtly sexual, a girl on a mission. She paused before me, not to close, her stance proud, head held high, eyes downcast, waiting...
I never hunted at these events and never played, preferring to relax in the company of friends rather than indulging my exhibitionistic tendencies, those I reserved for other more appropriate occasions. Erin's departure was not yet common knowledge, simply because as yet I had not joined in the various conversations or spoken to anyone expect in greeting. Still the girl remained, frozen, composed, waiting...
The waitress refreshed my tea, pouring a fresh cup and adding milk and sugar, a shy smile as she stirred then placed the spoon carefully in the saucer, a pause, a wider smile as I nodded, a step back before turning away to her duties. The perks of being a regular, of a set of portfolio photographs she never paid for, risqué poses she sought then regretted, even before leaving the dungeon, relief as they were deleted before her eyes, eyes that even now reflected her gratitude, mixed with a lingering desire, an urge as yet unfulfilled. Still the girl waited...
Placing the empty teacup upon the saucer I lifted my hand, index finger extended and pointing to the carpet before me. The girl reacted immediately, yet gracefully, stepping forward with the practised poise of an acolyte of Astarte. Two steps away she paused, then made transition from standing to a kneeling with gymnastic grace, assuming the customary position of obeisance.
Clear skin, high cheekbones, little makeup, a soft natural blush to her cheeks. "Speak... !!"
Her response immediate yet calm, eyes still downcast. "Ma'am, if it pleases you, this one would beg a little of your time and consideration."
The response was expected, the form and tone less so yet they spoke volumes to her training and intent. "Look up!" Her chin lifted, modest pride without a trace of arrogance, bright eyes that matched the tiny emerald studs in each earlobe.
Perhaps monochrome for all it's stark majesty would give way to that so respectfully offered? Auburn and pink, the colours of my Sunday evening. Standing I offered a single command. "Follow." Before walking from the room, pausing only to collect my leather trench-coat before exiting out onto the street. The girl holding position a little to my left and a step behind. No coat, no bag, no hesitation.
The gallery and studio invoked no comment, the dungeon did. A subtle eagerness and a smile that her lips contained but her eyes could not. The evening became night as submission became surrender. Dawn light filtered through the single unshuttered skylight to spread across her supine form, her body still hot from my use, skin slick with perspiration and other fluids, their layers testament to the endless lust her obedience had inspired. Beneath the oil and sweat and cum lay the filigree of pain, pink and red the tracery spread out to cover the body that lay spent and panting before me, every sinew in need of mercy even as her eyes begged for more.
I awoke late. Dee had not disturbed me. The post-it note's fluorescence to bright for my eyes, the mug of tea she had brought long cold, the number of exclamation marks excessive, Go Home... !!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Pulling on my trench-coat I made my way down the corridor and out into the gallery, passing Dee who's indulgent smile was far to loud, I stepped out onto the street and headed home, taking the alley that led out past the college I followed the wide street, long closed to cars, towards the station, needing only to cross over to another ancient alleyway before arriving at the back door to my home.
I walked on auto-pilot, lost in thoughts of last night. Recognition hit me like a bucket of ice-water, freezing my body, only my eyes still moving, following.
Those eyes, those emerald pools of endless delight. Those eyes I'd know anywhere, especially now, so vivid and fresh from last night's dream...