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I blinked in the bright light, my lips quivering. “Concentrations? Gradually? You got to wear fucking gloves!”
He laughed. “Be honest. You were close to coming.” He bent down and licked my well-washed pussy. “So you can, because I’m a rock after all your caterwauling and moaning. Didn’t know where to put yourself, did you? Good scene, babe. I love teaching you new things.”
***
Moulding, shaping, healing, pushing, educating, training, nurturing: words used by many a Dominant to refer to the unending task of keeping their submissives pleasing to them. I held the opinion that when it came to me, Jason practised all of them in some fashion. If I had walls about me, hiding my inner thoughts, Jason had long ago brought them tumbling down.
My emotional scars following my rape had largely been healed. The nature of my submission moulded to Jason’s preferences and my sexual skills trained to meet his needs. There were my limits, a list of kinky things I baulked at doing. Those pastures became Jason’s playground, and he relished the task of educator.
He could take my softer limits and use them to stretch me. He had succeeded with humiliation, but some limits were about physical impediments. I feared some things to the point he would never push them, others I acknowledged could be shifted or budged. In handing myself over to him, I’d let him become the master of my limits.
In the heat of summer, I lay on the bed in the lair, rigid like a scaffold pole with my hands by my side and feet pointing down. Another limit, another scene to push me into new arenas of pain and pleasure. I stared up at the ceiling, teeth gritted, and reminded myself acceptance played a big part in submission.
Jason wound the bondage tape around me, looping it under my body with his speedy hands. Starting at my ankles, he worked his way methodically up my legs towards my bottom. The noise of the tape being peeled off the roll was similar to masking tape ripped free, a very sticky sound, and the black tape was transforming me into a different kind of mummy from the one Joshua knew.
It was typical Jason gave me no warning of his plans. One minute, I’d been fiddling with my hair in the bathroom, fretting about split ends, and the next minute, he’d sent me to his lair and told to make myself ready—meaning, get naked.
I never said I wouldn’t do bondage tape or mummification, I simply had no experience to prejudice my opinion, and it had held back my curiosity. He hummed under his breath, and the sight of his happy disposition buoyed my confidence.
The bondage tape stopped at the top of my thighs, and he reattached it to my skin above my hips, leaving a useful gap. I had to sit up while he wrapped me up to my breasts, another gap and then the rest of my chest up to my neck. He had told me he would leave my mouth and nose alone.
“Bye-bye.” He grinned as he covered my eyes, ears, and the top of my head, leaving the ponytail free.
He’d promised me there would be no pain, but I found myself questioning his definition. Spurred on by my request for him to scratch my itchy nose—which he didn’t do—he proceeded to tickle me with a feather duster. He also licked, nibbled, and touched me randomly. I’d no indication of where he would strike or when. There were several minutes when the room went silent and he didn’t touch me at all. Having my hearing muffled made the sile
nce unbearable.
“Master?” I trembled, and he responded with a flick of his finger on my nipple.
He wouldn’t leave me alone, but ignoring me was an unpleasant sensation. My mind went to bedlam and, accompanying my hot head of random thoughts, my body started to cook as well. He flipped me over, lifted my bottom up on a pillow and, finding the gap between my thighs sufficient, he penetrated my wet pussy with a hard thrust.
I sweltered, and the enjoyment of being vulnerable and restrained for his pleasure wasn’t fascinating me any longer. I concentrated on breathing and relaxing. Most things Jason did to me sent me to cloud nine. Mummification had not—it was on my fail list.
“Come!” he grunted.
Nothing happened. How could it? There was nothing happening down there but sweaty, chafed thighs. I bucked my hips in a vain attempt to push him off, but it became apparent he liked my little display of resistance, and it encouraged him to fuck me harder.
Should I fake it? Make up an orgasm for his benefit, and would he know? Just as I began to wonder if I could fib my way out of the situation, he exploded inside.
Withdrawing, he quickly snipped the tape off me with a pair of medical scissors. I bolted upright and flapped my arms about.
“Hot!” I shrieked.
“I take it you’ve overheated, not my hot sex?” He went to fetch a flannel and glass of water, which I demolished in two or three mouthfuls.
“Next time, you’ll need to put a fan over me, ’cos, Sir, that was hard.” I flopped back down. “I was struggling, couldn’t come and....” His eyes widened, his jaw dropped—a rare display of complete surprise.
“Couldn’t come? If you didn’t come, what was all the moaning and arse bucking about?”
My God, he’d thought I come. I’d been agitated, not climaxing, and he mistook it for an orgasm?
“No, it didn’t happen. What if I had faked it?” I said with a small curl of my lips.
“You would fake your orgasm!” he mocked.
“According to you, I just did.” I wiped a cool cloth over my face. I’d need a long shower and a hair wash.
“That’s what I thought until you foolishly opened your mouth just now.”
