"Have you been good today?"
The question came from his mouth quietly, not quite a whisper and just below a normal conversational volume. She felt the electricity of his voice in her heart. He was standing very close to her. Sometimes the answer that he wanted was that she had been bad and sometimes he wanted to hear that she had been very good. She had stopped trying to figure out what he wanted to hear and begun to just tell him the truth. He'd told her that her real submission had only come at that point. He told her that up until then she'd just been play-acting.
He'd taught her to keep her head up and at the same time keep her eyes lowered. She saw his hand reaching toward the hem of the skirt that he'd laid out for her that morning. There was something wrapped inside his fingers but she couldn't tell what it was. It was small and it may have been round.
"I tried to be good," she said with a short nervous laugh. The hand was under the hem and moving upwards. She could feel the material slide up but couldn't feel his fingers.
"And were you successful?"
She blushed. "Not completely. I saw two men that I dawdled over in my daydreams. I fantasized about them doing things to me. The thoughts got me excited."
He smiled and she felt herself begin to tremble. It was a gentle smile, a kind smile, but she knew what it meant. He was going to punish her. The electric shock of the electrical button that was curled in his palm buzzed her labial lips into immediate spasm. She began to collapse and from nowhere both of his hands were at her waist and drew her into his chest. She was never sure if there was a way to avoid the punishment, if there was a right answer. She was never sure if he had already decided whether to punish her before he even saw her. She couldn't tell if the answers were just background for what was going to come in any event. She'd also given up trying to figure that out.
She prepared a simple dinner; he wanted salad and fish. She would be allowed to broil the fish, which was a relief since she was required work naked in the kitchen and frying scared her because of the inevitable splatters. Sometimes he allowed her an apron but not this evening. It pleased her that the work causes her mind to focus on what she was doing. He did that for her often. He riveted her attention to the present. When he wasn't there, her mind roamed about with restless distraction.
When they had finished the meal, he asked her over by his chair. Without being told, she slipped to her knees next to him, spread her legs to the width of her shoulders and turned her palms up on her thighs. She would wait for the next instruction now. She could hear the soft music that had accompanied their meal and she tried to push it away. She didn't wish to miss any signal that he might give. It could mean the difference between a night of ecstasy and a night of torment, not that she was any longer sure of the difference.
"I've made arrangements for you not to work for the rest of this week. I've used three of your vacation days. I've decided to loan you out. The bag that you will take has been packed and when we are through here you are to go upstairs and fetch it and then wait in the vestibule."
Her first thoughts were panicked. Who was she being loaned to? What was expected of her? Where was she going? He was watching her face and reading her expressions. He was smiling as he catalogued the interior struggle and waited to see how she would resolve it. Then she looked up, without permission and smiled at him. He returned the smile. It was the same gentle expression that she had seen just before he punished her. She looked down again and the smile faded. "Yes, Sir."
She sat naked waiting with both hands holding a small valise that rested on the floor in front of her feet. A metal collar, welded shut, adorned her neck. He came to her carrying a pair of tan shoes and a wet-look brown raincoat. He silently placed them in her lap and said simply. "The cab is on the way. Put these on." She stood up quietly, slipped into the shoes and put on the raincoat. He took her elbow and guided her toward the door. He opened the entrance gave her a gentle lead through the passage and stood blocking her return. "I'm sending you to Quimby."
Her jaw dropped. She shook her head frantically. She tried to get back in. "No, no, no," she repeated it over and over, not sure if it was echoes in her head or if she was still saying it. He was closing the door, and she was sinking to her knees on the porch. She was choking on the words that kept coming out and crying at the same time. He shut the door on her and she could hear his footsteps moving away. "Don't ask this of me," she whispered as she saw the headlights of the taxi make the turn at her corner.
The driver gave her an envelope. She didn't remember getting up and walking down the stairs. She couldn't recall if she had opened the door to the backseat herself or if the driver had done it for her. She unclasped the envelope and there was a plane ticket and wrapped in a piece of white paper. On the paper was written, "This is the only way to be sure."
Outside of the confines of her mind, it was a name that she hadn't heard spoken in a year. Tears were rolling down her cheeks and making soft splattering plops on the note. She could have accepted any kind of physical torment. She could have even welcomed a shunning. But to send her to see someone that she had loved and betrayed was not something that she ever expected of him.
The flight was too brief. She had a window seat in first class and stared out at the black with its welcoming envelope of lightless protection. She hadn't spoken to Quimby. She didn't ever expect to actually see him, not now, not the way that things had ended.
They had met in a chat room. She'd been sent there to learn more about the lifestyle and so that she could feel a bit less isolated. Very few people in their rural home knew anything about BDSM other than what they saw on TV, where the coverage was unfailingly negative and inaccurate. She'd had a couple of brief liaisons but nothing of real significance, and then she was introduced to Quimby. At first they had trouble connecting. They were never there at the same time and exchanged only one or two posts in comings and goings. He seemed interesting enough and she couldn't help but like the way the subs there fell over each other for an opportunity to serve him. He was polite, but always reserved. His compliments were well placed but the sort of kindness that sets a barrier at arm's length. Then they met one afternoon while she was having lunch. She smiled in spite of herself; thinking about the way that he took her food and hand fed her. She thought about the way that she mimicked his actions in her office, holding the fruit just as he said that he was holding it, shutting her eyes and pretending that it was his fingers that her tongue grazed when she accepted the slices of peach into her mouth. She'd gone home and talked about it. She was encouraged to see Quimby again.
That was three years ago. They had planned endless meetings, which were always canceled at the last moment, never by him always by her husband. Never without reason and always with the olive branch of a new meeting date was that not that far into the future. She could see herself and Quimby waiting just a little while longer. And then she was forbidden to talk with him ever again. Their letters had been found and her husband learned for the first time that she had given her heart to another man. That in her heart he was no longer her only master.
He punished her by taking another submissive and leaving her alone, but she only moved closer to Quimby. She accepted the end of their marriage and made plans to move to where Quimby lived. It was a week before that time when her husband showed up at the door took her roughly by the arm and pulled her to his car. They drove to a motel where they met the man that her husband had hired to end Quimby' life. She was shown pictures of his house, of him leaving the house for work, of him mowing his lawn and walking his dog.
On all of the pictures there were notations of time and pattern. Quimby was an easy mark. He lived in a remote suburb on a lake. There were trees everywhere. He often did things in the very early twilight when the area was even more deserted. It would be no problem to erase him.
She heard the words in her with her jaw set and staring at the flashing light on the end of the plane's wingtip. "You can talk to him once more so that he doesn't pester you trying to find of what happened."
They'd talked. She'd told Quimby the truth and he planned their escape to a place where they wouldn't be found. The degree of his commitment to her made her tremble with joy. His courage and the lack of hesitation in his resolve left her with no doubt that this man loved her and wanted her in his life sight unseen.
She'd picked up the ticket at the airline counter where Quimby had it waiting for her. She had no baggage to be checked because she didn't want to take the chance of being discovered. When the plane boarded she didn't move from her chair. At the last call for passengers, she cried quiet tears and sat paralyzed. She felt a part of her close when they locked the door to the entrance. When she saw the plane begin to back up, she knew that there was nothing that she could ever say to Quimby to make it right. She was ill by the time she got home that night. She stayed in bed for two days and would not eat or take fluid. Her husband had her brought to the hospital and they hooked her up to an IV and sent in a psychiatrist to whom she would not speak. Slowly but surely she was removing herself from every attachment that she felt to her online lover. She rid herself of each emotion by convincing herself that she was unworthy of feeling. Finally, she no longer heard his voice in her head. She bricked over the place where he lived in her mind and shut down the chamber of her heart that he occupied and starved her feelings for Quimby to death.
She saw him standing against a rear wall when she got off the plane. He wasn't as big as she imagined that he would be. In fact, he was six feet tall, broad shouldered and slender. He was wearing an olive green suit and a tan silk shirt. His hair was light brown and cut conservatively short. She couldn't see his eyes because of the tinted glasses he was wearing, but the stillness and ease that she expected was evident in his body. As she walked toward him, holding her small bag, she felt too large. She stood just less than six feet herself and she wished that she were not so tall. She wanted to be able to look up at his face, not have to look him evenly in the eye. She had played with her hair before the plane landed and it had the short, severe spiked look that she currently loved. She felt her hips swaying as she walked and she wanted to tell her body to stop doing that and then she was standing in front of him.
He reached up and took off the glasses she felt jolted, first by the eyes. She was instantly certain that they missed nothing, ever the slightest thing. They were greener than she expected them to be. Then his face morphed into a grin that she did not expect. His teeth were perfectly straight and damned if he didn't have the dimples that he'd told her about. Before she thought, she grinned back at him and before there was a word she turned her head to the side and rested against his shoulder. The feel of soft fabric against her skin and the scent of Obsession that she remembered from the shirt that he'd sent to her were making her light headed, but she managed to whisper, "You shouldn't have agreed to this, Sir."
His hand rubbed a knuckle lightly across her cheekbone and he whispered back, "You don't mean anything to me now and this was the least that I could do to make up for the inconvenience that I caused your husband."
He reached down and took the valise from her hand. His free hand was guiding her elbow and she felt as if she had been hit with a wave coming in from the ocean. She was tumbling and unsure of which direction she was to take and which way her body was pointed and then they were in his car.
He strapped her into the front seat and unbuttoned her raincoat. Then he placed a small metal bar between her thighs and extended a swiveling extension from the bar that pressed between the lips of her sex. He selected another metal rod and pressed it against the floor of the car between her feet. He tightened everything down silently. She hadn't ever seen anything quite like this before, but that wasn't a surprise. He backed the car up and braked. The tip slid into her sex and instantly began to vibrate. Then he started forward. Each bump in the road sent new movement and sensation into her belly. Each application of the brake caused her to be penetrated and as soon as the tip was inside of her flower it began to buzz. Juice was running out of her before they left the airport's parking lot.
His house was as she had seen it in photographs. He stepped through the doorway ahead of her and turned around and removed the raincoat, leaving her standing naked in his doorway.
She slipped to her knees and waited as he walked away. She heard a door open and then heard some scrambling. Something was moving towards her quickly and with unabashed enthusiasm. The dog greeted her like an old friend. He put his paws on her shoulders and licked her face. She was smiling but knew better than to lift her hands from her thighs. When the dog had finished licking her face, he began to sniff her and she felt the blush heat her face. She was still soaking wet from the ride to his house and she knew the smell of her sex was strong in the canine's nostrils. He began to sniff between her parted thighs and just when he was about to get to the source, she heard a sharp whistle. The brown Irish Water Spaniel responded immediately and left her there, kneeling and naked in the doorway.
Quimby returned without his pet but carrying a leash. He snapped it through the O ring in her metal collar and tugged her along. She knew what he wanted. It was the way that he had imagined leading her from room to room for years. She followed him on her hands and knees, her bottom raised high and swaying until they got to the foot of a flight of stairs. He dropped the leash and instinctively she knew that she was to stay. She watched him climb the carpeted stairs. She told herself that she could lose herself in this role that she wouldn't have to think or feel. She could be a high bred bitch for the next few days and just respond on instinct.
At the top of the step he turned and held out his hand. He was holding a dog biscuit. "Come and get it," he ordered with a cheerful lilt.
Her breasts swayed and rubbed on the carpeted stairs as she made her way up, feeling the hard rub of the carpet scratching her knees. She kept her head down so that she could concentrate on the next step and then she was at the top. "Good girl, he said. He scratched the back of her neck and placed the biscuit into her mouth.
She spent dinner on her knees, kneeling by the side of his chair, blindfolded. He didn't speak to her. She could tell that he was reading by the occasional turning of a page. From time to time, pieces of food were passed under her nose and placed against her lips. She opened her mouth and accepted each of them; chewing carefully and then swallowing passed the lump that was lodged in her throat. She heard the clatter of the utensils in the sink as he cleaned up after himself. She wanted to speak. She wished to tell him that was her job and that she wanted to take care of him over these next few days. She wanted to show him that she had become a good submissive that she was more than a hungry pussy that craved feeding all the time, but she could not bring herself to speak.
He led her up another flight of stairs, he knees raw now, and down a hallway. The carpet was plush. After he took off his shoes, she could barely hear his movements. The aroma of the room was a mixture of rosewood and cigarette smoke.
A gentle yank on the chain...
Her heart began to accelerate. When he said please it always meant that he was about to beat her. Her mind was begging. Please let him beat me.... Oh please let me feel the flogger or his hands or his whip oh please...
He backed her up two steps. "Sit down please."
She bent her knees and then let her body slump into a chair. Sitting was difficult because she couldn't tell what was beneath her, couldn't gauge the height.
He wrapped her wrists and ankles in leather restraints. She was sitting comfortably in a stuffed bedroom chair that had eyehooks screwed into the arms and legs. Then he left the room and closed the door. A moment later she heard his recorded voice. He was reading poems. Each one was about her. Each one was sadder than the last. Each one was distinctly different in content and word choice. He had catalogued the emotions and perceptions that arose from them since the time she had left him. She knew now that there would be no beating forthcoming. He had fastened her to a chair and was making her sit and listen to each bit of pain that she had caused him. She listened to how he had molded each piece into a work of art; how he created beauty by microscopically investigating the feeling from which most people flee. Each poem drove a sharp wedge into the wall that she'd placed around her feelings for him and as wedge after wedge was driven into the wall it began to crumble.
She loved him. She had tried very hard to place him into a box, but he just wouldn't stay there. She wanted him to touch her, to use her, to tell her that in the present, in this moment that she did matter to him. She wanted to know that it hadn't all turned cold inside of him.
So lost she was in the reverie of his voice that she did not hear him approach. The blindfold came away swiftly, but because the room was dark she did not have to blink. Another tug on the chain and she was back on her feet. This time he let her walk down the corridor and into a bathroom where he'd filled a tub with very warm water.
He knew that being bathed was one of her favorite things. The bathroom was lined with dark polished wood and sparkling green tile. He helped her into the tub. She stood waiting, her eyes looking down at the water.
The warm water stung her scraped knees. He had a large sponge and was loading it and then squeezing it first over her shoulders, the warm soothing water coursing down her back and returning to the tub. Then he held the sponge over her head, squeezed and reloaded, squeezed and reloaded until she sputtered and laughed. He grinned a white-toothed dimpled smile.
The line spilled out of her before she had a chance to stop it. "Quimby, aren't you going to talk to me?"
The smile fled his face. He stood up and dropped the sponge into the water and walked out saying, "Finish bathing and dry yourself."
Later that night he finally flogged her. She was attached to the footboard of his bed, bent over so that her bottom and thighs presented a most inviting target. He had placed her ankles in a spreader bar that forced her to pout out her bottom and bend at the waist in order to maintain her balance.
The deerskin flogger tickled her flesh as he slowly dragged the tips of the tails across her cheeks. She resolved to remain quiet. The first lash with the flogger was more of an easy swipe, as was the second. But then the rapidity increased. If she turned her head to the side she could see him in the mirror. He a pair of black leather pants and a crimson silk shirt with small swirling black designs on it. He danced in back of her as the flogger spun in his hands. He twirled and shifted grips from his left to his right without breaking rhythm. His eyes were half closed and there was a small grin on his face as the heat on her backside grew and comforted her.
At his first pause, he reached between her legs and fingered her sex, squeezing the pouting lips and searching until his finger was on the hard bud of her clitoris. He massaged it back and forth until she began to squirm. She fought the moan that was rising inside of her. If he wouldn't speak to her, she wouldn't give him the pleasure of hearing her either. Then his thumb entered her and the moan was involuntary. He quickly withdrew his digit and she felt the first swipe of the suede flogger crack across the backs of her thighs.
He worked the backs of her legs longer than she could remember. They moved from warm to hot to painful and still he kept on flogging her. The suede tails snaking between her legs on occasion and teasing her puffy lips.
Then it stopped. There was nothing. She looked in the mirror and he was gone. She tried to adjust her feet so that she could be a bit more comfortable. Her arms were numb from having been stretched out for so long. She let her head hang until it rested on his mattress and closed her eyes.
She'd wanted this from him for so long. They had dreamed and written about her being under his hands. There had been times when she had felt the ache for him as strongly as she had ever felt anything in her life, and now she was with him, but the shadow that had been cast over them was so impossibly large and dark that she wondered if the light between could possibly still be alive. Her quiet thoughts fled as he spread the cheeks of her bottom and inserted the lubricated anal plug.
It was larger than anything she had ever felt in her anal canal before. It made her whimper and brought tears to her eyes when he began to twist it in a slow circle.
"Quimby, please! I'm so small there. Please, it's so large."
He didn't answer her with words. He left it lodged in her and flicked the switch that caused it to begin to vibrate. She felt as if she was going to feint, but his hands stroked the back of her neck with gentle reassurance. She wanted to be able to withstand it for him. She wanted him to know that she was not a coward or a baby. She tried to breathe herself steadily into relaxation as he had taught her to do on the phone.
She could not see his face, could not see his eyes gazing at her breathing and at her red bottom and thighs with a bittersweet adulation.
While she was still impaled, he unzipped his leather pants, stood pressed against her thighs and slid himself into her. She came instantly. He felt her muscles flutter along his inserted length and heard her cry out with a short series of "oh, oh, oh, oh!"
He slid in and out of her rocking back and forth on his feet. When he felt the heat engorging him, he grabbed her hips and squeezed them hard. She came again, screaming out this time. He pumped her harder and faster, holding himself back as he had been taught to do when he needed permission for his release.
She was whispering, "Please, please" in a desperate defeated mantra that she knew would excite him. Grabbing the plug by its base, he yanked it of her as he felt the first burning splashes fly up his shaft in search of her.
Later, he read. She curled on his feet hugging his legs and sliding from cloud to cloud behind her eyes. His fingers stroked her and still he had not offered her one word that was not a command.
She had loved him for a number of things but one was the creativity of his sadistic nature and when it was time for them to sleep he showed it to her. He strapped her to the bed and inserted a double vibrating dildo into her holes. Then he set it on a timer. Every thirty minutes one of them would vibrate very fast in one of her penetrated orifices. After he had he strapped in, he blindfolded her, straddled her and placed his cock in her mouth. She knew that the blindfold was there because she had told him so many times about how she had dreamed of seeing his erect organ. She sucked it quietly and then he fucked her face until he was rock hard. She felt the blindfold pull away and her first sight was sperm flying into her face. He left her unable to clean herself and moaning with the first surges of the vaginal dildo. "I'm afraid that you won't get much sleep," he said smiling as he closed the door.
She lay there feeling her muscles convulse. It all had a purpose. It was all symbolic and literal at the same time. She was not to sleep because of the many nights that he didn't sleep. He had longed to speak to her for so very long and now he would make her long to speak to him. She saw through all of it and she loved him for the care and the precision of it. No matter what he had said, it also told her that he still loved her and she knew that he had communicated that on purpose as well.
The next morning he used her as his receptacle. His urine was warm on her face and breasts. It slightly stung the places where she had been rubbed raw in the night. He bathed her again when he was finished peeing on her. Carefully slowly, he cleaned her toes and shampooed her hair. Into every crevice of her he lathered soap and then holding a hand hose rinsed her with warm scented water that he sprayed over her skin.
When she was dry, he powdered her and led her down stairs. She was tied to a chair while he cooked breakfast. He fed her by hand again and wiped her lips each and every time she had finished chewing. He did require her to lap her liquid from a saucer but cleaned her mouth gently each time she finished her drink. She could feel his eyes on her each second. Finally she said, "I know that you still love me."
The cold sharp of his glance sliced through the mood. His eyes glowed savagely. He picked up a knife and cut through the ropes that held her to the chair and then took hold of her by what hair she had and yanked her toward the parlor. Her hands were still bound and he attached her by a chain to a beam that traversed the length of the room.
The first cracks of the leather paddle stung her thighs and startled her. She screamed and he gagged her with a black leather phallic gag. She was becoming frantic. She felt as if she had touched the wrong button and that now an inevitable bomb was going to explode on her. The paddling continued, up and down her thighs. She was crying and choking. The paddle descended on her ass with incredible speed and precision. He lit a fire and then methodically spread it over the lower half of her body. When he stopped she thought that he was finished. He took the gag from out of her mouth and she fought back the whimpers so as not to give him the satisfaction of her sobbing.
Then she felt the rattan cane touched lightly to the backs of her thighs and realized that he had taken off the gag so that he could hear her scream. The whistling stroke cut into her like airborne flame. She danced from one foot to another. She sputtered. She cried. She begged, "Please, don't cane me."
He laid fifteen stripes into the flesh of her ass and thighs. She sagged against the restraints. She saw him standing with a bottle of clear liquid that had a spray nozzle and longed for the soothing balm at the same time that she prayed that he would not touch her tortured skin. The first spray of seawater stung with incredible intensity. She straightened up against her bonds and screamed as he sprayed her over and over again. She howled like an animal.
Then he stood in front of her and knelt down. He looked up at her sagging head and asked quietly, "Do you still love me?"
And she hated herself for saying, "Yes."
She was now too marked for further whipping, but he was far from through with her. That afternoon he tied her into a swing with her legs spread wide and gently teased her clitoris with an incredibly long feather. When she spasmed into orgasm her ass wiggled on the swing and the strips burned. The orgasm would subside and he would kiss her or give her something more to drink and begin again, the feather sawing back and forth across her clit.
She moaned and begged, "Please don't make me cum anymore, please!"
"How many orgasms have you had?"
"I don't know. It feels like there have been dozens. Please, no more!"
"But didn't you tell me that you were ruled by your pussy?"
"Yes, yes I did. I can stop it from being hungry sometimes. Quimby, don't torture me anymore. Please stop. You've made you point in every way imaginable. Please just talk to me."
"Soon. There's just one more thing."
Her body slumped in the swing and she thought, "Whatever it is, just get it over with."
Quimby stood and stripped off all of his clothing in front of her. She marveled at his body, tanned and muscular, trim and smooth. His skin had no blemishes and except for the scarred knees, he was smooth and even. "Do you know how many times, you questioned whether or not I loved you? How many times you accused me of just wanting to have you out of my life?"
She hung her head. Her ass wasn't burning any more and her clitoris had ceased to throb and only tingled now. "I was just telling you what I felt."
"I know," he said. He picked up the phone and dialed. Then he said simply one word in the receiver, "Now," and hung up.
He took her down from the sling and bathed her. He soothed her stripes with salve and perfumed her. He dressed her in sheer white linen gauze that covered her body but left her feeling as if she was naked. Then he brought to his chair, gave her a glass of wine with a long glass straw that she could sip after she was cuffed to the arms and legs of the fan back chair.
He had just finished preparing her when the doorbell rang. He gazed at her lovingly, his eyes were soft his mouth started to form words but stopped. Two people entered the room, a short blonde with a large stomach and a bald black man. They were carrying a suitcase.
She thought they looked very sinister and began to shake. She knew the limits of what he would do to her but this was an element that she had not counted upon. They exchanged a greeting and the black man walked over to her very confidently. His hand was very large and she felt her chin lost in it as he turned her face from side to side.
The man turned to Quimby. "Are you absolutely sure?"
"Beyond all doubt," came the answer.
"It will take about five hours and I don't recommend that you do it all at once like this. It is much more than I usually do in one sitting."
"It will be fine," said Quimby.
She felt her stomach quivering. Her mind was screaming. He's going to have me tortured!
Quimby dragged a raised wooden platform from his closet. It was fitted with arm and ankle straps. To her amazement he laid down on the platform and the black man and blonde strapped him down. The platform was stood up on its end with Quimby spread out in front of her eyes. The blonde knelt in between her legs and began to softly kiss her sex. For the next five hours, while her ministrations continued, she watched as the image of her face was tattooed onto Quimby's chest. His eyes never left her once and they spoke unintelligible volumes.
The work was painstakingly detailed. She cried with each of the orgasms that the blonde between her legs produced. She watched open-mouthed as his clear, perfect skin was used as a canvas for her likeness.
When the man was finished, Quimby was too weak to move. The two visitors unlashed him and carried him to his bed, and then they brought her to the airport, put her on a plane and sent her back home.