NOW YOU KNOW
Such a simple question
The candles had nearly melted down, casting shadows more striking than the surfaces they illuminated. The evening had gone well. First meetings are delicate things; that it was her first excursion into the shadows of her passion made this meeting all the more so. But she’d come with nothing more than an open soul and a willing heart; that, and myriad questions for which she’d hoped to find answers — questions about herself, about me, about the limits of her trust, and, of course, about what might actually be done to her once she stepped through the door. I think she’d found answers to most, if not all of them. She’d tasted pain, violence, abuse, degradation, even terror — all offered in tidy, bite-sized morsels that went down easily. The larger bits sprinkled in the mix also proved effortless for her, blended as they were with equal measures of compassion, tenderness and the sensual touch and loving concern she so required. And unrelenting orgasmic fury; let’s not forget that. The reflection from the candles showed the spark in her eyes; her question now was, ‘How far can I go?’ I’d need to attend to the answer soon, but it’s never a simple answer and can only unfold over time as the bond deepens — and tightens.
But if her questions were, for the moment, answered, I had one of my own to be addressed, and we both needed to know the answer. Providing it would require more of her than anything she’d encountered thus far.
I took her hand, guided her to a small desk in the room. It was the perfect height, and the distance between the front and back legs was exactly what I needed. I stood her against one side, right at the middle. I touched her lips, marveled once more at how effortlessly they parted, then kissed her. She responded as she always did, with both heart and cunt fully engaged.
I leaned in close and said in as caring a voice as I could muster, “On your knees, dear. This one might test you a bit.”
She dropped and waited, resting back on her haunches, hands placed on thighs, eyes focused on me, as I’d instructed. I wasn’t interested in appearances this time, only the effect. No rope, no soft leather. I just cut off a long strip of tape, set her left arm against the table leg and wrapped it tight. It wouldn’t hold for any long term session, but I expected this to be short. Intense, but short. I secured her right arm, stroked her cheek, then went to the dresser, where the toys I’d used this evening still lay scattered in a chaotic mess. I returned with the flogger in hand.
She eyed it impassively. I’d introduced her to it already, a long session in which she’d felt it connect to every part of her body. She knew well what it would do. And, also, what it wouldn’t do. For all it’s diabolical appearance, its deer skin strands were gentle things. I’d purchased it specifically with her in mind. If I really leaned into the stroke, it could give a nice sting, though nothing as fearsome as a sharp slap from my open palm. But a flogging is mostly mental. No matter the physical torment that may or may not accompany it, it is the act of being flogged that weaves its spell. No matter how long it lasts, it must simply be endured. And accepted. And she had accepted it. No more effective method can be found for testing a woman’s will to submit, or for transporting her into that unique state. Now she anticipated it once more, knowing its limits, knowing its potential.
I once again took a moment to revel in the sight of her breasts — large, full, beguiling. Can any man truly explain their effect on his brain? I couldn’t, simply accepted my response as part of my wiring. I lifted one of them now and let it rest in my hand, let the tips of the leather strands dance over her skin and brush across her nipple. For all its gentleness, the flogger could still bite, enough to remind the one receiving the stroke that she was, indeed, facing a flogger and not a soft touch of loving fingers. I chose that moment to remind her of that fact. The leather slapped over her. She winced slightly, but otherwise made no move.
“Why are you here, darling? Tell me that.”
The tips continued to dance over her breast. I released it and lifted the other one, cradled it in my palm, swished the strands back and forth over her nipple.
“I’m here for you,”’ she said. I believed her.
“I thank you for that. It is appreciated. But it’s not nearly good enough.”
I gave her a single stroke across the top of her breast, hard enough that she felt it, knew again that she was under a flogger and all that implied.
“Again. Why are you here?”
“I want to serve you,” she tried.
“As always, dear, received with gratitude. But you need to reach deeper.” I struck her again.
“I want to give myself to you.”
“Same answer, different words.” The leather bit into her once more.
“I want to learn about myself.”
“A worthy goal. I wish you well. But not even close.” I lowered her breast and now dealt with them both, long strokes pulling across the front of her body. Her soft flesh rippled deliciously.
Her agitation began to show. She scrunched up her face as she assessed herself, wondered what had she forgotten? What crucial item had she misplaced?
Another stroke.
“Come, darling. You know the answer. You’re just dancing around it.”
And another stroke.
Now I let them come in an unbroken stream as I coaxed more answers from her.
“Try harder. Tell me: why are you here.”
She rummaged through the closet of her psyche, pulling out this, then that, looking for something that fit.
“I want satisfaction.”
“Yes, yes… you and Mick Jagger. Good luck with that one.” Another hard stroke. Then I knelt beside her, coaxed her thighs apart, and snaked a finger between her wet lips. Her clit was achingly stiff. I played with it a moment. “You could get this anywhere, anytime you choose. Keep searching.”
Next, she wanted to explore her fantasies.
“This isn’t a fantasy, dear. This is real.” Three sharp strokes followed.
All right then — she wanted to give me pleasure.
“I’ll take my pleasure as I wish, dear. This is about you.”
More strokes, more quivering breasts and ever deeper contortions in her facial expression.
“Tell me, dear. Why are you here?”
All the while my flogger, whooshing through the shadows, each time landing on her with that dry, crinkling sound so at contrast with her wet cunt.
I repeated the question. By now she was truly distressed. Her face showed she’d about reached her limit. She started to cry, not from pain — that would have been too easy for both of us — but from sheer frustration and the cumulative effect of the leather on her body.
At last, she blurted out, “Because there’s no other place for me, damn it!”
That’s not necessarily the answer I’d been looking for. Truth is, I hadn’t known what answer I was looking for, only that I’d recognize it when she found it.
I stopped at once, tossed the flogger aside, crouched down and watched her closely as the emotions I’d unleashed emptied themselves out. Then I touched her cheek, let the energy pass between us, flow into her and fill the spaces I’d just drained.
She’d earned a reward, and now I gave it to her, returning my finger between her legs, slowly running it up and down over her aroused clit. She was already on the precipice and prepared to cast herself into the abyss.
“Not yet, dear. Wait for it. Make this one count.”
I could care less about controlling orgasms or other such cheap theatrics. I simply wanted her to taste the benefits of pushing herself, in all ways, of letting the tension mount to excruciating levels, so that when she finally spilled over, the experience would be memorable.
And so it was. As her expression charted her steady drift farther and farther into that strange space only she could know, my touch slowed and lightened until my fingertip scarcely connected with her.
One soft stroke, and another, and another. She seemed to have forgotten how to breathe. She was long past thought. How long could I hold her there? Definitely something to be explored, soon. But for now, I simply pushed her over the edge.
“Do it, dear. Come for me…”
And she did, the most violent orgasm of the night. For me, a woman coming is nothing short of mystical, as though a parallel dimension has intruded into normal, logical space time, violating all laws of physics and human interaction. I have no idea where they go, in those moments, but to be able to send them there is quite delicious in itself.
Finally, I’d wrung her out. I turned to my various toys and implements, preparing to pack them up, but then, on impulse, I turned back to her and thought, “Oh, why not?”
She was still restrained, still ready for me. We hadn’t fucked. In this type of play one doesn’t invite a woman such as her into one’s space thinking, “I can’t wait to drill her eyes out.” Like everything, fucking is but another tool to be employed when appropriate for maximum effect. My own satisfaction and pleasure are not always even sexual. Still, a man’s balls cannot be denied.
I walked back to her and without a word, unzipped my trousers and let loose the beast. After a night of receiving, she seemed eager to give, never realizing how much she’d already given me.
I rubbed her lips with my cock, slid it into her mouth and just started fucking her face, no build-up, just a hard cock needing release. I shoved all the way to her throat and locked her head in place until she started gagging, pulled back, then another thrust.
She was clearly untrained. I’d need to teach her how to properly suck a cock, but she at least managed to keep her teeth out of the way sufficiently to avoid inflicting injury. But in truth, this was no time for lessons. This was me using an available mouth to get my rocks off, and now I got down to the serious business of doing just that.
I began steadily thrusting in and out. It felt as good as it always does, and it didn’t take much to bring myself to that point of no return. A flaring in my balls, my cock preparing to eject my cum, and then the inevitable moment of utter vulnerability as the expected explosion shut down all thought, all sense of time and place, all sense of self. Perhaps my evening’s activities had aroused me more than I’d realized; my balls took ten full spurts to finally empty themselves, each one a frozen moment of exquisite bliss.
She was still swallowing the last of my load. Miraculously, she’d spilled none of it. Perhaps her training wouldn’t take as much as I’d thought.
When the last was down her throat, I placed my cock against her lips. “Clean me off, Dear.” I have to say she did a decent job, decent enough that I started getting aroused again. But no, we’d save this for next time. The evening had served its purpose.
I left her there as I began stuffing my toys into my travel bag. When I turned back to her, she seemed to be back in this time, this room. I cut her arms free and helped her to her feet.
“Kiss me,” I told her. She did, and in so doing, affirmed all that had just taken place, brought it safely within the space we were creating with each other. We embraced. And with that, we were done. I finished cleaning up, she dressed. No words passed between us; our communication, however, remained full and rich, as had always been the case.
As we left, she said, finally, “You didn’t have to go through all that, you know. You could have just told me the answer.”
I shook my head. “You wouldn’t have believed me.”
“I might have.”
I chuckled. “You think so?”
“I might have.”
“Perhaps. But you wouldn’t have understood.”
“I might have!”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” I gave a breast one final, playful squeeze. “But now, dear, you know.”
