I write this in my kitchen, my laptop open before me while Nicole sweats out her tardiness in my bedroom. Soft whimpers permeate from the slightly open door that exposes nothing but darkness and the subtle creaking of the furniture her body shifts against, searching for elusive comfort.
She arrived later then expected and I had begun to grow impatient. After an hour and twenty-one minutes I had begun to assume she had chickened out again.
I greeted her sourly at the door sourly wearing ragged jeans and a fitted, black tank-top. For a moment she had forgotten her submissive self and simply said hello and apologized for being late, forgetting her punctuation, forgetting to address me properly.
I gripped my hands lightly around her throat before she could let herself in, concealing her collar with the width of my palm. I pulled her close to me as I brought my mouth close to her ear and told her that I didn't understand what she had said, that there was something missing.
"Hello ... Sir," she said cautiously. "I'm sorry I'm late Sir."
I let go of her neck without accepting her apology or returning her greeting and told her simply to strip down to her bra and underwear before entering my apartment. Her mouth fell slack and she didn't move.
I repeated my request, louder, no longer with the discretion of proximity. Anyone in the hallway of my small building would hear me.
She began to quickly and obediently undress, sensing the impatience in my voice. When she was finished I thanked her, smiled in a sinister manner and asked her to hand me her clothes. I bundled them into my arms and turned back into my apartment, closing the door behind me with her on the other side, still waiting in the hall.
I placed her clothes in my room, folded them neatly on the couch and took my time doing so, just long enough to know that panic would set in while she stood in my hall, facing my doorway, not knowing if or when I would come back.
I opened the door quickly, violently, and chuckled a little to myself as I realized I'd succeeded in startling her. She winced a little as though she was afraid I was going to hit her. I stood aside with enough room for her to walk past me after telling her to get inside.
I pointed her to the direction of my bedroom. She entered. On my coffee table, before the couch, I'd suctioned a large purple dildo to its top.
I told her to have a seat.
She looked over at the dildo then back at me. She blinked. It was cute. She was about to break into a gushing smile or tremble with fear.
"Where Sir?" she asked and I smiled.
I took her wrists lightly into my fist and applied just enough pressure to move her without bruising. I pushed forward as I stepped and she stumbled slightly, her eyes locked on mine. When the back of her legs hit the table both of us stopped.
"Where do you think?" I said. My voice fell deep before my smile rose. I reached down and tugged at the hem of her panties till they parted the lips of her pussy, until she rose to her tip-toes, until I heard them begin to rip. Her hands found their way to my biceps and gripped them hard for balance. I tugged harder on her underwear and she yelped, digging her nails into my arms as I drew the torn garment wet from between her lips.
I traced them slowly up her torso as though I was drawing her - as though she was a work of art. I told her to open her mouth and she complied. I pushed the panties deep until there was no risk of them being seen beyond her sealed lips.
I reached between her legs and ran a finger, soft and exploratory, within her and confirmed how wet her cunt was before allowing myself a smile.
I pushed a finger in just slightly, just enough to see how tight she was, just to hear a moan or a sigh. It slid with ease but still she was startled. After a brief and high pitched noise she sighed, her eyes rolled back and her body fell slack against my finger, dying for any part of me to be within her, pushing her body hard against my hand. Only my finger inside of her kept her balanced. I raised a fist to grip her hair to compensate.
To my surprise she was tight. She reacted as though my finger merely occupying her was the best she had ever had and I looked very forward to fucking her, and wanted to throw her over right there and fuck her with every ounce of my being. But that would have to wait. It would have to. I closed my eyes. I heard myself groan and pulled her close to me, so she could feel the rumblings of my want move over her.
I felt impatient, hungry, and overwhelmed with want. I gritted my teeth and leaned towards her like and animal, pulling her into me.
Her breath quickened as she struggled to keep the panties tight between her pursed lips. She panted like a hungry dog still holding desperately onto my arms as the force of my finger lifted her to her toes.
I composed myself long enough to remember where we were. I curbed my desire and asked calmly, "Where do you THINK I want you to sit kiki?"
Her mouth opened. Out of her mouth fell only drool and vowels but it was enough for me to interpret her response.
"On the dildo, Sir?"
I smiled and nodded. I removed my fist from her hair and my finger from inside of her. I tore my belt quickly from the loops of my jeans with a snap and she flinched. I drew the belt slowly, lengthwise between my parting hands before her eyes and told her to open her mouth. Her lips and teeth parted and I placed the belt between her teeth before securing it behind her head.
"Sit," I said again and she reached between her legs and began to arch her knees.
She guided the girthy dildo into the drooling mouth of her hungry cunt while I watched and she pushed down hard onto it until there was no room for her fist to hold it in place. As her legs met the table she trembled, her head fell back, and from beneath my belt loop saliva traced the angular slope of her chin.
I leaned forward and kissed her gently on the cheek as she panted to keep up with her evasive breath. I said "good girl" and her eyes fell graciously closed with relief as her breathing steadied.
She's been in there for an hour now, her wrists cuffed at the base of her spine, her ankles to the legs of the coffee table. An anal hook is anchored securely to her pony-tail so that her head is drawn back tight; her chin the arrow of her straight torso aimed at the ceiling.
And yes, that big purple dildo is still stuffed tight in her cunt, a river of want most likely pooling on the table. She has only twenty-one minutes left to wait, the same time I had to, but as I think about how she squirmed, how I pushed the cold and lubricated steel into her asshole before pulling her head back as far as it would go, how her eyes watered not nearly as much as her sex. I wonder if she had been late on purpose. A grin passes as quickly as my jeans tighten and plots form in my mind.
Chapter 2: Punishment
I step into the bedroom and Nicole winces at the light as it moves into the blackened room. She squints to see me but I'm a silhouette before the illuminated doorway moving slow towards her as she straddles the coffee table, her body impaled deeply on phallic silicone. Her ankles restrained to table legs and wrists bound to wrists. She trembles and sweats, her chest heaves nervously and each step I take towards her causes her breath to quicken.
I've left her alone in the dark for an hour and 21 minutes where she sat without light, without music, and only the sounds my movements in the other room where she wondered what I was doing and when I would return, and the traffic of Yonge Street at her back.
I light a candle before closing the door behind me. I don't say a word. I can feel the tension in the room and I know how nervous she is, I can feel it flood the room and it excites me. The flame of the candle glows and I can see her face contorting with each flicker of the flame and she's a different girl each second, until the flame settles into the melting wax and there's only one girl left; and it's Nicole.
I ask her if she knows why I left in here and she nods vigorously, anxiously, a string of spit crawling through the air from her chin like the woven web of a spider. I press my fingers to the bottom of her chin and I lift her gaze to mine. I tell her to look at me when I ask her a question. Again she nods.
I look her in the eyes. I ask her if she's going to keep me waiting again.
She shakes her head.
I turn from her and head to the computer. I put on some music; light and relaxing; explosions in the sky; something soothing to calm her. I undo my belt from around her hand and she stretches her jaw quickly. She blinks her eyes that are run with mascara, stained lightly with tears. She exhales a long breath and looks up at me, quiet and grateful she says thank you Sir, and I lift her chin in my hand, smiling at her and kissing her forehead.
I tell her not to worry. I have a number of different ways in mind for her to make it up to me. And also, I tell her, that my demands that she not leave me waiting again, did not just relate to tonight, but for how long I waited for her meet me.
I tell her if she wants to know how long I'm going to make her wait, all she has to do is look up our first contact when she gets home, and it will tell her, in days, how long she has to wait for me to fuck her.
I grin manically. Her eyes widen in disbelief.
I undo her legs from the chair and lift her by her arms from the table. A thick string of vaginal spit connects her cunt to the thick toy she'd concealed there, like still reaching out, unwilling to let go. With her arms still bound behind her back, I place her on her knees before me, on the carpet, her legs still trembling. The taut rope stretched between her hair and the anal hook keeps her looking up at me. She doesn't say a word. Either the punishment I've come up with is too much, has turned me into a bigger tease than her and she's going to leave here and never return, or she's immensely turned on by my brazen punishment, and respectful of how much I'm personally willing to sacrifice just to punish her. Just to show that her training is more important than my getting off.
I think to myself that this is romance. There is no sacrifice in promiscuity, and maybe was the reason we once waited for marriage, not because of god's law, but because it was how we understood that someone was worth it, and that there was more to the connection than momentary desire, which arrives and passes like breath in all sexual beings.
It was about knowing which breath was the sweetest to draw.
I look at her, look down at her, at the flow of her body in the light, the girth of her chest, the way warm breath moves over her lips, and I consider how I may have bitten off more than I can chew, and debate reconsideration if only because there is no need for me to punish myself.
I move around her, to stand behind her, out of her sight. My fingers work at the knots until the rope falls loose, dangling from her pony tail.