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During these first weeks of late night visits, the torture, bondage and humiliation ceased. The kinky games were set aside for sex. After a month, however, I was on assignment again, back at 42 North St. for a Friday evening.
I drove into the property as I had before, a little more confident about what I was doing, but probably more scared because I knew what might await me. I undressed at the door as I’d been instructed before and waited shivering until the old dame answered my knock. Hardly a thing had changed but the weather, and I was almost freezing by the time I was allowed inside.
“You’re late,” I was told abruptly.
Only because you wouldn’t answer the door, bitch! I exploded with anger on the inside, but didn’t say a word to her. I didn’t even sputter when she pushed me roughly into the kitchen and paddled my ass with a wooden spoon—just because she could, I suppose. It was just three minutes after the assigned hour. Late? I wasn’t late! She just wanted an excuse to abuse me herself, before the others in the house took over.
The scene in the living room was different this time, just a few men and women milling about the room where I’d been introduced before. As soon as I crawled inside, someone was there, clamping a thick iron collar around my neck and attaching it to a wrist cuff that was placed around my left wrist. My ankles were both cuffed in irons and attached with a chain. Either on foot, or on my knees, moving proved difficult. Once shackled, I was told to sit in a corner and wait. “Head on the carpet, arms behind your back.” This took a little work, since my one wrist was cuffed to my collar, but there was enough slack in the chain to make it possible, and I managed, if not as graceful as I would have wished.
I waited for some time, thinking, wondering, uncertain how I felt about the house, about the assignment, about this humiliation. It seemed so cold to me, so calculating. I suspected I was not aroused. But I realized later that I was just denying the facts as I had before. I must have drifted, my mind vacating for a time, while the room filled with people. When I was suddenly jerked awake, I moved up on my knees and stared into the eyes of the man who’d bound me.
“At the door, your master is waiting.”
My was heart instantly engaged, excitement, jubilation lifting my spirits. I pulled the chain back over my head so that I could crawl to the front door and greet Preston.
But it wasn’t Preston at the door—not the man, nor the attitude, nor the good looks, nor the cool dominant charm, which had so enticed me to my secret, sexy, kinky life. Instead, a stranger doffed his coat, expecting me to rise to my feet, take it from him and hang it on the hall tree. I did so dutifully. He was a big man, muscled, forceful, heavy jowled, with piercing eyes and confidence reeking from an explosive energy that both annoyed me and aroused me.
After hanging up his coat, I returned to his side, and he inspected me thoroughly, teeth, gums, hair, cunt, ass, flesh, skin, breasts. Pinching my nipples, he pulled them until I squealed—for which he gave me a stinging smack on my ass.
“Containment, bitch. Remember that. And say on your feet. I’ll tell you when I want you to grovel.”
I followed him into the big room, which was now filled with men, women and their slaves. There was chatter, back-slapping conversation, jokes, and typical cocktail party talk. I served my master a vodka martini, and when he slumped into a lounge chair, he forced me to my hands and knees, making a table of my back, where he precariously balanced his drink. I was certain that any second, it would topple off, and I’d be in for one hell of a punishment. He wasn’t the kind of man I wished to cross, or disobey, or disappoint. I probably would have pulled off the stunt, if I hadn’t glanced to the side of me and upward, realizing to my surprise that Preston was in the room, talking casually to a group of men. Some I recognized, some were strangers to me. The surprise jolted my body just enough to send the master’s vodka martini to the floor, where the half-drunk cocktail spread like indelible ink over the forest green carpet. Oh, it would clean up just fine, even though at the time it looked like a permanent stain. The drink had also splashed on the master’s boots, and before I could even think, he pressed my face to the leather and ordered me to clean it up. He held me by the collar at the nape of my neck. I could hardly breathe, but I managed to tongue his dusty wet boots to a shine, while enduring the nasty taste.
At some point in the middle of my task, the master began to paddle my ass with wood—spoon, hairbrush, slat? I wasn’t sure what he used. But it was hard and nasty, making my ass sweltering hot, and more deeply bruised the longer he rained his blows on my behind. He then pressed my nose to the carpet, pushing it into the fibers. “Shall we try again, slut?” he wondered aloud.
“I’m so sorry, sir. Yes, I would like to try.”
He fingered my cleft, assuring himself that was I was adequately aroused and wet between my legs. I’ll be damned if I wasn’t leaking cum juice down my thighs. Maybe my body is just a sucker for pain. I don’t know what makes me wet, but I certainly didn’t enjoy the feel of wood smacking my behind—especially that day.
After completely embarrassing me in front of the crowd and Preston—he shooed me off to find him another drink. When I returned with his martini, I spotted Preston again briefly. He took quick note of me, eyeing me with a critical stare I’d become accustomed to—which made me quake like a sad child, praying for rescue. I should have known better. At his side was his little ‘subbie’, all frail and sweet and innocent looking. I envied her. The pain of my jealousy made my body ache far beyond the physical blows I’d just received.
I suffered in silence as I made a table of my back for the master’s drink. Blinding myself to my surroundings, I focused solely on completing the assignment. I didn’t shake. I didn’t falter. Not even the slightest quivering in my muscles betrayed the intense feeling of abandonment, loss and grief I felt inside. I suppose the situation made me irrational. I worried that the scene was more than a game, perhaps even a transfer in ownership. But I didn’t want this burly beast, I wanted Preston and the life he’d given me the last eight months.
The night wore on rather uneventfully. The brute master—we were never actually introduced and I never learned his name—wanted me for little more than a pedestal, or a plaything at his disposal. While other submissives were off to the basement dungeons, or tiptoeing behind their masters to the bedrooms in the second story of the house, I remained in the great room with this pompous fellow. After I successfully held his drink until he was finished with it, I then sat on my knees, resting my ass on my legs. Occasionally his hand reached out and fingered my hair. He would absently stroke my face or tweak a tit—all gestures of ownership. These little things scared me even more. What if? What if Preston had given me away for good?
From where I knelt at this master’s side, I could see into the foyer of house, where the big staircase rose gracefully to the second story landing. I could see much of the comings and goings that night. There was little else to do but observe, and the activity was enough to keep me interested. I wondered about the pairings of masters and slaves, some seemed strange, but intriguing, and I pretended that I could peek inside the scenes and guess what happened in their private time. My musing helped to pass the endless hours, while the man at my side continued to talk nonstop about subjects that bored me. I figured the night was about licked, my stint nearly over, when abruptly my deliberations regarding the houseguests got personal and frightening. I watched in horror as Preston, with his hand on his little subbie’s round buttocks, led her up the stairs to the second floor. My gut clenched in panic. And then suddenly I didn’t care anymore what he did with her—fuck her or abuse her—it was too much. I wanted out. For sixty seconds it took every force of will I had to keep from bolting the room. I managed to hang on, but probably only because the master, at long last, stood up, lifting me by the hair as he did. He hauled me upstairs to a private room.
Once we entered the bedroom, he tossed me to the bed, and ordered me to my hands and knees. Tearing away his clothes, he moved in behind my ass, and plunged his erection deeply in my rectum. I suppose he greased the opening first; although I don’t remember when. I remember only that it didn’t hurt, that his cock slid in easily, and for some really strange reason, he was able to bring me off while he fucked himself to climax. His hands moved over me, caressing me, even mauling me with brutal force. At the same time, his erection claimed that dark territory of my body with greater erotic passion than I’d experienced from any man. I came screaming, while he came screaming, with pleasure pouring over me like a stinging shower of rain.
I should never have given him the satisfaction of seeing me come. I worried later that it was a tactical blunder. But then, maybe it made no difference what I did. I wasn’t in charge. It wasn’t my game. I had no say in my fate.
Later that night, the big man gave me to a couple of other men for simple fucks. But again it was only my ass that got used. No one touched my cunt, as if I were some sacred vestal virgin and it wasn’t yet time to break me in, as if Preston was saving that for himself. No one ever explained, and I didn’t have the nerve to ask.
I didn’t see Preston or his subbie again, not during the long hours of my sleepless night, or in the morning, when the group gathered again for brunch. Later in the day, my Dom of the hour released me and sent me home.
Chapter Ten
After my night at North Street, my relationship with Preston picked up where it left off—with some notable changes, however. He still came to me in the evening, but rather than my just giving him blowjobs, he began to use me sexually. He started with my rear entrance, fucking me as so many men had before him. These sessions left me physically restless, because I never climaxed with him inside me. It seemed that something was missing, especially since I came so easily, so explosively, with that other master.
On other nights, Preston would order me to come, then watch me masturbate while casually standing some distance away—aloof and dispassionate. At first, I hated this intrusion into my private world. But then, weeks later, I silently begged for the privilege of exposing my rapacious lust. Coming got easier in his presence, soon the only way I wanted to get off. Sometimes, he ordered me to come, but left the apartment before I even began. Then I would close my eyes and imagine us together in bed. Other nights, he refused me entirely after he’d pleasured himself. He told me sternly with a warning in his voice, that I could never lie to him, so I’d better not try. On other occasions during my workday, he would order me to his office, or come to my cubicle and watch me masturbate myself. Sometimes, he chose to get me off himself. I would bend over his arm, or the edge of his desk, or just touch my knees with my sex exposed, while he fingered the folds of my pubis, my labia and clitoris. A few times, he ordered me into the unisex bathroom just outside our office, where I was forced to strip and masturbate. If no one was in the restroom, he’d stand at the stall door and watch. Afterwards, he abruptly left, while I scrambled back into my clothes. I don’t think there was any logic behind these moments; they were simply exercises in control. I never failed him, though. I never had to; my sexual desire was raw and waiting for expression, always waiting for Preston to define it.
Regardless of how easy it became to come with him near, it still disturbed me that I couldn’t come with him inside my ass, the way I’d come with that other man. What did that say about my feelings for him? What did that say about us? I couldn’t even guess. Maybe I didn’t want to know. I refused to let him be less than I desired him to be.
Yes. I knew he wasn’t perfect, I could see his imperfections clearly—his vulnerability and the way he avoided being intimate, the way he used our sexual games to keep his distance from any affection he might have for me. But that didn’t matter. I was so hooked on the promise of something more than our arrangement that was I was willing to put aside what I understood about his character. I believed that inside him another man was dwelling, waiting to be revived by the right woman from an uneasy slumber.
