So much of what she’ d heard about the D/s lifestyle was “darkness”. Yet the room in which she met Him for the first time was the antithesis of that. Brilliant sun shone through wide skylights, illuminating the room below. Light danced across the wide oak planking, giving the entire open space a golden glow.
She’d asked question after question. About submission. About bondage, about the “lifestyle”.
He’d answered her fairly. She was reporting for one of the larger newrags, after all, and she was offering Him a chance to counteract the popular presses perceptions of the evil side of sex.
To say she was intrigued was an understatement. Not turned on. She was here to learn, to garner some information, but not to be sexually stimulated. She’d been a reporter for ages; she wasn’t some green newbie still wet behind the ears.
He wasn’t handsome in the classic sense, she thought, looking at him surreptitiously, not “tall dark handsome” nor “dark, looming, frightening” either. He looked like a nice, middle-aged man.
Hair gently receding, a bit overweight, glasses, and a nice friendly smile.
But His eyes.
She felt like he was reading her like a book. Truth to tell, He made her a little bit nervous. She wasn’t a spring chicken herself. Experience, expertise in interviewing. Here she was, late 40’s, divorced, a wee bit rounded herself.
This was not intriguing.
So what if she’d not had sex in a month.
Okay, six months.
Really, no more than a year, but who was keeping track?
She realized she’d fallen silent again, as had He. He was looking at her with that knowing expression. She’d seen it on Him a few times already.
“Want to try?” His words were soft-spoken, yet a definite challenge. As if He knew she would say ‘no’.
She really wanted to say ‘no’. Didn’t she?
“Sure.” She rose, acting with an enthusiasm she didn’t really feel. She didn’t. Not even in her pussy. She was sure she was moist only because he was an interesting guy and they’d been talking frankly about sex, which is something she’d not had in a while.
A totally normal physiological response.
She wondered if she was really fooling herself.
She doubted it.
He handed her a soft white tee-shirt. “Why don’t you go into the bathroom and change into this. Then I won’t worry about the rope damaging your pretty blouse.”
She hurried off. She left the plum-colored silk shirt on the hook on the back of the bathroom door. The silk slacks were fine, although she wondered if the damp spot between her thighs would leak through. This white shirt he’d given her was cropped, much shorter than the tunic-style top she’d been wearing.
She tugged the shorter-than-she-liked shirt down, ruthlessly. It pulled taut around her tits, hugging them like a second skin. They showed every large inch of them, rather than the disguising of the loose silk that had hidden them before. She looked in the mirror, sighed.
She came out of the bathroom, walking confidently towards where He waited in the center of the room, a coil of rope at his feet, with a folded length of it in his hands. He smiled at her as she crossed to Him.
“For this you are my…assistant,” He paused a moment, drawing out the word. “You are the foundation for my art. My art is the rope, and you, it’s setting.”
He began to position her, hands behind her back grasping each forearm with the opposite hand, not quite to her elbows. She felt the first kiss of the rope as He pulled it around the center where her arms crossed, just above each wrist. With a quick movement she felt the first tie secure her arms together.
Well the die was cast, it seemed, and for good or worse, she would experience this. She didn’t expect much would come of it, but while he moved her, wrapped her, he spoke softly, his voice caressing her as much as his hands as he spun his web of rope and words around her.
She ceased to worry about time, about much of anything. For this moment there was only His voice, His rope, and her body. The ropes crisscrossed her breasts, her hips, and she couldn’t help the small gasp as the doubled rope passed between her legs, over her pants, but pressing tightly against her cleft.
When had she ever been this turned on before? Was there a wet spot on her pants? And who the fuck cared?
The rope followed the curve of her body, rising through the cleft of her ass and up to her lower back. He threaded it through the loop that encircled her waist, then pulled.
The pressure built against her pussy, she could *feel* the rope rubbing against her clit, burying itself into her asscrack, and tightening all along her body as he pulled. When it was taut, so snug she wanted to moan with the sensory overload, she felt him tug and twist and tie it off. The knot rested at the very top of the crack in her ass.
She stood there, panting. A curious sound overhead made her look up. He’d grabbed a hanging hook that she’d not noticed before, and before she could say yes or no, he’d hooked that into the rope around her arms.
He crossed the room and winched that rope tight. She felt the strain in shoulders, wrists. On her toes it was better, the pull ceased, but it pulled harder against her clit.
She could feel her nipples hardening in her bra. She was so turned on. How, how had that happened?
“This is predicament bondage, my dear. Just a small taste. On your toes, as you’ve already discovered, less stress on your arms, but more stress against your lower body. Stand flat-footed, and that lower stress is gone but the arms will begin to ache.”
He leaned into her, spoke into her ear, softly.
“I think you will find this to be quite…stimulating, my dear.”
Then he walked across the floor, headed out of the room. Just before He opened the door, he turned back to her for a moment.
“By the way, little one. You have lovely tits.”
She stared at the door he’d closed behind him.
What the fuck happened now?
She was at the end of her rope.
She almost laughed aloud at her own sally. For literally she was at the end of a rope. Alone, in a sun-drenched room, her feet pressed firmly against wide oak flooring, relieving the incredible pull of rope sawing against her clit. Her arms now bore the brunt and burn of the ropes. She was caught in liminal time, and damned if she could figure out which was worse…or better…or even better, worse. The constant dance between pain and pleasure was an interesting thing to discuss with a snifter of brandy or a glass of pinot noir…but living it? Very, very different. It moved from esoterics, to a purely raw physical state.
She was drenched. Sweat beaded the underarms of the borrowed tee-shirt, and worse? She could feel the moistness of her silk pants sticking against her upper thigh. Likely his rope would be wet, too. Moisture leaking from her suddenly hyperactive pussy. It was embarrassing. It was…a huge turn-on. She remembered seeing that tv reporter once, getting all giggly and …almost high, when she reported on a rope convention, and got to model a few moves.
At the time, she’d scoffed at such unprofessionalism. Likely the perky blonde was a slut to begin with. Now? She wasn’t at all sure. She herself was no slut, just sexually needy, after a long year of abstinence, damn her ex-husband to hell. And back.
When the chance came to find out more about BD/SM she thought, what the hell. She was the lifestyles writer, after all, and people who got into this crazy shit called themselves ‘lifestylers’….it seemed fitting.
But she’d been tied here close to 10 minutes, her Dom-for-a-day having exited after securing her in this very stirring predicament. A moment or less from his leaving her hanging here, a young woman had come into the room. It seemed her only ‘job’ was to watch over her, for she spoke not a word, didn’t comment when moans, groans and an occasional ‘fuck’ came from her mouth.
She focused on two things. Her breathing, which was shallow, and sounded even to her own ears, like she was having a sexual experience. And her body.
More specifically, the body that was located between her thighs. The part of her body that was being rubbed by her own small movements, adjustments to the constantly pulling ropes. Her pussy was on fire.
She’d been able to tune out the need for sex for so long. If she got desperate, she’d pull out a vibe and masturbate, but it was pure mechanics.
This? This was pure lust. Her body had been drastically, shockingly awoken from a long sleep. Her clit was throbbing, engorged. Her cuntlips were getting pressure from the ropes, and she was desperate to cum.
He’d know that if he truly was a Dom..and from what she was feeling, she understood that he was certainly a Master of rope. Then again, a man would have to be pretty oblivious to not smell her, see the staining on her pants, feel the wetness of the rope when He came to release her.
She hoped he did that soon.
Almost as soon as that thought crossed her mind, the door opened. She looked up, a fast smile running across her face.
“Ready for release, little one?”
Oh, if only He knew.
He crossed to the winch, and lowered it a bit, then came up behind her. At some gesture, the young lass who’d been her guardian bowed gently towards Him, then quietly slipped from the room. She thought he was going to release her now, but instead, he touched. Softly, gently ran his hands over his ropes.
He came around to the front of her, tracing one thick, manly finger over the twisted strands outlining her tits, his eyes tracing the path of the rope, then flitting up to her open mouth. She tried to calm her breathing, but the effort was too much, and she began panting again.
His eyes met hers, and there was fire there. She felt gathered into that dark stare, pulled as surely as if there were invisible cording between them. His finger lifted, tracing her lips. The touch was soft, barely there, but so incredibly stirring.
She felt that touch deeply inside of her, and the pulse between her thighs grew to a thundering beat. Oh, how she wanted.
For a minute, maybe more, they stood in tableau, until he smiled, briefly, and bent to begin releasing her. As he worked, he talked to her. He explained that she might feel dizzy, might feel floaty, and he’d make certain she was recovered before they tried anything else.
“Anything else?” her voice wobbled a bit.
“Well, of course, I would be remiss if this was the only experience you were offered for your research. You did say you had the entire day open?”
“i-i do, yes.”
“When we are in session together, it is appropriate to respond to my comments with ‘yes Sir’ or ‘no, Sir’, so you understand the protocols, little one.”
Her response was a soft, barely audible ‘yes Sir.’
Who was this woman? she wondered. How had 15 minutes in rope pulled her from her assured, career-path oriented self? Even to her own ears, she heard a submissive little voice coming from her lips.
She tried to ignore his fingers slipping down the silk-clad curve of her ass cheek, hooking up under the rope threaded through that cleft, his other hand busy pulling rope through her crotch area, his fingers constantly, surely not intentionally, banging her clit as he unwrapped her from his bondage ties.
She kept her eyes focused across the room, not wanting to see what expression crossed his face when he found the wet ropes, her damp pants. His hand moved between her legs from behind, smoothing over her wet crotch, one finger trailing firmly over the seam in her pants, up through the crack of her ass, and adjusted her waistband.
“It’s not uncommon at all to be ….” his silken voice paused a moment and she sensed him searching for a less provocative word than he might ordinarily use…”stimulated by the ropes. After all, the point of predicament bondage is just that…a choice between two evils…pain, pleasure. For many subs, both are equally desirable.”
She wanted to say something smart. Witty. Sophisticated. Her voice squeaked. She cleared her throat, and his hand came to her shoulder, rubbing slow circles there.
“Take your time little one.” He slipped his arm around her shoulders, supporting her and pulling her so close to his side. She felt…engulfed…and strangely safe.
He led her slowly from the room, taking a water bottle from the table just outside the door, uncapping it and handing it to her. A tall thin man passed them in the hallway, and some unspoken message passed between them. Sir nodded, and led her down the hall.
The room was as dark as the previous one was light. All manner of strange, and okay, scary-looking things were here. He led her to a not-scary couch, and had her sit. He opened the padded hassock and pulled out a blanket, laying it around her shoulders.
“We’ll take a bit of time for you to get your pins under you again, little one. Lay down here and let me rub out the kinks, if you’ll pardon the expression.”
She giggled. She was feeling a bit light-headed. A bit …how had he put it? Floaty.
His large, warm hands worked miracles on her tightened muscles. He worked almost aggressively on her knotted shoulders, moving her arms this way and that, rubbing, massaging, pinching, until she moaned with the unexpected pleasure. Unclear to her now if it was the undeniable pleasure of touch, or the release of the stress from the tie session…but whatever it was, it felt pretty fucking good.
He worked his way down her lower back, and over her hips, and ass. She made as if to protest, but his hand between her shoulders, pressing her back down was firm.
“These muscles worked hard too. They need relief”
oh my, if only he knew just what sort of relief those muscles needed just now….
The room was dark, and almost disturbing. There seemed to be the echo’s of tears shed, of cries let loose…all manner of things hung upon the walls…whips, to be sure, she understood, even the crops. But those big silver hooks? She hated to imagine what happened with those!
She lay, stretched out, feeling a bit languorous as His hands massaged her back, butt, legs. Standing in bondage, tied ever so efficiently, had taken a surprising toll on her, despite the fairly brief time He’d left her there for. She felt shivery, quivery, drained.
And so fucking turned on it was embarrassing.
The slap on her ass startled more than it stung.
“Time for you to roll over, and let me work the sore spots there. Can’t have our Ace Reporter telling tales of dark, mysterious abuse to her readership, now can we?”
“Oh, i’m not even thinking about …” her voice trailed off as His hands expertly rubbed down her shoulders, around her throat, and rubbed briskly at her breasts through the cropped white tee-shirt that fit tight enough to be uncomfortably revealing. She wondered if He could see the dark circles of her nipples in the dim light. She felt a blush blooming, as the hard nubs of them poked up in greeting when His hands slipped up and over them.
“Don’t be embarrassed that your breasts, your nipples respond. Totally natural. They were bound tightly so as the blood flow returns to normal, they become very sensitive. One of the reasons subbies like rope bondage is the heightened sensations.”
“So what do the Dom’s get out of it?” she asked, her eyes closing as His fingers did seem to magically release the tense muscles that she’d not even realized had been so strained.
“We get power, control, all that you’d expect. And it’s beautiful. Beautiful to see a woman wrapped in a web created by my hands. Beautiful to watch her suffer for me, if that is what the purpose of the play is.”
“Well, i didn’t suffer all that much,” She felt she needed to prove that she was a tough old bird, as tough as those 20-something subbies he likely usually played with.
“Of course you didn’t, little one.” The secret smile that never seemed far from his mouth sent a little frisson of nerves down her body, peaking her nipples even tighter, and causing her pussy to tingle.
Damn He was good.
He kept contact with her eyes as he rubbed into her crotch, over the wet spot on her silk trousers. Neither said a word, but when his palm cupped her there for a moment, then another, she felt the blush rising once more.
“There is nothing wrong with being aroused by this. Some are, some aren’t…our bodies are curious things. You may have a latent desire for a bit of kink…maybe you’d be surprised by it, but the ever-increasing sales in the various toy stores prove that the world is becoming more sexually aware.”
“Well, perhaps, ” she agreed, “but that doesn’t necessarily mean…this…” and she waved her hand around to encompass the room and its many tools and toys, “would become mainstream. And if it did…wouldn’t it lose a bit of its….cachet?”
He smiled down at her. Nodded after a moment, almost to himself.
“It’s possible that some of the attraction is that of being counter-culture…trying to imagine a world where D/s ruled the day…the counter culture would be vanilla people sneaking around trying to do missionary…”
He lifted his face and boomed out a big laugh. It made her giggle.
His hand slipped away from her, almost reluctantly. She felt turbo-charged. Whether it was His hands or latent sexual energy, she wasn’t sure but suddenly she felt like bounding up from the couch and exploring.
As if He knew what she was feeling, he proffered His hand and helped her rise.
“Want a tour, little one?” She nodded, noting that he did not release her hand, but rather pulled her around in front of him, holding her arm across her body, pinning her to Him. His free hand gathered a fistful of hair and pushing her, albeit gently, forward by it. She almost giggled at the contrast, one hand held softly in His, while he guided her around the room by her hair.
“Kinda like walking a pet” He said, drolly, looking down at her. She tried to look up at Him, but the pull in her hair made her wince. He walked her up to the St. Andrews Cross.
“Want to try?”
“I think i want to try it all…!” she said, rising excitement making her daring.
He murmured against her ear, his voice a soft, husky promise.
“Be careful what you wish for, little one…you might like it.”
He had led her carefully across the room, giving her the names of some of the items, but not much else.
Of course, the spanking bench was rather obvious, though she did wonder at the supposed allure of having one’s bottom paddled. She looked at, then quickly averted her eyes from, the neat row of assorted paddles.
No. Fucking. Way.
Yet, here she stood in front of the St. Andrews Cross, his hand fisted in her hair, the other carefully holding her hand.
And her body was electric with …she didn’t dare even think the word aloud. She wasn’t a kinky gal. She liked sex, sure. But normal sex, whatever that was. Wasn’t she too old to even think about this strange lifestyle.
For she saw, now, that it very much was a lifestyle, over and above the kink aspects of the sex.
As much as it was about sex, it was about the balance of control. The Dominant who guided his submissive through a scene, and the submissive who gave her, or in some cases, him self up into the care of their Dominant.
He said it was about power. She could see it. Feel it. He’d felt every inch in power as he had massaged her back there on the bench, and was still holding that power, as evidenced by his grasp on her hair…and her lack of complaint.
She had, somewhere along the line, given her control up to Him. She wasn’t exactly sure when it had happened, but it had.
He pushed her up against the cross. The center of the X was at her waist. He lifted her arms, and bid her to grasp the straps on each extended arm of the giant wooden device. She felt his hands on her right ankle, guiding her foot to the proper width. Then she felt the tightening of a strap around the ankle, the steadiness of His hands as He worked silently.
She should have been quizzing him, that’s what reporters do. They ask questions and dig for answers. But for this time, it seemed as though silence was answering more than words were.
She gave herself up to the experience, just as she had when she first arrived, letting Him string her up in the suspension. After all, wasn’t this just a different format? It still made her accessible…her thoughts stopped short at that point.
Her right ankle was attached now, and she felt him shift and move behind her. The press of his body heat through the thin silk of her slacks was palpable. A fast shiver ran through her body, and His hand ran up her inner leg.
“You’re very turned on by this.”
It was a statement, and it just hung there. She didn’t know how to answer that. To say ‘no’ would be an outright lie. She could smell herself, feel the wetness pooling against her panties as she stood, splay-legged, pegged to the bottom half of the cross.
He stood slowly, drawing his hands up her body, until he was pressed up behind her, body laying against hers, His hands cupping her hands.
He made no move to affix these straps to her wrists.
She could feel ….a myriad of things, really. His control of the situation, of her body, and in part, her mind. His hands snugged over hers, holding and controlling her physically. His body upon hers suggested sex, yes, but once again, power.
Without words He was saying “I’m in control here.”
He stepped back. She felt the loss of Him immediately. The weight of a Man was a precious thing, she found herself thinking, coping with the feelings that whirled through her. Ridiculous to be so snared, so tangled up.
She was here for a story, after all. She cleared her throat. She opened her mouth to speak, but He was ready for that, and slipped a ball gag between her lips. She didn’t fight it. Her mouth opened, her cheeks feeling the pinch of the bridle as He tightened the gag.
“You did say you wanted to try it all, little one,” he said with a smile in his voice. He made a few final adjustments, making sure she could breath, but not speak, then stepped away.
Almost immediately she felt the drool begin to gather. Her tongue teased around the ball, but it was big, and took up more space than she would have thought. She couldn’t speak, could barely swallow, and she felt the first line of spit begin to string down from her parted mouth.
How fucking embarrassing was that?
The first slap against her ass caught her unaware.
“Flogger. Many leather ‘fingers’. Depending on how I use it, you’ll feel gentle pain, or if I choose, more intense sensations.”
He slapped again, not too hard, and she felt the sting. It hit her ass, and cupped around to her hip.
A very sharp blow in the same spot made her rise up a bit, gripping the leather straps and attempting to ‘get away’.
She moaned. The blow had slapped against her sounding like a rainstick, then the sting had blossomed into a burning heat. Her ass stung.
And her pussy wet further.
Another blow of the flogger on her lower back, then higher. These were softer, but still had impact. She moaned, and a long thick stream of drool flowed from her mouth. She could see the silvery trail of it down where it attached itself to her tee-shirt at the breast.
It made a fat, wet circle as the spit gathered there, absorbed by the soft cotton.
She cried out as that harsh blow struck against her ass and upper thigh. More soft blows fell upon her, His rhythm unsteady, incomprehensible.
It seemed that every time she started to relax into it, He’d strike her one of those heavy, pain-filled blows.
She felt the sticky wetness as the silk of her pants stuck to her left inner thigh. She saw the unending, gleaming trail of spit leaking from her gagged lips.
She was a sticky wet mess at both ends. It was kind of gross.
And a hell of a turn-on.
She wasn’t certain if she’d ever had a more daunting assignment. She’d been asked to visit, and write up an article about a BDSM club. She’d had no idea, going in, that she’d have become so introspective about her own personal wants/needs/desires.
She’d never considered herself a pervert, before today.
Yet here she was, hanging limply against the supports of a St. Andrews cross, her ass and hip burning from the very first flogging she had ever received.
And she was so turned on she could barely breathe. Yes, her ass throbbed. But equally so — her pussy. She swore she could count her heartbeats through the steady beat-beat-beat in her swollen lips, her aching clit. And she was soaked. She couldn’t feel the wetness, her legs being spread as they were. But by bending her head just a bit, she could see the embarrassing puddle on the concrete between her spread-eagled feet.
He came around the back of the cross, and looked at her. She looked back, unable to talk around the ball gag lodged behind her teeth. He kissed the tip of her nose.
“More, little one?” he asked, his voice kindly.
She thought about it. Really, really thought about it.
For about 2 nano seconds. And nodded her head, yes. She admired the fact that he didn’t laugh at her. After all, at the start of this, she had thought that this was almost a waste of paper. She’d rolled her eyes when her editor had suggested this piece. Nate always “suggested” with an iron fist.
Later, she’d thank him for that. But for now, all her attention was focused on what was going on behind her. She couldn’t see, couldn’t hear much. He was moving around her, she felt the slight breeze on her skin as he stepped behind her. There was a whirring hum, and then his voice against her ear.
His warm breath tickled the soft whorls, sending a dart of electric current straight between her legs. She moaned at the sensation. So light, not even a caress, yet so intense.
“A bit of pleasure, little one, after the pain.”
She felt the press of something against her pussylips, and it was so stimulating! Talk about intense. The humming of the vibe against her was echoed in the sounds that came from behind the ball gag. Soon she was bucking against it, fucking into the pressure hitting her spots just exactly right.
She was that close to an orgasm when He pulled the device away. She whimpered in need. His breath against her ear only added to the erotic waves crashing against her body.
“A submissive, a slave, a slut must ask her Dom, her Master, her Owner for permission for her ultimate release. We do love the sounds of begging.”
He ducked under her arm, his nose almost against hers, his smile wide. She blinked, looked at him through blurry vision. She wanted. Yet how could she speak, gagged as she was?
“Say it,” He whispered, eyes fixed to hers.
“caw ah ……” she paused. Cum was such a ..dirty word.
“Yes?” He drawled. “Can you…? what? Say it little one. Tell your Master what it is you want.”
She blushed. She was so embarrassed. Her nipples rose with the flush, her lower body thrummed in pain and pleasure, and she looked into his eyes. He was …laughing at her. The bastard. Brought her to this state and laughed at her. She was a reporter, dammit, a fine writer, and here she was like a common trollop and he expected her to …
Her mental diatribe was cut off as the churning bulb was pressed once more against her mons.
“Perhaps the little slut has forgotten what it was she wanted?” He grinned at her as she writhed in her bonds. In her mind she was pulling away from the tool, but she felt the damning movements of her hips grinding forward, seeking.
“Caw ahh cuuu?”
She wasn’t even conscious of making that choice. The choice to beg. It was like her pussy had taken over her brain. And they said men thought with their dicks. “They” had no fucking idea!
“Hmmmm.” He tapped his lips with his free hand.
And pulled the massager away from her pussy. She groaned in frustration, her hips pressing forward. She could almost feel it. Almost…but not enough. Not enough.
No where near enough.
“Most D/s couples would be more formal. You’d have to say ‘Sir’ or ‘Master’ before, but…since this is your very first D/s orgasm, ” He paused. Gods, He was playing Dom for full effect, wasn’t he?
His free hand snaked into her hair, lightning fast, and the tool was pressed hard against her pussy. He pulled her head back, even as her body strained forward, trusting her bonds to hold her in place as she fucked herself wildly on the device.
“Cum, slut. Cum for this Dom!”
Her last conscious thought as her body exploded was that He didn’t seem to be playing at Domness after all. He was a Dom…and then the room went dark.
“There you go, now. Time to wake up, little one.”
The voice pierced the darkness around her. Wha? She sat up, or tried to. Someone was pressing her back down onto a bench or something. And wasn’t that just the most annoying? Little one? She was not a little one. She was average. She was middle-aged. She was plump. She wasn’t a little anything. Unless it was under-sexed, she amended.
Yet, somehow, every time HE said ‘little one’…she had this…feeling. A warm, tender feeling. A warm, tender, wet feeling, to be perfectly honest. And as a reporter, that was her first responsibility…honesty.
“You’ve not had an orgasm in a long time, have you, little one?”
How unspeakably rude, she thought. To say that out in the open like that. Really. All the warm tender feelings evaporated under her immediate outrage.
She opened her eyes, prepared to give Him, whoever He was, a piece of her mind. And when she focused, fully, on his face, his eyes, the half-smiling mouth, it all came flooding back to her.
“Experiences on the cross can be intense anyway, and when we factor in that you’ve not had that kind of release in some time, as you body told me…well, it’s not at all unusual for a submissive to faint.”
His hand slicked across her cheek, cupping her chin for a moment. He looked at her eyes, just…absorbing her, it felt like.
“Better. Come, let’s go get a snack and we can talk while you sort things out. We really need to talk about this newfound submission and pain slut, don’t you think?”
Never in a million, trillion years would she consider herself a “Pain Slut” though she had heard the term since starting her research on BDSM.
It was another word for a masochist.
Which she wasn’t.
She was shaking her head even as he helped her to rise, and walked with her through the dungeon. The door even closed like a dungeon door should, with a thick and heavy thunk.
How the fuck was she going to write about this in a “G” rated way? She pondered that, and tried to ignore the wetness seeping down her thighs, and the trembling of her limbs.
She sipped her coffee and ate one of the cookies that he had put out for her. Slowly the tremble eased from her legs, her hands.
Her breathing leveled out, and she felt herself again.
Gods she’d needed that orgasm.
Hard to deny the intensity of the pleasure. Harder to admit that a great deal of that pleasure came with a prequel of pain, judiciously applied.
For a long while they didn’t speak. It was as if he totally understood that she needed to process what had happened to her.
She glanced at her watch, forgetting that she’d removed it in the first room.
“How much time do you feel has passed here, little one,” he asked. There was a smile in his voice.
“hmm, I have a pretty good sense of time…so about 90 minutes?”
He smiled, and a small snort of humor puffed through his nose. She looked at him, wondering what was so funny.
She wanted to ask, knew that he wanted her to ask. She waited. He waited. She wasn’t sure when it became a contest of wills, but it progressed. She should have asked. She didn’t want to now.
“How long?” she blurted at last.
“Three hours and 20 minutes. That includes these last five minutes while you tried to prove you aren’t really a submissive.”
She stared at him.
“And twenty-two minutes now,” he said with a smile.
She hadn’t realized that she had spoken aloud. She shook her head.
“Many subs say that time stops, shuts down, folds up, little one. You wouldn’t be the first, and not the last, to lose track of time. Scenes play out as they will, and when you are immersed in it…time becomes irrelevant.”
“It’s everything else that becomes terribly, wonderfully relevant,” he finished, leaning back in his chair with a smile.
‘Wasn’t that the truth,’ she thought.