Prior to the event: Was i scared? Yes. Why? Not sure. Unknown quantity? Perhaps. Fear of the unknown?
Undoubtedly, to a certain extent, it must have been. I had, after all, been treated to a full and frank description of what I could expect. “You’ll be in a comparable country-squire-and-his-wench situation. You are mine to do with as I please.”
Why did this scare me? At the time of explanation it didn’t; on the contrary, it was a reassuringly hot scenario that, frankly, I relished experiencing.
But after a few days of no real contact, for one reason or another, and a long drive to another city, somehow the scenario seemed far off, and all i could think was that i was going to a strange house and that I wasn’t allowed to speak when i got there.
I tried to offset this by jabbering away to myself for the duration of the drive south. Mostly singing along with the CD, with occasional comforting murmurings to keep me focused and alert.
Upon arrival, i paused before ringing the doorbell. Should i affect a pose? Face downcast, eyes looking hopefully up through long blackened lashes? Solemn expression, eyes front and center? I knew, of course, that affectation was not the answer. I needed to be myself — hadn’t I, after all, always promised absolute honesty? So i stood, quaking inwardly, facing the door, calm and expressionless, and rang the bell.
As people go, he is one of the world’s more perceptive. Despite having no need to put me at ease, he did exactly that. Welcoming me inside, he said “You may speak.”
I looked him in the eye and greeted him: “Hello, Sir.”
And then he kissed me, my knees buckled and somewhere inside my solar plexus a large metallic spring uncoiled and unwound and i exhaled for what felt like the first time in several hours.
I was naked not long after that, having stripped to his command, laying my clothes on what looked like an innocent exercise bench — until I spotted the studded leather buckle-up wrist-cuffs and the strategically situated scarves. Naked, that is, aside from my lacy black bra — chosen with such ease to match my lacy black panties, and now flying solo against my as yet unmarked skin. He stood before me, observing me quietly. Standing against the wall, legs spread. Watching his hand as it delved between my thighs while he kissed me, and felt his delight at the accumulated slippery arousal that assailed his fingers, borne of a week of enforced celibacy. Celibacy that had been defined as no touching or masturbatory activity of any kind, followed by several bouts of enforced masturbation, but being forbidden to reach my apex.
In other words, as soon as finger hit labia: instant tsunami. Which was pretty much par for the course for the evening to follow.
The overwhelming sensation, beyond the electric desire he always awakens in me, was of how natural it seemed. I’m not a born submissive, and I don’t have the urge in me to succumb to slavery. He argues that to end submission at the boundaries of the bedroom is folly at worst, misconception at best… for now, let’s just say that the jury is still out. However, i cannot deny that despite being deprived of my words — something he himself has acknowledged is essentially the essence of who i am — and submitting to his every command and whim, seemed as natural to me as breathing.
Over the hours that followed, i experienced the feeling of truly being controlled. I turned and flipped at his command. Delightedly, i took his cock and balls in my mouth, teasing the head with my tongue and teeth, lapping up the shaft with my eager tongue. I enjoy giving head — I’ve never made a secret of that. But on this occasion i took more trouble than ever and drew more delight and pleasure over a (blow) job well done. He fucked me in every position imaginable, testing the limits of my elasticity — unusually flexible for one with such a behind, you might be surprised to hear.
However, his main interest for the evening seemed to be my clit. He spent a while observing it from several angles, with both his eyes, tongue and hands. I watched and blushed prettily when he admired my depilatory efforts, according to his specific wishes, but was quite surprised to hear him tell me that my clit was an unusual anatomical concept, and then gestured that I could reply.
“What, mine as opposed to clitorii in general?”
“Yes, yours. It has an unusual formation — more sensitive at the top than at the bottom.”
“Yes. It is a clitoris that knows exactly what it wants.”
I lost count, that evening, of the number of times I came. There were mini-orgasms, maxi-orgasms, multiple orgasms, murmuring orgasms. And at least one great big gushing g-spot orgasm. Being ordered to come, here, now — NOW!… I mean, seriously. Is there anything hotter?
The passion of the evening surprised me. His passion, although I knew that control invoked passion but also the passion awakened in me. Passion I’d always known i had but had found difficult to tap into with almost every other man I’d ever made love to, slept with or fucked — regardless of how you define the act, the position and outcome are the same, with variables regarding who gets to lie in the wet patch, or who gets up and leaves.
I lay there afterwards, amazed at the lightning-quick transition from brutal to tender and back again. Loving it. Basking in the post-coital haze of tender, but still aware that i was still bound to him by my wish to please him.
As i readied myself to leave, he took my face in one hand and kissed me deeply, his other hand reaching for my nipple and twisting it painfully. I squeaked but continued to kiss him, despite my discomfort.
“I can’t help it. When I’m happy, i like to hurt you.”
I shrugged, and grinned through the kiss. “I can take it,” I murmured.
Delighted that I had made him happy, I realised that I didn’t want to be anywhere else. This was where i was supposed to be, this minute, this second. It was who i was, and who I wanted to be… right now, for him. To please him.