Negotiating over pie. He wants to meet me someplace safe, someplace public. Where I can run if I have to. Where I can scream and help will come. Is there such a place I wonder? And if there was, would I really want to go there? No, inside I wouldn't. But I'm the new me. I have a new respect for myself, a new appreciation for what I may become, if not exactly for who I am. Denny's, the one on Martin Luther King Way. The one in the bad part of town; that's where I'm going.
And why am I doing this I wonder for the umpteenth time. I have a boyfriend. I'm happy with him, aren't I? He doesn't hurt me. Not anymore, he's being good. Hurt is bad, pain is good. Like a mantra. Hurt is bad, pain is good. That's what I've gotten from five years of psychotherapy and I'm going to throw it all away. No big loss, is it? This one wants to hurt me, he told me so. But he's willing to negotiate over pie.
Maybe he won't like me. There's always that, although neither of us believes it. We've spent too much time talking and found too many things in common. The question of me liking him never came up, at least not to me. Not until now. How easy it is to slip into the old me. I stand in front of my mirror, naked and twisting and turning, and admiring how she still fits. I imagine I can see the old cuts; the old scars when they were fresh and new. The soft scabs that washed away in the bathtub, leaving soft pink and white baby flesh beneath. I miss that. I haven't cut myself in six months. The last time was November twelfth. It was the last time I made love to myself.
Riding the bus, always the bus. Riding with old people and punks, and ordinary people moving through their miserable pathetic little lives. They're beautiful, fascinating, and I stare at them one by one, never seeing them before and wondering if I'll ever see them again. They're uncomfortable and hating my bad manners. All except the punks. They stare back. One pushes out his tongue and laughs and I smile, spreading my fingers in a V across my lips and slipping my own pink wet tongue out in turn. A year ago I would have let him fuck me, sport fucking on the bus. Just to do it and hate myself later when I could bask in my self-loathing. But now I'm the new me. He gets up and sits down next to me with his friends teasing him, urging him on. The creak of his heavy leather jacket and the smell of the forty he's still holding in a paper bag fill my senses.
"Wanna party?" he asks, looking down my open coat.
"With you?" I turn around and look over his shoulder. "Or them?"
"Us baby. That's my cousins," he looks at me a minute and I don't talk, just look back at him.
"Come on, gonna be ripe. You love it," he's touching me now, his hand on my leg, squeezing me.
"I already gotta date, can't fall down. Sorry," I smile at him, knowing he's not happy. Not after the tongue thing.
"Aww, fuck that guy. He ain't here. He's makin' you ride the fuckin' bus? Fuck that guy," he takes a drink of his beer and offers it to me.
He's cute; never hit a girl in his life I bet. Harmless. He should get it tattooed on his chest. "You got a tattoo?" I ask, ignoring the beer.
"What?" he looks at me. "No. Why? You got one?"
"Yeah. I got 'Harmless' tattooed on my ass," I laugh though and it spoils the joke, but he doesn't get it anyway.
"Yeah? Slice bitch, why'd you do that?" he's laughing too. "Lemme see it!"
'No! I ain't gonna show you my ass." I look out the window wondering where we're at. "Hey, where we at?" I ask the driver loudly. He tells me 43rd, getting close.
"You lie. You ain't got no tat anyway!" the punk sneers.
I push the button and the bell rings and I stand up unsteadily, looking down at him. I slip my purse over my shoulder and lean against the chrome rail as the bus slows. I'm smiling, hooking my thumbs in the front of my hipsters, pulling them down to the tops of my panties. Hooking them too and pulling down so he can see my tattoo. 'Sin Bravely' inked above my clit. Then I turn, I'm gone feeling good, feeling free. I missed the city, missed my rides, and missed the people. I'm falling in love all over again.
The Denny's is about five blocks up and probably I could have ridden the bus another stop, but it was time to go. I need the walk anyway. Past closed up shops with Vietnamese lettering. Little restaurants and stores, and a 7-11 with three guys and a girl sitting on the curb.
I walk slowly; it's dark, old houses, old trees. A busy street, cars rumble past with no mufflers and everything is real. I find myself wishing it were raining. A night like this, a walk like this? It needs rain to make it right. But the moon is out, bright and full, blocking the stars with its brilliance. The ugly neon and artificial lights of my destination loom ahead of me. I haven't thought about it, walking automatically, thinking about other things. My heart is suddenly beating a little harder. I'm nervous; this isn't some harmless kid on a bus, is it?
There's a guy sitting on the ugly vinyl waiting couch. He looks like his picture and he looks at me, smiling hopefully. He knows my description, but I didn't send him a pic. He's standing; we're close anyway, just coming through the doors brought us together.
"Hi, yeah, it's me," a self-conscious smile, a little roll of the eyes. The usual, just little ol' me playing innocent for the waitress standing there behind the cash register. Not for him, I tell myself.
He takes my hand in his and we shake briefly. No sparks, no electricity running through me. Just a touch like any other. I'm vaguely disappointed and wonder what he feels.
"Nice to meet you finally," he smiles and looks at me, the quick kind, top to bottom and back. "Really nice."
At least he's not standing there with flowers and I accept it like the compliment it is, with a little shrug and a smile, and we follow the waitress wordlessly to a booth next to a big picture window covered up with signs. Sitting opposite each other, he slips off his jacket.
"I need to powder my nose, I'll be right back," I catch the waitress as she turns around. "Where is it?" I ask. She tells me and I give him a look and go.
Part of me likes this little tease, knowing he's wondering if I'm bailing already. But all I want to do is check myself. I wonder what I look like suddenly and the prospect frightens me a little. But it's not too bad. I free my hair and brush it, letting it fall loose. Some new lipstick and I'm okay. I look for the new me in the mirror, but she's gone. The old me is grinning back, licking her red lips and urging me on.
I sit back down and watch his shoulders, they move and his whole posture changes. He's glad to see me. It hadn't occurred to me that he might have been gone. I wonder why.
"Well, you're still here!" I smile. "Thought I'd give you a chance to get away." We both laugh, knowing that isn't the truth at all.
Negotiating over pie. I have a too rich chocolate cream thing with Oreos and a cup of coffee. He has Dutch apple, with vanilla ice cream on the side. It's warm and I watch his ice cream melt, a spreading white puddle around the golden filling spilling out. Neither of us is in a hurry to eat. I pick at mine slowly, little bits at a time. I mix my cream and sugar into my coffee, watching it swirl into a wonderful milky caramel color.
"I'd love to Top you," he says it, just like that.
Out of the blue. No talk about the weather, no meaningless chitchat about school or pets. We both know what we like; we've talked about it enough. Played it out in our minds half a dozen times together. So why am I surprised?
"I can make it nice for you Lisa, all you have to do is trust me."
Trust. He's ruining it now, slipping up. Too early to bring up the T word. I'm trying to remember my boyfriend's face, but all I can remember are his hands. I stir my coffee absently, humming softly to myself.
"Where at?" It's a bad question, not the one I meant to ask, but it's out there now hanging in the air and pregnant with possibility.
"My place. West Seattle. Not too far," he's watching me intensely; I can feel it even though I'm not looking at him. This is too fast, too fast.
"I didn't really plan on anything but this, you know?" I look up and he's nodding.
"Sure, sure. I understand. I'm just saying, you know ... If you wanted," His voice is soft, sincere and gentle. I like it, I feel myself responding to it. But I remind myself he's just saying what he's supposed to, utterly predictable.
I sit there, wondering what to say. All the little things, the words we say and listen to so we can form an opinion, a judgment, have already been said in other places, remote places. He's forty-two, divorced with a son nearly a year older than I am. He had a girlfriend for five years, a little subbie all his own, but she's gone now. I'd asked him before about why she left, but who can judge the truth? He'd asked me why I'm looking, why I'm interested if things are so good with my boyfriend? I told him the truth: I don't know.
You think that nothing is wrong until you're crying
Crying on me
And you think that life is along until you're dying
Dying on me
You think that everybody's the same
I don't think that anybody's like you
The song playing on the radio in the kitchen floats through the mostly empty diner. It spurs me to speak, as if my voice might drown out words that remind me of things I want to forget. Questions I don't have answers to.
"Do you want to go?"
He looks at me, his face changing as he considers my words. "Only if you do."
"No, it doesn't work like that," I tell him. My voice is cutting, there's no room for ambiguous things. I'm not taking responsibility for anyone but me right now. "It's a yes or no question. Do you want to go?"
Part of me wonders if I'm testing him, trying to see if a small thing like this will make him angry. I've done it before.
"Me too," I smile then, forgiving him, showing him that all I need is clarity.
I've told him it's my thing, my fantasy, my goal. To be absolutely understood. I think he's forgotten, or more likely he doesn't understand how quickly my direction can change. I leave my pie unfinished, my coffee cooling in the harsh glare of safety and follow him out.
As we cross I-5 on our way to West Seattle I look at my reflection in the glass. The old me, the new me, is there a difference? I'm beginning to wonder and it seems foolish to think in those terms now, sitting here with a stranger. I should have called someone, gotten his address and left a message for my Dad, telling him where I'd be just in case. That's the new me. The old me embraces the image of my father pacing alone, wondering, waiting ... Punished by my deliberate disregard for his paternal instinct. Won't he be sorry? Oh yes, that old thought like a familiar blanket wraps me up, keeps me warm.
"How do you want to play?" I wonder and this is negotiating after pie, and so it's hardly a negotiation at all.
He keeps his eyes on the road. "What do you mean?"
"I mean rules. I mean safe things." Online I have no limits, something we both took advantage of, found pleasure in. But not here, not tonight.
He looks at me in the soft flicker of passing streetlamps, "Your rules."
"Okay. 'Paris' means stop. Immediately. No yellow, green and red."
"Paris is red," he agrees. "No gags?"
"Not tonight," I'm pleased he said that, very pleased and it shows in my voice. I looked at him, but he doesn't reply. "I stay awake at all times, no electricity, nobody else gets to play ... Just us."
"Of course, we'll be alone. I promise," he smiles a little, maybe thinking how absurd it sounds suggesting that someone else might be waiting for us. But I have to say it, just in case. "Anything else?"
"Nothing permanent. No piercing, or branding, or cutting my hair, or whatever," I'm smiling now too. The excitement building up inside me. My foot is tapping rapidly with nervous energy and I feel the rush coming. "Do you have condoms?"
He laughs lightly, "At the risk of sounding optimistic, yes ... I made a point of picking some up. And some other things too." He glances at me.
"Oh really? Mmmm ... Surprises? For me?"
"Yeah, you'll see. I went to the hardware store," he says.
That makes me laugh. God, it feels good too. I'm finally starting to relax; even my foot slows down. I'm doing the right thing, I'm sure of it. I know my boyfriend too well, he's too predictable. I need a change, something different and unexpected like this. I put my hand on his thigh, sliding it slowly back and forth, moving closer so I can lean on him while he drives. It's comfortable. When he parks the car in front of his big old Victorian house, I look up at him. He turns off the engine and I reach up to pull his mouth to mine. He kisses me softly at first and then deeper, his tongue running across mine.
"Can I trust you?" I ask him softly, looking into his dark eyes. He starts to answer but I shush him with another kiss, giving myself to him. There's nothing he can say to convince, it has to come from inside me, and I've already decided anyway.
His house is old, but well kept and resting atop of one of the many steep hills in West Seattle. The decorations are simple, tasteful. It feels cozy as he takes my coat and I sit down on the sofa, looking around. He's in the kitchen, asking me if I'd like something to drink. Wine, or beer, or...
"Just water, thanks," I answer him and I think it's a test.
He has a lot of photographs, beautiful landscapes in black and white, framed on the living room walls.
"Are you an artist?" I ask. He hands me a tall glass of ice water and sits down next to me. "Thanks"
"No, I'm a software engineer. I work for Zipper Interactive," he looks at the walls too. "I just do that for fun, a hobby."
"They look ... Lonely. There's no people."
"Hmmm..." he laughs nervously, because this is a personal thing and not a hobby at all. "Yeah, I notice that too sometimes."
I set my glass down and start unbuttoning my blouse.
"I like them," I breathe the words and watch him watching me. I move my fingers very slowly, deliberately for him. I'm unsure what he expects, what he wants, so this is my demonstration, my act of submission.
"You're beautiful, Lisa," he watches as I slip my blouse over my shoulders, draping it on the arm of the couch. Sitting there in my pants and bra. It's exciting to me, this simple thing, and I feel suddenly nervous.
"Come with me," he stands and holds out his hand for me to take and I follow him wordlessly. We pause as he unlocks a door and turns on the lights, leading me into a wonderfully spacious room. He's smiling expectantly, watching my face as I look around. It's like nothing I've ever seen and I tell him so.
"Well, five years with a live-in submissive is a lot of time to get things right. And my son's been gone for the last four, so I had a chance to redecorate a little. This used to be a five bedroom house, now there's only three."
He's very happy with the effect, I can tell, and I'm pleased as well. I slip off my shoes carefully while he watches me. The carpet is red, thick and warm under my feet; the wood paneling is real oak, stained dark. The lights are soft and comfortable, arranged to split the large room into smaller areas of focus. The whole adds to a luxuriant sense of comfort and I can already feel it working to relax me.
A large wrought iron bed pushed against the far wall dominates the room. Another door to the right is open and I can tell it leads to a bathroom. There's a gymnast's pommel horse, or at least what used to be one, sitting low, about waist high on a hardwood square beneath it. I walk over to it, touching the cool smooth leather with my hand. There are stirrups in the form of leather cuffs extending from behind, and wrist cuffs lower and hanging from the front. A large leather belt is strapped onto the curved back, with a silver ring attached in the center. I finger it idly imaging what its purpose might be. It's a beautiful corruption I think.
He follows me around the room, silently watching me. Hanging from the ceiling I see a big heavy thing about 8 feet off the floor, with chains looping through it, ending with a dull hook about eye level.
"What's this?" I ask. It smells faintly oily I push the metal hook and watch it sway gently back and forth.
"It's a chain-fall. It's for lifting heavy," he looks at me and smiles, "and not so heavy things."
I giggle a little, understanding at once and recalling images from the Internet that flashed across my screen from time to time. There are other things, simpler things. A large heavy wooden chair with restraints bolted to the arms and legs. An antique armoire and a matching dressing table, a vanity with a large 3-panel mirror atop it, sit close to the bed. An out-of-place, but somehow appropriate Japanese silkscreen creates a small dressing area nearby. I open the left door of the armoire, exposing 3 shelves inside. There are a myriad of toys and tools arrayed, arranged by preference I think more than anything else. Nothing is haphazard.
"I'd like to give you a bath first," he says and I look at him. "Undress here, in front of me. You can put your clothes in the top left drawer." He points to the dresser and then turns to the bathroom, disappearing even as the room itself illuminates, and soon enough I hear the unmistakable sound of water running.
I set my shoes down on the floor and lay my purse on the vanity. I remove my watch, rings, and earrings. There's a small velvet and satin chair in front of it. I move it slightly and open the center drawer. I find make-up; lipsticks and eye shadows and creams of many types and brands. All of it new and apparently never used. I find myself wondering, finding it a little odd he would have gone to so much trouble just for me. I pick up a silver hair barrette and pin up my hair, bunching it up quickly into a loose bun. I close the drawer and open the others one at a time, women's clothing, lingerie and panties, and fetish wears of different sizes and colors.
I'm pulling my pants down. They're tight and stretchy and I sit on the chair as I work them off my feet one leg at a time. I'm only slightly annoyed and they're my favorite pants.
"I hope you don't mind those things, I..." he's standing in the bathroom doorway and seems unsure of what to say, as I've been caught in an awkward moment.
I stand up in my panties and bra, folding my now docile pants loosely.
"It's a little weird, but I like it," I put my pants in the open, empty top left drawer and reach behind me to unclasp my bra.
I pull it off my shoulders and feel his eyes on my bare breasts. He doesn't speak and I lower my panties while facing him, letting go and letting them slide down my legs into a pool of pink at my feet. I stand there for a long moment. My hands are at my sides; my body is straight, just letting him see me for the first time. I imagine I can feel the heat of his gaze as he looks down my thin tummy, my narrow boyish hips and firm thighs.
"Spread your legs for me."
I move my feet apart wordlessly, letting him see my bare sex, freshly shaved for him this afternoon. My lips are plump already, puffy and I can only hope it's what he wants. He spies my tattoo, the one I teased Harmless with on the bus, but the man before me makes no comment on it. I've already explained it so often, he knows.
"Turn around Lisa."
I turn slowly, keeping my head straight, resisting the urge to look over my shoulders at him. I let him see every part of me, pressing my palms flat against my hips until I'm facing him once again.
"Come here now, into the bathtub."
I walk over to him and he watches me as I climb into the large functional tub. It's warm, almost too hot and the steam drifting lazily from the water carries with it the soft scent of lilacs. It's almost intoxicating, spoiling me. He sits on a small stool and directs me, watching my hands through the clear distorting water as I wash myself for him. I lift my legs one at a time and use a large soft sponge and a bottle of Camay Body Wash on my feet, my calves, and thighs. I work it between my legs, spreading them and resting my heels on the cool porcelain edges. I close my eyes as I wash my vagina, spreading my labia and stroking myself gently with my fingers. I do everything I would normally do and somehow this excites me, showing him my private bath rituals. The way I soap my breasts, caressing them and pulling my nipple rings gently. How I like to move onto my side, hooking my leg over so I can reach behind, pressing a stiff soapy finger into my anus, twisting it and sliding it in and out to the knuckle.
I have almost forgotten where I was, who I was with, and it startles me when I hear him moving. I open my eyes to see him holding a large towel for me and I stand reluctantly, feeling a little sad to leave the pleasures of that simple bath. The air is cool on my flushed wet skin but he dries me gently, the cotton terry cloth feeling both rough and soft at the same time, warming me nicely. I spread my legs for him, turn for him, and finally I reach up to free my hair once more, setting the barrette on the edge of the tub. He releases the drain and leads me back to the bed, but I don't sit. I stand there as he sits in front of me, his hands on my hips, and his face level with my breasts.
"I have something for you," he leans back, reaching beneath one of the pillows and like magic he makes a small silver wrapped box appear from nowhere. He hands it to me. "Open it Lisa."
I open it carefully, peeling one end and pushing the box inside free. It's white, plain cardboard, and I lift the top slowly, moving it underneath and settling the bottom back into it. Inside there's a simple black leather collar, a dog collar with a silver tag. I lift it out, looking at it.
"Lisa," I read it aloud, unsure what to think. "I don't ... I mean, this is too fast. I..."
"Just for tonight. I don't mean anything except tonight, that's all. I promise," he looks at me almost shyly.
Part of me is a little shocked at the gesture, part of me pleased by the compliment. He can't possible think I'd let someone collar me after one date, or even a dozen, can he? The trust involved, the commitment ... I want to put it back, give it back. It's too much. But I don't.
"Just for tonight." It's a statement of fact, leaving no room for argument. "While I wear this, I'm yours," I say. "But I can take it off anytime."
"Anytime," he echoes. "I just want you to try it, to see you with it on. That's all."
"I'll put it on," I tell him, because to allow him that would be too much for the moment. It's jewelry, that's what I'm saying, only that and nothing more.
I hand him the box and lift the collar to my neck. It's thin, but not too much, and a little stiff with newness. But I like it. I put it on by touch, sliding the end through the little buckle until it fits comfortably. I make sure the tag is facing the right way, in the little hollow heart of my throat, and I lower my hands to his, feeling him now on my hips.
"It's perfect," he says. "Look."
And I do, I move over to the dresser and look in the mirror. It matches my black hair, the silver gleaming brightly. It is perfect, it looks beautiful and I think it somehow makes me look beautiful too. For some reason it makes me want to cry and I shut my eyes tightly, not wanting to. It's a moment of confusion and I'm so unsure of myself, falling into a chasm it seems. All these things have conspired to lull me into ... What? Something. Is this love? This moment I can barely articulate? It consumes me as I stand there transformed.
He doesn't say anything; he doesn't have to. The moment is enough and I open my eyes to see him staring into mine through the mirror. I turn around and drop gracefully to my knees; it's a perfect movement I've made a hundred times before without realizing I was only practicing for this moment. I place my hands on the floor, bowing my head so my hair falls over my face like a dark veil. I crawl over to him slowly and lower my lips to the tops of his leather boots, kissing each one deliberately.
I'm waiting for his direction; the game has started finally, our little scene. I kneel in silence, trying to keep my mind from wandering, wondering where this will lead us. He moves away, I don't look up and a moment later I hear the sound of music, softly filling the room with a melodic background. It sounds vaguely familiar, from a movie perhaps but my thoughts are interrupted by his voice.
"Go to the dresser cabinet, you'll find another gift hanging to the right. Put it on."
I do as he tells me, only standing once I reach the armoire. I open the large hinged door on the right side and see a number of items hanging there. A leather corset catches my eye immediately, it's bone white color a sharp contrast to the black PVC bodysuit next to it. There are other things besides those. I run my fingers across a rich lavender kimono decorated with red cranes, a camisole and tap pants set of emerald silk, and half a dozen other things displayed on padded hangers and begging to be worn.
This must be a test I think, or perhaps he wants to please me, nothing more. Do I pick which one I want? Or the one I think he'll enjoy seeing me in? It's a mild panic. My whole being wants to make him love me, to appreciate me. And then my head clears and I know he wants to see me in all of them. He'd not tease me this way; we don't know each other well enough for that game, not yet. It's only a clever and wonderfully sensitive ploy to learn more about me. Or perhaps to see if he's judged me correctly already. All these thoughts take but a minute, less even and I pull the corset out, holding it by the hanger so he can see it.
He rewards me with such a generous smile that I lose all doubts.
"Put it on for me, Lisa."
It's laced already, but very loosely, and I slip into it easily with a slight wiggle. It molds to my body with hard, lightly padded cups beneath my breasts and a soft white lace frill around the bottom. I hold it in place as he moves behind me and gathers my hair, draping it over my right shoulder. His fingers are quick and nimble, pulling the strings tight, forcing me to suck in my tummy a little and hold my breath. It's a small discomfort and truthfully I'm enjoying every second of it. I've never worn anything like this before. I want to see it on me. I want to know what he's looking at. I wait until he's finished, until after he smoothes my hair down my back, when his hands are on my shoulders, turning me to the mirror. We look together.
My waist is narrowed to less than its normal 20 inches, perhaps only 18 now. My hips suddenly look fuller, more attractive. My breasts are pushed up and out, not a little girl's 32A, but something resembling a more womanly B-cup I think. I'm being spoiled; a new sensation or perhaps I'm only giving in to something I've always resisted in the past. This is a new form of Dominance, one that never occurred to me, and perhaps even at this minute I don't fully appreciate the subtlety of it, the devious nature of vanity being fed.
I lean back against his towering form. He seems to grow even larger as I watch us in the mirror. His hands are moving around me, pressing to the shiny white leather on my tummy, down inside my legs, turning sideways so his palms press against the insides of my thighs. He wants me, I can feel it radiating through him. There is a hardness growing, pressing against the small of my back. But the night is early and he has plans, release can wait.
"Go to the cabinet and get my paddle now. The bottom drawer."
I move to the Armoire, this magical wooden treasure chest, and kneel to open the bottom of three wide thin drawers at its base. Inside are several paddles, of differing lengths and widths. I select a beautifully simple blonde paddle, perhaps two feet long including the handle and six inches wide. It's light, very thin and I wonder if it won't break. I hold it out for him with my hands upturned, my head bowed.
"Very good Lisa."
He takes it and leads me to the foot of the bed, facing it. He tells me to bend over, to take the iron framework in my hands and hold onto it. I do this, feeling the cold antique steel in my fists while he spreads my legs wider with the paddle, pushing against the insides of my knees with it. I have my eyes closed against the racing of my heart. I want this so badly. I've needed it all my life and now, tonight, everything is so perfect. My body tingles with anticipation, this intolerable waiting. I can't see or feel him behind me, but I sense his presence, his eyes drinking me in as I stand there exposed for him. I wonder what he is waiting for. A minute passes without a sound. Nothing is the way I'd imagined it before tonight.
With the first touch of the paddle on my flesh I gasp in surprise, not pain. I lift myself on tiptoes; the sting is accentuated with a small sound, a welcome sensation to remind me of past things. It warms me, spreading through my ass and up my back, down my thighs. He spanks me slowly, with measured strokes across both cheeks. I can feel the heat rising and I grip the bed frame tighter. A dozen strokes, all with the same intensity, but I'm becoming more sensitive to them. A moan rises in my throat and I let it out softly, like the high-pitched purr of a kitten. It's a sign that he's doing it right. No rush, no reason to hurry; we have all the time in the world.
"Tell me Lisa, do you like this?" he doesn't pause and I have to fight through the sensations to understand him and find my voice.
"Yessss..." I hiss softly. "I like it."
The sound of flat hard wood striking the softness, the firm round globes of my ass, fills the room. The music is lost to it, a sweet slapping sound as the paddle strikes and lingers a moment before being lifted silently away. He's breathing harder, not quite out of breath, just a teasing exhalation of effort as he continues to spank me. It falls into the rhythm of his strokes and my own breathing matches his. Puffing the air from my lungs as the paddle's swift touch lifts me slightly.
He stops finally, the strokes have been countless, perhaps 50? Maybe less, maybe more, but they were perfect as foreplay and they've warmed me completely inside and out. I feel as if a fire were lit behind me, the rosy glow spreading deep into my muscles. My calves feel cramped, tight from the constant movement of my feet. My nipples itch, as though the heat has wound its way through me to my breasts and licked me there, suckled at the swollen nubs.
He holds the paddle to my ass, rubbing me with a slow circular motion before turning it slightly. The thin flat edge slides between my legs, splitting my engorged labia, teasing me and bringing forth a low guttural sigh. I can't help but move a fraction lower, trying to press my hardened clit against the wood, but he denies me, pulling it away.
"You're warm now?" he asks me in a light tone, a gentle voice.
I don't answer but instead moan and feel my knees giving way as he presses his bare hand to my sex. He pushes a finger inside me and finds I'm already wet. He rubs the inside of my vagina for a few seconds before withdrawing. It's unbelievable how badly I want to keep him there. But instead I let him lead me away from the bed, his hand on my shoulder, moving me to the pommel horse I'd admired earlier.
I'm bending over it from side to side, on my toes and flat on my palms. My warmed and tender ass pushed into the air as he reaches down to fix a nylon cord around my wrists and ankles, pulling them together so I can only balance my stomach on the pommel. The belt with the silver ring is pressing into my tummy uncomfortably and I try to shift, but it does no good. He doesn't seem to notice, or if he does it's unimportant to him. His fingers go in my hair and he lifts my head so I can see the leather crop he's holding. It's long and thin with a supple loop of leather at the end. I kiss it for him and he lets me go, the blood rushing to my head as I wait for the first blow.
It isn't long in coming. He snaps the crop across my already sensitive flesh and immediately my body jerks against the flash of pain. He strikes my ass deliberately once again, slowly so that I can feel each touch as a singular event. My left cheek, then my right, alternating and letting me anticipate each in succession. I'm filled with dread and craving, the conflict of pain and pleasure beyond the mere physical. My mind and my heart are wrapped in this simple expression of submission. I can't control the breathless yelps slipping from my lips. He's bringing my skin to a boil, welts rising white and then dark and angry against the red glow of my flesh. I have my eyes closed and I feel a little wetness starting, running across my forehead and into my hair. I know what he sees; I can picture how my body looks to him and how beautiful this moment is for both of us.
How long he continues I don't know. At the time it seems an eternity, but when he stops I feel it has been too short. Not enough I want to say but don't. It's not my place to command, only to beg and I find myself doing that. I call him Master and ask him if he's pleased and he tells me he is. I feel his hands on me; they're cool to my burning flesh, caressing the long thin lines of pain rising from my skin. He reaches between my legs, my thighs are pressed together by my bonds, and he digs softly, spreading my flesh until he can clearly see my sex. He pinches my lips and makes me cry out as he pulls them open, exposing the hot interior to his eye.
"What is the largest cock you've had Lisa?" his question surprises me and I think for a moment.
"I'm not sure Master. I think eight inches, but not so thick."
"And toys Lisa? What's the largest thing you've taken in your pussy?"
He's fingering me again, slowly, teasing me and I answer breathlessly. "Nine inches Master, a dildo ... Ahhh..." It feels so nice. " ... Yes, nine inches."
"I want to stretch you, Lisa. Something a little more than you're used to I think."
He walks away leaving me feeling empty again and when he returns he's untying me, letting me stand up and stretch. I watch while he loosens the pommel's belt and positions a large phallus through the ring. Its black and stiff and easily 12" long, but not too thick except for a ridge about three inches from the base, like a donut around the shaft, it looks huge and cruel. He tightens the belt once more and the cock juts upright and slightly forward, pointing lewdly and I smile as he squeezes a large amount of lubricant over the head and down the length of it.
"Rub it for me, Lisa. Get it ready for you."
I wrap my hands around that rubber cock, squeezing and massaging it with slippery oil dripping from my fingers. While I do this he moves his hands to my sore ass, squeezing me hard and making me cry out. I feel weak in my legs but he holds me tightly, the welts from my whipping scream with fresh pain. After a few minutes he tells me that's enough and he helps me get into position.
The huge dildo slides between my legs, beneath my sex as I watch him lock my ankles in the restraints. My legs are spread around the pommel horse and bent at the knees with my feet slightly above them. I have my palms pressed to the front of the pommel, next to the other set of leather cuffs and I have to lean forward so he can position the head of the fake cock at the entrance to my womb. His hand on my tummy pushes me back and I feel it splitting me not uncomfortably. The first few inches find easy purchase within my sex and then we stop so he can lock my wrists into place. It only requires a small movement of my arms and I'm suddenly trapped. My position is uncomfortable, holding myself up, impaled slightly on the dildo. My natural reaction would be to relax, to let my weight settle on the pommel horse, but to do so would push the entire length of that cock inside me.
I hold myself upright, unsure if he wants me to stay like this as long as possible, or to take this new toy slowly inside me. My body is getting tense and my legs begin to ache first. My muscles must be rigid to keep me up for there is nothing to rest my knees on, and I feel myself slipping slowly down, giving into my desire to relax. And in truth, I can't deny my desire to be filled with this hardness inside me.
The phallus slides deeper and I moan softly, letting it come. My body opens for it, my wetness slipping out around the oily shaft and I forget about everything else. The heat of my ass has moved to my womb, to the delicate folds of my sex, my aching clit, and I begin to push myself down, letting it go deeper. The hard tip spears into me and I feel the beginnings of that thick bulging knot near the base. It touches my lips and pushes them aside, working at the wet tightness beneath.
I'm gasping as it begins to stretch me, my weight forcing it deeper, opening me, and the mild discomfort only arouses me further. It seems stuck and I roll my hips, wriggle my ass slightly and suck in a sharp breath when the donut seems to pop inside my pussy. I feel suddenly stuffed and more as I continue down the shaft, the bulge pushing deep into my burning sex until I find I'm sitting flat on the pommel horse. The head of that cock is a foot inside me, and it reaches for my cervix when I move the wrong way, knocking the air out of me with a dazzling confusion of pain and pleasure to my senses.
I have to hold myself still, catching my breath and exploring this new sensation slowly, concentrating on the way it seems to writhe inside me. As if it were alive somehow. My muscles spasm around it, my sex gripping it, begging for friction, urging me to move against it, but I don't. The tip is deep inside me, teasing me, threatening me with its very presence. I almost wish my hands were free so I could press them to my belly and imagine I feel this hardness through my flesh.
He is with me again. My body has rolled through a tiny orgasm while he watched, just a tease of the pleasure I'm sometimes capable of experiencing. My body flashes hot and cold, shuddering around the phallus buried deep inside me and I feel his hands touching me. He's undressed while he watched me; his penis is hard and long, though much smaller then the rubber cock I'm riding. A normal man, nothing more, but the sight thrills me. How long since just seeing a naked man has filled me with desire?