Wednesday, April 18, 2012

First Weekend

First Weekend
She looked around the house in astonishment. She’d been unsure what to expect, and had a clear idea that it would be out of the ordinary, but this was a church of enormous proportions, converted to make a home. In her minds eye she tried to picture it as it must have been when wedding cars had made their way up the long drive through the churchyard, turning slightly left through a pair of iron gates that he carefully closed behind them. That left them with about forty feet of lawns between the hedges before the end wall of the church reared up, its arched windows filled with abstract stained glass. She estimated the church at eighty to a hundred feet long, the sanctuary at the east end built as if it had been a later addition, lower than the main body of the church, and narrower. And all the time he talked, an amused stream of anecdotes, facts and details about this, his home. As they walked through the front door he gestured upwards, into the bell tower.
“As you can see, we had to take the ceiling down to drop the bells out, so I thought I’d make a feature of it with the wrought iron balcony. It does service as a landing for the guest bedrooms as well…” 
She’d noticed the heavy wooden staircase climbing the side wall of the bell tower, turning with the walls of the tower until it reached the balcony.
“…of course, for parties it’s tempting to have someone obedient tied to the railings up there, as a welcoming sign to guests, but it is unfair to leave someone up there when so much of the fun is downstairs…” 
She tried not to flinch; she’d noticed his habit of leapfrogging from the ordinary to the extreme in the same sentence with no suggestion of any difference. Instead she stepped inside the inner doors and stood in the main body of the building, looking around at the imposing size of the building. To her left the guest bedrooms hung from the southwest corner of the building, their bulk diminished by their height, the floors suspended twenty feet up the walls. To her right a spiral staircase twisted its way out of the former pulpit, leading to an open gallery that ran the width of the building. Dan took her hand.
“The gallery is the master bedroom, and playroom. Would you like to see where we’ll be spending so much time this weekend?” 
She knew he was testing her; just as he’d been testing her the first time he’d smacked her bottom while they were making love. It was part of his power trip, she knew, to make correct guesses about her reactions, and her desires. She smiled, and turned to face him.

“Let’s go upstairs shall we?”
He smiled, and stepped back, letting her walk in front of him, her heels clicking on the tiled floor. At the bottom of the stone steps leading up to the spiral staircase built into the pulpit she felt his hand on her shoulder.
“You’re entering the playroom Bea, remember? Red for stop, amber for wait…”
She stood stock still, her hands by her side, conscious of a heavy dragging sensation in her stomach that resolved itself into a pressure against her pelvis, a weight of expectancy and desire.
“Do I have to say green?”
He shook his head, and gestured towards the stairs.
She felt her posture, her body, maybe even her entire being change as she walked up the stairs. She entered the room, and stood at the top of the steps, waiting for instruction. His voice, too, had changed, He wasn’t trying to amuse now; the lilt and the smile had gone to be replaced by a voice that was more reflective, more considered.
“Obviously I prepared for you Bea; please stand on the rug in the middle of the floor, below the end of the bed.”
Standing on the rug she was three feet from the end of the bed, and six feet from the balustrade that ran the width of the gallery. Above her were the beams of the church roof, braced with wrought iron framework, aged and darkened by the ears. Descending from the beams was a length of chain that hung in the centre of the room. Attached to it was a leather collar. She found she couldn’t look at it; instead she stared past it towards the guest room sat the west end of the church. Out of the corner of her eye though, she could see it; the two chrome buckles, the D rings attached at the sides and front, the roll of thinner finer leather around the top and bottom of the collar, designed to reduce the friction on her skin. Nothing had prepared her though, for the feel of his hands fastening the collar around her neck. He stood behind her, testing the fit of the collar with a finger against her skin, then adjusted the chains in some way that she wasn’t sure about, but which held her neck still. All the while he described each action in an assured, calculated way.
“We need the collar to be tight enough not to slop around on your neck, but not so tight to accidentally restrict your breathing…”
Was it her imagination that registered the stress on the word accidentally?
“…and of course I can’t tie your hands when I haven’t undressed you can I? So I have to undress you first…”
She’d imagined these moments, even while making love to him, in a hotel room, or once, memorably, in a roadside toilet. She’d tried to anticipate the speed at which he might move, the instructions, and yet now, when her brain screamed out to comply, to encourage him with a movement or gesture, she felt listless, unable to move or express an emotion.
She started to feel, to experience, when he pulled off her panties and ran a finger between her labia. For a moment she looked at her clothes, neatly piled by the balustrade, and wondered how they’d got there. She couldn’t describe, even to her closest friend or to some imaginary confessor, the relief that flowed through her as she realised that she had passed this stage of the process. She was naked, and he was walking around her, surveying her. She straightened her back, pulled her head back against the collar and chains, showing herself off but only understanding the gesture after she’d done it. She squeezed her thighs together, and felt liquid at their junction. She wanted to laugh, and shout at the top of her voice. I’m wet, and turned on, and showing myself off to him.
He had a way of regaining her attention. His hands folded around her breasts, standing behind her and cupping them, his fingers resting between her breasts and her ribcage. She waited for him to speak, to move, to give her a sign. She held her breath until she was sure the only sound she could hear was the controlled measure of his breath. And then his voice intruded, insinuating its way into her brain so that she wasn’t sure it wasn’t a telepathic phenomenon rather than an auditory experience.
“…they will look lovely in a corset, just as stockings will frame your body so well in future, but now, right here, I want you naked but for your bonds… imagine it as the beginning before I dress you for your new role…”
The forefinger and thumb of each hand were acting on her nipples, squeezing and manipulating. She tried to understand what he was doing, why his hands would twist one way or another, why the ball of his thumb would roll the flesh of the nipple against the anvil of his finger, why the movements of his hands would speed up and stretch all of the nipple away from her breast, then move more slowly. And still there was that rhythmic pacing of his voice…
“…of course costumes and role play are going to dominate your future, and be central to your pleasing me, but right here, right now, a blank canvas is the name of the game…”
His hands released her breasts, and slid along her belly and down the sides of her hips. She tried to wriggle away as his hand traced along the line of the scar where the caesarean had been performed; he slapped her right buttock as simply as if he were caressing her.
“..but today all I need is to be sure you can’t wriggle or move as you are beaten… so we’ll restrain your hands and feet and get on with it…”
For the first time she felt as if the liquid inside her, the warmth and wetness that she’d felt since he put the collar around her, was turning cold. This was the moment when she would find out if her excited passionate responses to being spanked had been genuine pleasure in punishment, or whether she’d merely been getting her kicks from being wicked. If she was going to give in and beg for mercy, she decided, she’d do it with style and a flourish. She watched as he prepared a spreader bar, a thick length of wood with chromed cuffs at either end for her ankles. He stood in front of her, adjusting the width of the bar, turning it over so that she could see the sheepskin padding inside the metal.
“…slaves tend to twist and move during their first serious beating. The sheepskin is one way of preventing any too visible injury to the ankles and lower leg…”
She wanted to speak, but just an indeterminate sound came from her mouth. He silenced her by stroking his thumb, wet with her juices, across her mouth.
“Shhhhh Bea, you’re here because you trust me…”
She had to swallow hard before licking the ball of his thumb, but relished the taste, and the unforced, patient way he rested his thumb against her mouth until she reacted. Had time stopped completely, or was he really that patient, the certain that she would comply?
The feel of the padded cuffs closing around her ankles was utterly confusing. Did she want to be spreadeagled in this way, her thighs held apart? The housewife in her wondered if her juices would drip on the rug, and how would you ask for the appropriate stain treatment in the dry cleaners. Another voice in her head asked if her thigh muscles would be able to take the strain of her legs being held in the one position. And a new voice, a voice that she didn’t recognise, simply muttered ‘yes’ inside her head, as if it was recognising an achievement. Of course, she thought, that’s the slave in me. It’s the slave in me who wants my juices to drip on the rug for him to see…
It’s the slave in me who’s wanting to plead with him to do it, to beat me and make me his…
His voice was a relief from the confusion in her head.
“…of course we don’t want your hands flailing around either do we Bea… Let’s fasten them to your collar… Lots of old fashioned hand cuffs were made like this…” Like this was a rounded steel cuff at either end of a twelve inch long steel rod. She didn’t see what he did, but within seconds the steel rod was passed through the D ring at the back of her collar, and her hands were trapped above her shoulders. The position, elbows high, hands turned inwards towards her neck, pulled her breasts upwards. She moved her head to look down at the erect, engorged tissue of her nipples.
“…it’s a shame you’re so averse to nipple clamps Bea, I think they’d look lovely, and you are so enjoying this…” Each touch of his hands was more assured now, asserting his proprietorial rights over her breasts, her hips, her labia. As he moved away he kept talking
“…when we’re young we learn the baseball language of sex… first base, I touched her breasts, second base I touched her bottom, third base I touched her pussy, and hurray, home run, we did it.”
He’d adjusted the lights in the well of the church so that she was looking out into darkness illuminated by evening sunlight streaming through the sections of the west window that weren’t obscured by a balcony linking the guest bedrooms.
“..but life isn’t a game of baseball, and neither is sex… Sex is a game of roles and rituals, of ideas and indications of who we want to be and might be…”
He was out of her line of sight again, and she heard that clicking, dragging sound, like a drawer being opened, or a wooden box closing tight.
“…and it’s a transfer of power and responsibility, so that we can give up something of ourselves…”
The first blow came on the side of her right breast, and was followed, seconds apart, by another blow fully across her left breast. The first blow came from her right side, so that the tips of whatever she was flogged with wrapped themselves around her nipple. The second blow came from the same side, so that it was the body of the flogger that struck her left nipple, the thongs reaching under her arm. She blinked, closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them, seeing the world anew. The next pair of blows were as evenly paced, as evenly weighted as the first two, and she felt the first intimations of pain. Not the direct stabbing pain of toothache but a throbbing warmth, as if someone had burnt her flesh inside her skin. She closed her eyes again, and sagged a little against the restraint of the chains. She was expecting, anticipating the next blow. She opened her eyes, looked at him standing in front of her, the suede flogger in his right hand. She knew from his gaze that she should stand up straight, should prepare herself for the next blow, and show herself off. The only voice she could hear in her head now was the voice of the slave, laughing as she straightened her back. The handle of the flogger rubbing between her pussy lips before he turned and walked away was a reminder, that he was the master, that everything he was doing was sexual.
He walked behind her, his hand insinuating its way between her legs, stroking between her lips again, pushing past her flesh to stroke her clit. He smeared her juices over her nipples, as if it might magically ease the throbbing, burning pain.
“You’ve a right to know what comes next… three strokes with a cane on each thigh, then six strokes with the crop on your buttocks…. Unless you chose freedom that is…” He kissed her on the mouth, hard, an urgent, pressing invading kiss. When he withdrew she smiled, licked her lips, flexed her hips to ease the tension in her thighs, then said
“I choose slavery…”
He nodded, as if it was only the answer he’d expected, and reached for the cane.
The blows with the cane were precise, and rhythmic. She sobbed with the last three blows, her mouth hanging open, all words stolen from her by the force of the blows. She could see herself as he could see her, her mind momentarily leaving her body completely and looking at her from beyond the balcony rail, seeing herself renewed and seeing herself straighten her back, blink back the moisture from her eyes, shuffling her feet so that her hips were level, her mound on view, her pubic hair matted with juices that wouldn’t stop flowing. She wanted to lick her lips, to wipe her face, to stem the tears pricking at the back of her eyes. All she could do was rotate her hand within the cuffs before pulling her elbows back. The quiet voice inside her head now, almost drowned out by the waves of emotion and arousal, was the voice of her past. She didn’t want to be questioned, didn’t want to think about anything, about anything,…, about anything about the thumb and forefinger that had hold of her clit and were pulling her, pulling and squeezing her to orgasm, to a screaming, shouting, gasping orgasm that held her rigid in its grip.
“…I thought you might need that release Bea, might want that moment before we go on…”
“Amber, please Dan, amber,,,, “
“..of course Bea, I’d decided I wanted you in a different position anyway… moving you will give me a chance to give you a break..”
She wanted to scream back at him not to pre-empt her reactions so much; what right did he have to take her desire to slow down and make it just another part of his game, his plan?
She didn’t scream. She waited, and watched as he stood to one side of her, stripping naked. She remembered his unabashed manner from their previous lovemaking, the way he made the transition from dressed to nude as easily as others might put on a coat. But then, how easily had she made the same transition, allowing him to strip and beat her? He moved around in front of her, the soft light from behind them casting shadows and shapes around his erection.
“…I’m going to release the bar from your collar for a moment Bea… It’s a necessary part of moving you to the position I want you in, and I need another adjustable spreader anyway…”
The position he wanted her in was bent forward, her head resting on a pillow placed on the wooden balustrade. When he was satisfied with the way she turned her head to one side to breath her rested the bar between her cuffed hands against the back of her neck, then secured it to the balustrade with two belts. The adjustable spreader reached from the base of the balustrade to the bar between her ankles, making a T shape that would prevent her from moving forwards or backwards. She couldn’t resist the mewl of pleasure that the touch of his fingers on her clit brought from her mouth. He was paying attention to her nipples again, stroking and pulling them with a repeated stretching action, testing their length and their responses to being stretched. Each time she felt as if she should groan or complain he would switch his hands back to her clit and her cunt.
God, she thought, I just thought of it as my cunt. I’ve always shied away from that word, I’ve never said it or used it, but with two of his fingers inside me and his other hand at my clit, I thought, yes, finger my cunt…
“…this is a good position for you to learn in Bea… Another time I can have you any way I want you, but tonight, tonight is about beating you, then fucking you…”
Give me time she thought, time to adapt, time to learn, time to get used to being fucked when you want to fuck me, to being fingered when you feel like fingering me, time to…
Time to hear the whistle of the riding crop moving through the air, time to swallow the first cry of pain before the crop was whistling again, lighting a line of fire across the opposite buttock, time longer than the actual pause so that she could swallow the saliva and the gasps and the cries before the crop was moving again, and again, and again and again….
Her final scream bounced back from the walls of the old church, a gasping, whimpering noise that was still echoing as she felt his hands on her hips and his erection at the mouth of her pussy, forcing its way in, opening her out even as her body was still burning with the shock and the pain of the blows from the crop.
He paused once his erection was deep inside her, paused and waited. Did he know she wanted to squirm, to wriggle, to get the sensitive, burning flesh of her buttocks away from his thighs, to try and stretch every inch of her insides around him? As she started to move underneath him, writhing as much as her restrained legs would allow she felt his thumb at her bottom hole. The pressure of his thumb breached the muscular ring and impaled her, holding her still. Her body longed to move but her brain understood. He was using her for his pleasure. Her brain understood, just as her brain could recognise the base of his thumb rubbing against her ring as the rest of the thumb was inside her, but her body?
Her body wanted more of him. Her body wanted his cock in every hole at once, wanted his hands on her nipples, on her clit, wielding a cane against her thighs as he fucked her from behind. Her mouth wanted more words than god, and please, and ohhhhhh, and her hips wanted some release from his pelvis ramming against the bruises on her buttocks where the crop had struck. She experienced him coming inside her with the muscles of her vagina, with the skin of her back as he bent forward and gasped her name, with her hair as his fingers tangled in it and tugged her head against the restraint of the collar. And then, in a moment, he was holding his softening erection against her mouth and commanding her
“Lick me clean… I have come, but you’ve arrived Bea..”

No comments:

Post a Comment