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“I have an insatiable need for sexual drama?” I leave out the self-serving purposefully. “You really think that about me?”
“Yes, I do.”
I never thought that about myself.
“Out in leathers with strangers on a Friday night?”
“Yeah, I was, and what’s wrong with that?” I still haven’t figured out where this conversation is leading. “How did you know, anyway?”
“You think you can go anywhere in this city’s underground and word doesn’t get back to me. You’re not exactly an unknown in the leather community.”
“It was a harmless party, Bernard,” I find myself needing to plead with him because this comes across as an accusation, “nothing happened, I swear. I left early, had coffee with Cavenor, that was it. And why the hell am I defending myself to you? You turned me down flat.” I’d never speak to this man so boldly if I thought I had anything to gain from being with him. But I’ve given up hope.
“You want me to punish you, Anna? You be at the house at 7:00 tonight. I suppose the problem I have with you is that I care. You will not go doing stupid things just to get under some dom’s rule.”
“I didn’t do anything stupid!” I spit out.
He doesn’t reply, but walks out the door leaving me completely dazed.
***
My insides are like jelly, my legs like putty. Long before I make the trip to B
ernard’s front door, the atoms in my body have conspired against me and I can hardly move. My crotch feels as though something’s clawing to get out. The labia are raw, the clit swollen, the hole a fountain of juice. The anticipation of my next hours makes my brain so dizzy, I can’t think. I keep tripping up on stuff around the store and Catherine’s getting pissed—and that’s a lot to say for the calmest person on the planet.
“What the he’ll eating you,” she suddenly barks at me in frustration.
“Hey, you’re working here, I pay your bills. Put up with me,” I snap miserably. It’s my final word.
She glares at me, pink little cheeks all hot. I glare back and walk away. Unable to cope with my present misery, I leave the shop by four. Maybe Catherine will quit before I return, but I don’t really care. I figure a warm bath should soothe some of my stress. But I don’t dare masturbate even as aroused as I am. I want to take all this bristling energy into the scene.
Arriving at Bernard’s door, Makaila answers my knock. Sometimes, I find her a strange companion for a dom like Bernard. She seems too submissive—too yielding. Does that even make sense? I don’t think so, she’s supposed to be submissive. But I figure Bernard would want a wife who’s more of a challenge for him. Someone like me. Still, Makaila seems perfectly content, and I’m certainly far from that.
I kiss her cheek warmly.
“He wants you in his chamber right away,” she tells me.
“I thought as much.” I suspect this will be pretty business-like. He’ll abuse my ass for an hour and probably get off inside it before he’s through. I’d really like something more inventive, but after the way he looked this afternoon, I figure the scene he has planned is an uncomplicated punishment. At this point, I don’t really care; I’m getting what I want. How I managed to provoke such a response in Bernard pleases me. I suppose I don’t realize my own power with him. Some men are so easily led, and I rather like that. But I’m sure he’ll make up for that minor weakness with some very nasty cracks to my ass which will make me wonder if I’m in my right mind doing this. All to a good end, of course. Clean me out of all the restless bogeymen who have been rattling in me for weeks.
Bernard’s house breathes class. Decorated in cream and tan that contrast with dark woodwork, there are expensive paintings everywhere you turn, and I find just moving from one room to the next besieges my eyes with such beauty I’m tempted more than once to stop and stare. For just an instant, my desiring body seems less important than what my eyes can see. I breathe in this atmosphere knowing that it is supremely Bernard—all of him seems to appear on the walls: the dignity, the charm and elegance, his delicate affections and his severe side. From the forbidding black and white photographs of bound women, to the tender pastel landscapes and the vividly colored abstracts that ricochet off the eye.
In contrast, the chamber is a straightforward punishment room—unadorned to the extreme. The walls are of white tile, trimmed with the same dark crown molding that appears throughout the house. On the floor, covering the oak hardwood is a simple jute mat. It’s a terror to the knees of a submissive in a lowly repose—I remember that from personal experience. Makes me cringe even now. The centerpiece of the chamber’s furnishings is a white enamel table that can be used in a variety of ways, quite eloquently as a rack on which to stretch a submissive on their back, or in various positions bent over and tied. It is fully fitted with leather straps and heavy buckles, ringbolts and a variety of extensions that are used for appropriate positioning. There are rings and chains hanging above that can work in tandem with the table to put a victim in the most arduous kind of bondage. Also in the room are an antique pedestal sink and a metal pillory in one corner consisting of a hefty metal post with a cross bar at shoulder height, and a second bar to hold the wrists and neck of a slave in place. I haven’t had the pleasure of being so posed, and look fondly at the table rather hoping that some punishment associated with that is what Bernard has in mind. There’s a long cabinet in one corner—its contents unknown to me, and one wall is filled with every kind of punishment device one could imagine: canes, paddles, straps, clamps, ropes, chains, bridles and various pieces of leather. It would take some time to decipher how all of these things are used. Just a glance at them and my body turns a degree higher in anticipation and impatience—though I give Makaila no hint of how stressed this exile from my true reality has made me.
“He wants you naked,” she says.
“Of course.”
I stare at her for some seconds before I act, feeling curiously nervous in a setting that should be easy for me. I realize now that I’m alone in this. There is no Heinrich to whisper orders or command with a booming baritone—or nudge me forward when I balk at some other dom’s command. Was he some comfort when he was with me? I’d have never guessed, but it appears I’m suddenly a little lost without him. And yet, Makaila’s gentle smile is enough to put me at ease and I begin to disrobe. Shoes, skirt, blouse, black bra and panties. Even the garter belt and stockings I so carefully chose for this scene end up in a pile at my feet. I scoop them all into my hands, and looking around for a place to put them, Makaila relieves me of the task and takes them herself.
“I’ll put these in the closet just outside the door.”
Returning, she motions me to stand on a bar at the base of the table, just six inches above the floor. The table hits me at the crook of my thighs, and with a gentle shove from Bernard’s favorite pet, I’m guided to bend over and rest my belly on the table’s cold flat surface. She pushes my legs firmly against the front of the table, and forces me to part them so I’m barely standing on tiptoe. With wide leather straps high on my thighs, she buckles each leg in place, while I lean on my elbows patiently allowing her to put me in bondage. Securing my ankles with metal cuffs and my waist with another wide strap, I am immobile from the waist down, prepared for her to make my upper body similarly fixed.
Makaila moves with ease. I’m sure this is not a new task for her as she’s been with Bernard for some years, knowing well from personal experience the tricks and permutations of torture he employs with the submissives that offer themselves for punishment and pleasure. He masters many, but handpicks his victims. I should be grateful he’s taking me, but all I care about now is diving into the pool of physical misery from which I’ll emerge reborn. It seems like eons, not just a few months since I was last made this small. She takes my hands in her soft ones, and with a gentle but determined tug, pulls me down, my breasts spilling off the table, my shoulders, head and arms stretched downward to the floor. Both hands are tightly cuffed with metal, and chained to a ringbolt at the base of the table. There is a metal collar around my neck, fitting so I feel each breath as it moves through me.
The comfort I feel in such a rude position nurtures me beyond belief. I smile to myself for the satisfaction I gain from being this selfless. Everything else in my life floats away, like the leaves of fall float from the branches downward. I’m moving downward, more content still to feel Makaila’s hands at my ass. They move with a grace I treasure, even as I realize what they intend to do. She creams my anus with a thick cold substance that smells of pungent salve. I feel it sting just slightly as it penetrates my skin. As she presses it inside my ass, the membranes warm, then become more heated until my entire ass seems ablaze from the inside out. I feel my pores expanding, the sensation in each something brilliant. For some, this might sting like the devil; to me it is bliss.
She inserts a slim rod deep into my ass with something icy on the surface. This augments the stimulation, the heat just short of painful. Once the rod’s withdrawn, she begins to work her greased fingers in the hole, first one, then several breach the tight barrier. After the fingers, she begins with larger rods. As each settle inside, she works it until I’m thoroughly accustomed to the penetration. With the last rod withdrawn, the emptiness that remains lasts only a few seconds before she plunges another, larger rod into that darkness. The first several, I manage easily. Though, the anticipation of the next leaves me with a little dread. For all the times I’ve endured such tests, I am still apprehensive. She applies more cold/hot salve and I’m soothed and burned in the same instant. Then with a jarring breach that leaves me gasping, she inserts a thick plug in my anal hole.
