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Was it possible to relish the feel of this? Impact… what did that mean, I wondered as I waited in the silent, stuffy, room.
Close your eyes; I’ll be there soon.
With the lights from above beaming down on my bound body, I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and told myself not to panic.
It would seem that my life as this master’s submissive would be filled with long stretches of time, waiting… the rush, the warmth, the exploding sexual energy of anticipation and then the wait, the endless wait… the tease, the seduction, the mind-fuck, the forbidden lust. This was what drove me into danger, what threatened my sanity, turned off my good judgment, propelled me headlong forward. It didn’t look pretty. It wasn’t romantic. Nothing about this looked like love—unless you could call my plunge into the sexual Netherlands a daring act of self-love. My lust followed its own logic into a world that was at the same time degrading, insane and glorious.
By the time the lights went off, I was swimming in the sensations that flooded my body, almost orgasmic as the dildo in my ass moved with the involuntary massage of my inner muscles. I was so far inside myself that I hardly realized someone had entered the room, until I felt something touch my back. My eyes shot open for an instant and then closed again even tighter when the sudden rap of a whistling cane seared the flesh of my ass.
“Yeeeeeeeesh!” I exclaimed under my breath.
“Oh, so you want an audience,” the voice spoke softly.
“No, sir,” I whispered quietly.
He struck again with a blistering cut across the top of my thighs, and I couldn’t prevent a tiny cry from escaping my lips. But then, afraid he’d be upset with me, I sucked in air and bit my lip. It might have even bled a bit.
“Enough?”
I heard the question in his voice but didn?
??t now how to reply, so I kept my silence.
His hand was at my ass, pressing the dildo into me rhythmically, as he would a cock. Then, his fingers dropped lower, massaging my pussy, the labia and clitoris, and finally pinching the tiny bud of my clit until I almost cried out. He knew my body was screaming with arousal, backed by pent-up, unspent need. With just the slight manipulation of his fingers, the dam inside me seemed to burst and my body went taut. I pulled up tugging on the cuffs and shook the chair with my shaking body. The heavy chain between my breasts tore at my nipples, as if it would tear them off, while tiny rivers of pain shooting from the pinched skin expanded the deep orgasmic pulse of climax. My pussy grabbed at air as it came, yearning for the cock that should have been there. Meanwhile, behind me, bending over my body, the master of my fantasyland clutched my hair with one hand and shoved the anal plug ever deeper into my ass.
By chance, perhaps just by accident, I opened one eye again, just long enough to see the cuff of his shirt and the gold cufflink gleaming in the light above. I shut it tight again as soon as the fact registered in my brain. I was angry with myself for peeking, for having such ill-gained knowledge about my master. Like a child at Christmas, stealing glimpses of his presents before Christmas morning, I was stealing away the mystery and denying myself the pleasure of surprise.
The incident in the 5th Floor Conference Room ended when my master let go my hair and pulled the anal plug from my ass—it exited with a swooshy sort of pop. He removed the clamps from my nipples, along with their connecting chain. The briskness of the act almost made me howl as blood rushed back to fill the tortured flesh. He worked methodically, removing the wrist-cuffs and the clamps that attached them to the chair.
“You’ll keep the shoes and wear them when I ask you to,” he informed me, as a way of saying goodbye.
I lay still as a mouse with my body draped over the back of the chair, immobilized by the surreptitious crime of peeking, and worried that he knew I had. “Yes, sir,” I answered his instruction as an afterthought.
He spoke coldly, I thought, although it was difficult to judge his mood. Did he have moods? Or was he always the same, coolly distant, somewhat haughty man. Did he always speak in the same passionless monotone, or was there a more animated personality beyond the persona he used while interacting with me?
He had left me without saying another word and with no more knowledge of his identity than I already had. The clue of the cufflink created a terrible feeling in me. Thankfully, I didn’t have enough knowledge of the men I worked with to know exactly which man wore cufflinks like the one I saw. I would spend the next few days avoiding the men in the office. Suddenly, I didn’t want to know. I wanted only the surprise.
***
A week later, I had dinner with my friend Cassandra, at Morrow’s Seafood Grill. She’d flown in from Philadelphia the day before and I couldn’t wait to see her. We were college friends, though I’d dropped out of University of Pennsylvania while she finished her degree in architecture. She had a fabulous career and a husband who made big bucks in radio station advertising. When I first met him, he seemed to think we had something in common since we were both in advertising. I set him straight real quick. I was in research, not advertising, and the difference was obvious. Advertising was simply the business in which I worked.
Initially, I was envious of Cassandra, but that was only until I met the ‘man of her dreams’. One glance at him, I doubt she’d ever dreamt about a man like Howard Weston. He had thinning hair, a pudgy build, big jowls and a sappy smile. He was far too busy and self absorbed to be romantic. But he did supply her with every material wish that popped into her pretty head—and that made her happy. I mean really made her happy. Money was important to Cassandra beyond anything else. Happiness, contentment, success were all wrapped up in the same package, covered with dollar bills.
Her values might have grated on my more Spartan sensibilities, but since we met only twice a year, I could tolerate her yen for material wealth while enjoying her grace, her lovely eyes, and the way she raved about her life. She gave me a yardstick by which to measure myself—not that I came up lacking next to her checkbook; it was more the reverse. As the years passed, I gauged myself by the shallowness of her life… comparing myself favorably for the books I had read, the acting in community plays, gardening, yoga … the overall balanced nature of my life. That was all before I started meeting my email master and following his orders. My new secrets made me wonder if there was something more to Cassandra’s relationship with Howard than meets the eye, a reason beyond money for their seemingly hollow marriage.
Cassandra looked like her name—if Cassandra could mean graciousness and elegance. She was tall, thin, with dark gleaming hair—although she changed the style so often that I never knew what she’d look like on her next bi-yearly visit. I loved to watch her face, the poised red lips—the smirk, of course the smirk that would define if she approved of you—and the hooded eyes that looked as if they were seducing prey. They seduced me, not just the day we made love in college, but every time I saw them.
Typically, I felt frumpy in my efficient but simple wardrobe. Cassandra’s wardrobe grew enormous in size, augmented with yearly visits to the designer salons in New York, London and Paris.
The night we met for dinner at Morrow’s Seafood Grill, she was dressed in a bright red suit, which was trimmed in black leather. The ‘V’ neckline of the jacket descended nearly to her navel. Because her breasts were so small and unobtrusive, she could decently show all the flesh between them with just the tiny swell of skin to either side. I remembered licking that creamy flesh when I was nineteen and we were experimenting with bodies and physical feeling. I remembered her nipples, the way her skin smelled of expensive perfume and tasted sweet, as if she’d doused herself in lemon-sugar. The same pungent desire I experienced then, came back to me as we dined, making me feel slightly faint.
She was telling me about her first trip to Rome.
“Benito…”
“And who was Benito?” for a moment I’d lost track of the story while I stared into lovely, gentle cleft between her slight breasts.
“My lover, silly,” she droned. “Aren’t you listening at all?”
