On Monday, Guy and Tracy went to lunch. Tracy didn't usually take lunch, preferring to eat at her desk and run errands. They went to a little Italian place near the bank and Tracy kept looking around nervously, waiting for some of their coworkers to enter and accuse them of something.
"Relax, girl," Guy had admonished her. "You look like a cat that stole the canary. There's nothing wrong with colleagues having lunch together. It's perfectly natural for the head teller and the new loan officer to have lunch and discuss business, and how we want to fund the next loan and all that stuff." He grinned laconically. Guy was one of those good ol' boys who didn't believe in working very hard, and who were used to having the world handed to them.
Sailing through Southern Methodist University with mediocre grades, the frat boy partied so much, he barely learned a thing. It didn't really matter, since Guy was offered a job at his daddy's bank, immediately after college, where he made real estate loans and played lots of golf with Houston's movers and shakers down at the Houstonian. He did discover he had something of a knack for it, luckily. His move to Tracy's bank was really for a change of scenery. He was tired of Daddy's watchful eye.
He brought a sizable account with him, mostly comprised of his parents' friends and his own wealthy friends' personal loans. He didn't need to work himself, but he liked to get out, and liked the idea of having his own office, and wearing nice suits.
In spite of his seemingly shallow lifestyle, he was a decent fellow and a nice enough man. He married young to the 'right' girl, from the 'right' sorority, with the 'right' background, who would have dropped dead in horror if he'd dared to mention his own fantasies of whips and chains and taking a girl by force.
On the contrary, he was the Southern Gentleman to her Southern Belle, and for a long time it had been enough. But, two kids later, the bloom was definitely off the rose, and Guy was looking for adventure.
Guy took control, as he ordered for both of them, then sat back and eyed Tracy appreciatively. "You're a beautiful woman," he said, his voice lazy and southern.
Tracy looked down, pleased, but embarrassed. She truly wasn't used to other men's attentions anymore, or to Kyle's for that matter. Guy knew how to play her. He was slow and careful, not bringing up the subject they both really wanted to talk about, until she was fairly jumping with eagerness.
When he finally turned the subject that way, she responded just as he'd hoped she would. "So about those whips and chains," he said, grinning.
"I've thought a lot about what you said," Tracy admitted, feeling relaxed with the glass of wine he'd persuaded her to have. She leaned toward him, her body language clear.
"I take it you haven't had much chance to explore your thoughts along those lines, am I correct?"
Tracy shook her head.
"I can take you there, Tracy. No pressure, no hurry. Whenever you feel ready, I can take you there. I can show you what it feels like to be chained, to be whipped, to be taken by someone against your will."
Tracy sat in stunned silence. He had been so direct about it all. His words burned a path in her brain right down to her pussy. She didn't process all the words, or the serious intent behind them. What she heard was his offer to make her fantasies come true.
Guy continued, emboldened by her silence, which he took for acceptance. "The beautiful thing, Tracy, is that you and I come with no strings attached. We're both married, happily I presume, and we both want one thing – to explore our mutual interests, without hurting anyone. We don't even have to have sex, if you don't want; just the game – the excitement of a little rope, a little restraint. Shit, it's better 'n sex!"
"Let me think about it, Guy. This is a lot to consider." Tracy was twisting the edge of her napkin into a little point, seemingly so focused on it she couldn't look over at him.
"It is. And you take your time, sugar. No rush, none at all. If it never happens, hey, that's cool. Just knowing you're out there. Another compatriot after my own heart. Hey, it's good to have a friend. Now let's get back to work before anyone misses us."
Later that evening, with Kyle tapping away in the other room, Tracy found Paul and confided in him. She told him about Guy, the happy hour, lunch, and what Guy had proposed.
A little piece of her wanted Paul to protest, to say she was his property, and who the fuck was this Guy person, but he didn't. Not, in retrospect, that she would have expected him to. One thing Paul never did was to press her in any way. After that one sentence telling her sweetly that he would wait 'a thousand years' for her, he had never mentioned any possibility of their getting together in any way.
He never mentioned her marriage, or the fact that it mustn't be too great for her since she was always online, and lately also on the phone, with him. Now was no exception. He asked questions, making sure she felt safe with Guy, that he could be trusted.
"Oh, and his saying it's better than sex? He's lying. He wants to fuck you, make no mistake about that. Just be ready for it is all I'm saying," Paul warned.
He reminded her that fantasy, which was all she'd really had to this point, and reality, could be two very different things. She might find out, after all, this wasn't her cup of tea – which was fine, but was something she should be prepared for. She should make sure Guy understood and respected her limits.
"Are you asking for my permission?" he finally typed, when Tracy kept going round and round about it all.
"I guess I am, kind of," Tracy admitted.
"You don't need my permission, Tracy," he responded. "You don't belong to me; not in that way. Not in 'real life.' That's something you'll have to decide on your own. Just remember, sweetheart, to be careful. Don't get yourself in a situation where you could be hurt, or compromised. Make sure you know this guy and his motives, before you commit to something that could have ramifications you aren't ready to deal with. And, Tracy, just to be safe, please tell someone where you're going to be. A trusted girlfriend, someone. I know you work with the guy and all that, but people can get crazy. I want to know you're safe."
"And now," he went on, "topic change. I want to know how you felt the other day, after our little phone call. How did it make you feel when I made you stop?"
Tracy paused for a while, her fingers poised at the keyboard. She pressed her lips together, her eyes bright with embarrassment as she remembered what had actually happened that morning, when, instead of pulling up her panties and obeying his command, she had wantonly made herself come. Did she tell him? Admit it and confess? Or did she pretend and make up how it had felt to be left on the edge?
Let me honest withsomeone in my life, she thought, thinking of the secret web of lies she and Kyle were steadily building around each other. She typed, "Um, I kind of didn't do what you said."
"Meaning?"
"Well, I was so turned on by what you did, that I," again her fingers lifted, not wanting to type what she knew she must. Taking a deep breath she wrote, "I made myself come after you hung up. I was just too hot; it just kind of happened."
"Ah." She waited, but nothing else scrolled across her screen.
"'Ah'?" she finally typed back. "Is that all you have to say?"
"What do you want me to say?"
"I don't know; I guess I'm expecting you to yell at me or something. To punish me." As Tracy typed that sentence her perverse little pussy tightened, and she waited expectantly, though she wasn't sure for what.
"Do you deserve to be punished?"
Tracy felt silly; why was he making her say it? She had had some vague notion that he would bluster with pretend rage and tell her she needed a whipping for being such a slut. This quiet interrogation was unnerving her.
"I asked you a question, Tracy. Do you deserve to be punished for your complete lack of control? For your obvious indifference to my express direction that you pull up your panties and cover your hot little wet cunt and go to work like a good girl? Do you deserve to have your ass bared so I can spank it till it's cherry red, till you're crying for me to stop?"
Ah, this was more like it! Grinning, Tracy typed back, "Yes, sir, I deserve that."
A pause and then, "Well, I disagree."
What? She wasn't following him at all. He explained, and her face burned as she read the words. "You want a game, Tracy. You want your 'stern master' to order you to do stuff, so you can refuse and get pretend punishments, which of course aren't really punishments at all, but a way of getting yourself off. You want to use me to get yourself off, don't you, little slut?"
God, he was right. That was exactly what she had been fishing for. Maybe itwas all just a game to her? How would she ever know, ever get to find out if it was more? She was chagrined, and a little ashamed, because they had so much more than that. If only they could talk on the phone, she could apologize. He could hear in her voice that she meant it.
"If only I could talk to you right now."
"Call me."
"I can't. He's here."
"You need something at the store. You forgot. You'll be right back."
"Weare low on milk," she responded, her mind churning, thinking how to phrase it best to convince Kyle she should run out without arousing any suspicion. He was clacking away at his keyboard. "But are you still at work? It's 8:00 in New York."
"Where else do I have to be?" he answered. "I have a big project, actually, that I'm supposed to be working on, but instead I seem to find myself always online typing to some little slut girl." He typed a little happy face, to indicate he was teasing.
"Ok," she answered. "If I can do this, I'll call you in about ten minutes. If I don't call, get back online and I'll be here."
"It's a deal."
Tracy logged off and went up behind Kyle, feeling like a heel, but wanting to talk to Paul too much to care. "Hey, honey, I forgot we need milk and a few other things at the store. I think I'll go now, when it won't be crowded. Want to come?" A risk, but it made it more plausible.
"What?" Kyle distractedly responded, quickly minimizing whatever he was typing. "Oh, no, no. That's fine. You go on ahead. Just don't be too long, ok?"
Tracy smiled to herself, and grabbed the keys, then drove to the corner convenience store and hurried to the payphone. She dialed the 800 number that was already committed to memory, She glanced about nervously, waiting for his phone to ring and his sweet voice to be on the other end.
"Paul Wilson."
"Hi," she said, feeling shy as she always did when they first spoke to each other.
"Hi, Tracy. I'm glad you could get away."
"Yeah, but I don't have long, you know. I wanted to say, well, I wanted to apologize."
"I know. It's over, anyway. It's forgotten. You were right you know; you do deserve to be punished. If you were mine; if you were with me now, you'd be punished. You know what I'd like to do?"
"What?" Tracy whispered, feeling her whole body respond to him.
"Well, first I'd start by chaining you to the headboard. Your head would be facing the headboard, and you would be on your knees, wrists chained up high. I would spank your naughty little ass for a while till it was good and red. Then I'd shove a dildo up your pussy and tell you that it better not fall out while I continued to spank you. If it did fall out, I'd have to shove it up your ass."
Tracy started, not sure she liked how the fantasy was going. But he continued, "When I got tired of that, I'd get underneath you and tongue your little cunt until you were insane with desire. I'd bring you to the edge over and over, until you were practically crying with the need to come.
"But I wouldn't let you. I'd leave you chained and on fire while I watched TV or read next to you for a while. If I felt like it, I might eventually let you down so you could sleep at my feet. Of course I'd cuff you for the night so your naughty fingers wouldn't 'accidentally' find their way to your hot little pussy."
He sighed a little, then said, "But of course, you're not up here, and you're not mine, so that won't be happening."
Tracy suppressed her own sigh as he continued. "But I can give you a taste of it, even from 2,000 miles, if you want it, Tracy. Do you want it?"
"Yes," she breathed, her nipples hardening against her light t-shirt.
"You're too special to me for this to be just a game, Tracy. Do you think you're ready to move to the next level? Because it involves some level of commitment, on both our parts. It is going to affect you emotionally; take you away from your husband in that regard. That isn't something you want to do lightly. Don't even answer now. We'll talk about it some more online tomorrow.
"But for tonight, just for tonight, I will give you a little punishment. When you get back home, go into the bathroom and strip. Examine yourself in the mirror. Touch your nipples, cup your pussy, feel its sweet heat. Think about me, and what I would do to you if I owned you. Touch yourself. Arouse yourself. Make yourself hot and needy. And then, this time, really stop. Really experience what it is to be on fire for me.
"Then I want you to kneel down, and whisper to me, 'Paul, these are your breasts. This is your body; this is your cunt. I exist to serve you, Paul. I am your slave.' Say those exact words, and feel once more how hot and wet you are. Then get up, put on your nightclothes, and go read a book or something. If Kyle wants to fuck you, let him, but don't you dare come. You don't have permission to come until I tell you to. Understand?"
"Yes," Tracy whispered, her body already tingling with anticipation.
"Now go buy your milk. I'm gonna try and get some work done, so I won't be online anymore tonight. I'll talk to you tomorrow. 'Night, sweetheart."
The next morning, early, Tracy found this email in her mailbox. "Hi slave girl. Since we've decided to take this new step together, I'm going to begin a little training with you. Even online and on the phone, you can begin to experience what it is to submit. I want to teach you about control, and loss of it. I want to teach you to submit with grace, obeying without hesitation, no matter how much it might 'embarrass' or humiliate you. I want to teach you how to let go, sexually and on a deeper level, so that you can truly give of yourself without a hidden agenda of what you can 'get' out of it.
"I guess what I really want to do is help you decide if you are truly submissive, or just a masochistic slut girl out to get herself off with a little pretend dominance and little pretend pain. (Which doesn't make you a bad person! I've known many a sexy masochistic slut girl. Just be clear it's very different from being truly submissive.)
"If we were together, physically, we could find out rather quickly. You could experience my lash, my whip, my crop, and really understand what it is to suffer. You could feel the bite of my nipple clamps on your breasts, the cut of the cane against tender thighs.
"It would become quickly clear if you were just into experiencing the heady mixture of pleasure and pain, or if you truly were willing to accept the responsibility of belonging to someone else – because it is responsibility, and a willingness to trust in your lover. To give yourself so completely to me that if I took a knife and held it to your spread open pussy, you would keep it spread for me, and wait for whatever I chose to do to you.
"Submitting with grace isn't about having no fear; it's about getting through the fear and, like a fire to metal, creating a stronger alloy of love and passion, not despite your fear or pain, but partially because of them.
"God, Tracy, I want you. I know I don't say that much, because I don't like to compromise you, and I won't, ever. You don't ever have to come to me, in a physical sense. But I'll always be here for you, waiting, as I once said, for a thousand years.
"But enough of that. We'll begin with a series of assignments. You'll complete each one, and then write me a detailed email telling me what you did, how it felt, and what you think you got out of it. It will be an adventure for both of us."
Tracy was surprised by her first assignment. She had expected more sexual denial and withholding her own pleasure, which had been an intensely erotic experience. When Kyle had entered her that night, she was truly wet and open, though not for him. In her state of arousal, she was able to relax sufficiently to really enjoy Kyle's thrusting and pummeling.
She found herself responding to his body, and had tried to kiss his mouth, but he pulled away, intent, as usual, on his penis inside of her, and little else. Closing her eyes, Tracy imagined it was Paul taking her body, and felt a rising heat and a lovely pressure building inside of her. Shit, she was going to come! He had expressly, directly, ordered hernot to.
She tried to still her body; to control her reactions to Kyle's cock in her pussy and Paul's image in her mind. A moan escaped her lips and Kyle responded with his own grunts of pleasure. "You feel so good tonight, babe," he murmured, his voice low with pleasure. "Oh, God!" he cried suddenly, ejaculating into her. Tracy braced herself for his final thrusts, which were always the hardest and usually hurt her. Tonight they didn't hurt, and she was almost sorry when they subsided.
Tracy could feel Kyle's heart pounding against her breasts. She was still on fire with lust, Paul's voice still in her ears, but she had obeyed him. She hadn't come, and now she would close her legs, keep them closed, and go to sleep, with fiery dreams and his name on her tongue.
Remembering it now, with a little shake of her head, Tracy brought herself back to the present, and Paul's email. Her first assignment was to go to an adult boutique and get herself a small butt plug! Eww, was her first response. Kyle had never shown the slightest interest in her ass, and that had been just fine with her!
She had a boyfriend in her freshman year of college who had tried to convince her to have anal sex, but she had wanted no part of it. The very idea frightened her. That little hole just wasn't meant for something so big and hard as a cock!
One day, teasing her, the boyfriend, whose name was Steve, had playfully wrestled her to the bed. They were naked and kissing, not yet having made love. He had pinned her down, with her belly to the bed. They were both breathing hard and laughing, and Tracy was more than a little turned on. He lifted her by the hips, forcing her into a position on her hands and knees, and he had stuck his tongue against her puckered little asshole.
Eighteen year old Tracy was shocked, and jerked away from him. He laughed, and said, "Come on, baby, you'll love it. I promise. Let me show you!" She wouldn't let him near her bottom, and he finally gave up.
One thing he did do, she now recalled, that had been a big turn on for her, he held her wrists when he licked her pussy. It had happened one day by accident. He was licking and suckling her, and she was close to orgasm. She didn't want to come yet, but wanted to wait until he was inside her, so she pushed his head away.
He ignored her and moved right back into position, licking her clit, drawing her close to the edge of release. She pushed his head again, more roughly, and he grabbed a wrist in each hand, holding them tightly so she couldn't struggle out of his grasp.
It had been wildly exciting to her, though she was still too repressed at the time to admit just why. With her wrists held tight, he continued to lick her to blinding orgasm. She had been a limp rag doll after that, but he didn't seem to mind as he climbed over her and fucked her, coming quickly as a nineteen year old boy will do.
After that, she always pushed his head away, and he obligingly grabbed hold of her wrists and held her still while he tongued her to orgasm. Their relationship fizzled out, but she had always remembered the feel of his strong fingers, tight upon her wrists.
With Kyle, whom she met during her sophomore and final year of college, she tried to recreate the experience, pushing his head away, hoping he would grab her wrists as Steve had.
Kyle, not knowing her secret agenda, obliged by reasonably assuming she didn't want him to do that anymore, which suited him, since, for him, it was just a means to 'get her ready' for his sizable cock.
She also tried to get him to wrestle with her, and pin her down, as Steve had, but he didn't understand the game, and she gave up rather quickly, not willing to explain herself or even to try and understand her own motives better.
Thinking now of Steve, whom she hadn't thought of in years, she remembered his hot wet tongue on her ass, and wondered if today she would still push him away. Probably. Yet Paul wanted her to go into an adult bookstore, which in itself was embarrassing enough, and buy a butt plug – and use it on herself. He told her to get some lubricant and press that little plug up into her asshole. While she was doing that, she was to remind herself whose ass it was. Not hers, but his, to do with as he pleased. Today it pleased him to have her debase herself in this manner. Erotic humiliation, he called it. Just the words made her shiver.
Once it was in, she was to wear it all day at the bank. When she got home, she could take it out, then he wanted a full report.
Tracy entered the adult boutique in a seedier part of downtown, feeling a little anxious about being there. Certainly she wouldn't see anyone she knew. Nonetheless, she glanced around furtively as she entered the dingy little shop, which was called the Pink Pussy Cat Boutique and promised hours of exotic pleasure for the adventurous.
As she opened the door, a little bell jingled halfheartedly. A bored looking middle-aged man stared at her indifferently as she entered. He looked back down at his slick magazine, leaving her to take in the place without being disturbed. Mercifully, the room seemed to be empty of other customers. There was a large magazine rack in the center of the poorly lit room, filled from top to bottom with 'girlie magazines' sporting women with impossibly huge breasts, leering lasciviously at the camera.
Along a few sagging shelves were items guaranteed to enhance a couple's sex life, including a variety of dildos and vibrators. They were made from metal and rubber, some shaped like silver bullets, others of a soft flesh colored rubber pressed into the shape of a real penis, complete with its own set of balls. There were oils and lotions designed to delay, or induce orgasm, and various bits of feather, lace and underwire that passed as lingerie.
There were also black leather dog collars with metal studs, and leashes. A few poorly made whips hung along the wall. It wasn't much, but Tracy took it all in, eyes wide, fingers twitching nervously against her shoulder bag. The collars and whips drew her eye again and again, as did the bright red ball gag tied around the head of a wig stand dummy.
The clerk chose that moment to harrumph loudly, as if to ask her what her business was. She jumped a little, disconcerted, and refocused on the task at hand. Stepping nearer the dildo display, she found what she was looking for. There was an array of anal plugs, ranging in size from several fingers to flat out huge. Tracy picked up the smallest one. It was made of a very hard rubber, and was encased in plastic shrink-wrap. It was narrow at the top and widened at the base, flaring out with a little circle of rubber to keep it in, she supposed.
She was to buy this and use it on herself? No fucking way, part of her said, but not the submissive part. Not the masochistic part that was secretly, wildly eager to try this new erotic torture upon herself. Glancing at her watch, she realized she had to get back to work. Tracy hurried to the counter, placing the curious little item on it as she dug into her purse for the cash.
The clerk attempted to make eye contact with her, but Tracy wasn't having any. She was embarrassed enough without seeing his leer. She could smell the stale odor of dried sweat and cigarette smoke wafting from him. He rang up the purchase and put it in a little brown paper bag for her. His fingers grazed her palm as he gave her the change, and Tracy had to keep herself from shuddering with disgust.
The next morning, after Kyle had left, as Tracy was doing her makeup and getting ready for work, she took out the little item she had hidden in her tampon stash. Smearing it with copious amounts of lubricant, she knelt on her little bath rug, the lower half of her body naked, and gingerly touched the hard cold rubber to her asshole.
Pressing gently, she felt the head of it pop in. It hurt a little, but not terribly, and she pressed harder. As the widening phallus was pressed home, the pressure of it increased. The last bit made her cry out in real pain, but it was securely in. She had done it. Carefully she stood up, testing that it stayed in place. Turning her back to the mirror, she spread her ass cheeks, looking at the little black circle of rubber that was all that could be seen. The rest of it was firmly embedded in her ass.
A lovely sensation of submissive desire settled over her and Tracy knelt to do her morning ritual, whispering aloud to Paul, to her master. "These are your eyes, my master. These are your breasts, your nipples. This is your cunt. This is your ass. I exist to serve you, Paul. I am your slave."
She wrote a little essay for Paul that evening, about the heightened sensations she had experienced all day, keenly aware of the little phallus in her rectum that physically reminded her of her 'status' as his slave girl. She had found it difficult to concentrate, and had gone to the bathroom briefly to rub herself to a quick orgasm, as she explained, just to take the edge off. She hoped that was ok, since Paul hadn't expressly said she couldn't touch herself.
She'd been so hot and bothered, even though she didn't really like the invasive feel of the plug. She had to be very cautious how she sat, so it wouldn't move uncomfortably inside her ass. Despite that, she'd loved the idea of 'erotic discomfort' Paul had described for her, which she was now experiencing.
Sometimes when they talked, he encouraged her to go back in her life; to remember the earliest erotic fantasies she had had. Did they always center on submission, on a loss of control and erotic suffering? She recalled things she had thought forgotten, packed away like childhood toys and puzzles.
Tracy recalled an image of herself as a six-year-old girl, running, squealing gleefully across the playground, chased by a blond haired boy, whose name was long erased from her memory. But memories of the game they played remained. It was a wonderful game, where the little boys chased the little girls until they caught them. Then the girls were taken behind home plate, which was protected by a chain link fence. Behind the fence were long hanging vines, which the boys seized and pretended to whip the girls, who were their prisoners.
Of course the girls would giggle and squeal in mock protest, and then 'escape', only to be rounded up again. For Tracy, the play wasn't just fun; it was intensely, wildly exciting. She wasn't mature enough to understand its sexual undertones, but for her, they were certainly there. While the other children soon tired of the game, Tracy could have played it every day.
She remembered an uncle once, playfully wrestling with her. She must have been about seven, as he only visited after Tracy's father had been killed in an airplane accident. This uncle, probably in an effort to cheer her up, was roughhousing with his little niece, and caught her in a headlock with his strong legs. Tracy still remembered the thrill of being caught, of being restrained. She couldn't move, struggle as she would, and he held her that way for quite a while. Finally, she remembered lying quite still, hoping he would 'forget' to release her.
As she grew older, she and her girlfriends had a rich fantasy life, in which they often starred as the "College Girls in Apartment 1A." Tracy would invariably attempt to twist the plot of their usual boy meets girl stories to involve someone getting abducted and tied up and forced to do awful things, like kiss their abductor. She could have played those games forever, especially when she got to be the one who was tied up with rope they'd managed to find in a basement or attic.
When Tracy reached the ripe age of 14, and discovered her own blossoming sexuality, nothing was ever the same. Tracy was a solitary sort of girl, since her family had moved so often once her mother remarried to an army man who moved from place to place every year or two and dragged them all with him. So often 'the new girl', Tracy didn't develop many close friendships.
What she did have was books. She had heard of Marquis de Sade, described briefly in some history book as a depraved French philosopher. She was aware that the word sadist, a word that had aroused her when she read its definition in the dictionary, was derived from his name. Not surprisingly, she found nothing by or about him in her school library.
One day, dropped off by her mother to do a research project at the large public library downtown, Tracy forgot about her assignment and went in search of the Marquis. Hidden in the dusty old shelves of little-read scholarly works, Tracy found what she was looking for.
She didn't dare check out the books, but would pore over the collected works, which included extensive passages fromJustine andJuliet, andThe One Hundred and Twenty Days of Sodom. Tracy skipped past the esoteric rhetoric about the virtue of vice, but lingered, innocent eyes wide, over the explicit passages of torture and debauchery. Even as she was shocked and horrified by some of the more graphic depictions of violent sex and torture, her innocent body felt a rising desire.
Perhaps if she had had a gentler introduction to the potential pleasures and romance of erotic submission, it might have spared her years of self-censure and a feeling that she was secretly depraved, herself.
At any rate, after that first heated afternoon at the downtown library, Tracy poured herself a hot bath and climbed in while it was still filling up. Her head still swimming with images of naked women, bound and brutalized, she tentatively touched her own sex.
Remembering an elaborate water torture the Marquis had devised, she scooted up to the faucet, positioning herself, legs crouched on either side like an adolescent frog, so that the spray directly hit her spread nubile pussy. Ah, the water felt wonderful. It tickled a bit at first, and then something lovely began building up inside her as the hot spray massaged her virginal clitoris.
Suddenly, the pleasure became blindingly intense and she shuddered involuntarily against the porcelain tub. A moment later, the spray was no longer pleasurable, but began to irritate, and she pulled back, realizing her heart was pounding.
Tracy was remarkably clean during the months that followed. Luckily, she had her own bathroom and was rarely disturbed. As she discovered she could pleasure herself with her own fingers, the tub became less popular, but the strong images of women bound and suffering erotically remained firmly etched in Tracy's consciousness.
"And what about you," she would ask Paul sometimes, wanting to know him better, and to understand where his dominant impulses came from.
"Let's see," he mused, "what was my first exposure. I don't think I was, like, born with a whip in my hand or anything like that. I do remember when I was pretty young, like 12 or so, and I found this little comic book thing stuck between some old National Geographic magazines in my dad's closet. I think nobody was home at the time but me, and I was kind of snooping around in my parents' bedroom, probably looking for loose change to get a Good Humor bar.
"Anyway, I found this little booklet thing; it was a kind of comic book, I guess. Instead of Spiderman or Batman, there were these great drawings of this incredible Dominatrix, in latex thigh high boots and a little corset, wielding a whip over some cowering little worm of a guy. There was some lame dialog, I think, but I've forgotten it.
"I stole the comic book from my dad, who never came asking for it – surprise, surprise. He was definitely not the type to share anything like that with me, or anyone else. I never even saw him touch my mother, much less let her use a whip on his butt!" Paul laughed a little, and continued.
"Anyway, the pictures were very graphic; I mean, they caught the intense expressions on the characters' faces. That's what I remember. The way she looked so impossibly regal and magnificent, lording over that poor bastard.
"I identified totally with the Domme, not the guy. I thought how cool she was, and how I'd like to be in that position. I used it to masturbate with, with my flashlight under the covers like millions of boys before and after me, I'm sure.
"I never really did anything about it. I certainly didn't try anything with the few girls I dated in high school. But I remember freshman year at NYU, there were a lot of drugs at this particular party, and speed and pot were being freely passed around. I took some speed, smoked some dope, and felt really loose and uninhibited.
"There was this couple there, already 'into' the scene, into S amp;M and both dressed in leather. He told the crowd she was his slave and anyone who wanted to could whip her. He tied her hands up over a door and asked who was first. I got really turned on, and was so stoned I wasn't afraid to take the whip he offered.
"It was a big heavy flogger, the leather was dyed a bright red, I remember. She wasn't naked or anything; she was still in her leather vest and black leather pants. I wanted to pull her clothes off but he wasn't going for that. Still, it was so hot to whip her. She seemed to really get off on it, and I didn't want to stop.
"Everyone was crowding around, oohing and aahing. It was a weird scene. After a few minutes, he took her down and they went off into the bathroom, to fuck, no doubt. I'd been their 'foreplay' I guess you could say, but it got me hooked.
"After that I sought it out. I'd drop hints with girlfriends and see how they reacted. I always tried to playfully 'spank' them, and see how they responded. I didn't have the nerve to be more up front about it, but I'd 'test' them. Like, I'd hold their wrists above their heads during sex and see how they'd respond.
"A lot of girls were really into it. You'd be amazed how many women like to be spanked – at least playfully. But I had to be careful about going too far. I figured out after a while not to bring out the cuffs or rope too quick. That was too much for most girls, and they'd freak out.
"It's not like I was dating a million girls and tying them all up or anything. But I was always looking; the BDSM antennae always waving.
"There was this one girl, junior year, who liked me to tie her up and smack her around. We had great sex. Unfortunately, we didn't have much else in common. Her primary interests, other than sex with me, were horses and tennis. I don't think she ever read a book in her life, except when she had to for school. She was there on a tennis scholarship, and academics were incidental. But I do remember, before we broke up, she gave me a really great birthday present. It was an illustrated version of 'The Story of O,' you know, that classic S amp;M novel everybody gets a secret copy of in college."
"Maybe in New York City," Tracy replied. "Not down in Texas. I've heard of it, but I've never read it."
"Required reading, S amp;M 101," Paul said, laughing. "I'll have to get you a copy. It isn't really that great, I mean as a piece of literature, but there are some very hot scenes between Sir Stephen and O. O is his personal slave, or submissive. Her lover 'gave' her to him, to Sir Stephen. There's all this implied homosexuality between him and Sir Stephen, but we don't get to hear about any of that, but there are lots of hot bondage scenes. Like when he ties her to the chandelier in a hotel room, and has all these creepy guys take turns whipping every part of her totally naked body. She's gagged and tears are pouring out of her eyes, and he says something like, 'This gag will come in handy since we're in this public place. Usually I don't gag her. I like to hear her scream.' Something about that line always sent me over the edge. 'I like to hear her scream.' Man! Very good for one-handed reading, if you know what I mean."
"Sir Stephen! That's your Palace name."
"Give the lady a prize," Paul said, laughing. "But enough about me. You're probably asleep by now, listening to my boring stories."
"I could listen forever," Tracy assured him, and meant it.
Talking online and emailing Paul was wonderful, but Tracy wanted more. Like a starving child given a few bites of food, she realized she was ravenous for the experience, for the sensation of erotic pleasure and pain. She needed more than emails, more than a disembodied voice over the phone lines. She needed something tangible if she were ever to move past fantasy.
Paul understood her need, and though he never voiced it, longed to be the one to introduce her to these delicious pleasures. She had never once said to him, Paul, I wantyou to do these things to me. And though he knew he could have manipulated her into asking him, indeed, begging him, to come to her and have his way, he didn't want it that way. It had to come from her. It had to be her idea. She wasn't yet free for his claiming, but he was a patient man, and a realist. If she were to be his lover in fact, that love and submission would have to be offered without coercion or guile.
When Tracy told him of Guy's overtures, he was supportive and offered advice, forcing himself to think of Tracy and her desperate newfound need for discovery. He advised her, in a word, to 'go for it.'