Cat is Taken in Hand

I went through with the threesome. It was, without doubt, the best and most exciting sex I have ever had in my life. (Until next Sunday???) It was a one-off. I still fantasise about it, over ten years later, and I'd jump at the chance for a similar experience, but it has never 'spoiled' normal sex and relationships for me.

That gives me some comfort about next Sunday. But at the same time I am aware that a threesome is an entirely different animal from a D/s scene. For me the attraction of the threesome was largely physical -- the idea of being on the receiving end of double the stimulation and double the penetration. The D/s thing s different. I certainly want it for very physical reasons, but it goes much deeper than that. It's a powerful psychological thing too.

I decide that I want this. I want what is happening now and what will happen on Sunday. I can't remember ever wanting anything so badly. And life is short. I decide that I'm going to give myself over to this entirely. I want it so bad it hurts.

And I really think I will be okay. In amongst all this control and constant arousal in the lead-up to Sunday, I am still excited about meeting Simon. And sex with someone you love can be bog-standard missionary with a little cuddle afterwards and can still be extremely powerful.

Monday morning. I wake up full of doubts and fears. What's the white wine for? Does he know how much I paid for this mattress? I don't give a fuck about the bedding, but the mattress…..Does he know about tit-torture? About how to do it safely with no permanent damage? Does he know about the damage that can be caused by under-lubed forced anal? (He may not have a friend, like I do, who got internal ulcers from vigorous anal with not enough lube… and even thinking about that I get all aroused - the thought of being fucked HARD and DEEP… forcibly… in the ass - but I'm still worried…) Does he know how hot candle wax is?

And then a moment of clarity.

He's far more experienced than I am. I trust him completely. He knows what he's doing. He is my Dom and he knows what's best for me. I can hand over responsibility. I can let him do the worrying. I am, ultimately, safe in his hands.

And suddenly, and for the first time, ALL IS WELL WITH ME.

I text him about my veto options. With the sudden release, everything seems crystal-clear to me. I have to veto the cold shower -- that was never in doubt -- it conjured up and image of me, miserable and shivering in my own bathroom. NO fucking way! And I have to veto the webcam because of my fears about the non-secure internet link. But I know now that I can accept the belt and the wax. I am in his hands and I have, now, finally accepted that fully. There are still nerves and apprehension, but in a good, arousing way.

Speaking of arousal, keeping my hands off myself is very hard but I'm determined to try my best to obey him on this.

There is a task in my inbox. I have to write the story of the scenario so far, for him. He will mark it and I will be rewarded or punished accordingly. My first response? A piece of cake -- I love writing about my sexual experiences -- have done it for publication before now.

I put the idea to one side for now. A busy day at work, then I'll walk the dog and then I'll write it because I'm going to be working evenings Tues-Thurs and won't have time to do it unless it's tonight.

I realise I'm going to have to practise walking in heels, If I'm to cope on Saturday. So I wear heels round the house all through Monday. For the first time in my life, I see the attraction of heels. I feel sexy as hell walking around in them. Feeling taller is good. Sexy. The way it alters my stride so that my hips sway more than usual. Sexy. The way it tilts my pelvis. Sexy. The way I can feel muscle tension in the back of my calves, the back of my thighs and the front of my thighs when I walk. Sexy. Why have I never realised this before? The answer is obvious -- because I've never worn them when already in a ridiculously high state of arousal before.

Hmmmm… the arousal. Washing my cunt without pleasuring myself in the shower was an AGONY of frustration. And, later in the day, mid-afternoon when I AWAYS feel the need to come, was almost impossible. The arousal seems to be building. God knows how I'm going to survive a week with this ever-increasing frustration and arousal. But then, in the back of my mind…. my GOD -- imagine if by some miracle I DO last the week -- imagine how fucking HARD I'll come on Sunday… and then a further realisation… he may not allow me to come on Sunday. OK, OK. I'll cross that bridge if and when I get to it.

I walk the dog after work, the cold wind freezing the sopping-wet crotch of my jeans. Get back and sit down to write this.

I don't know if it's what he wanted. There's a lot in it about my feelings and contemplations. Maybe he didn't want that. Maybe he wanted something more akin to the porn I've written in the past.

All I know is that I started writing this and I haven't stopped typing since. I've just told it like it is.

If that's not good enough then I know I'll be punished for it. The thought of which just makes my cunt drip faster while I feel the knot of apprehension in my stomach.

Part Two

I text him to let him know the task is complete, and that what I've written is waiting for him in his email inbox. He told me he would mark it on Wednesday and today's still Monday. I don't hold my breath.

I am on the phone to Simon, two hours later, when I receive a text telling me I have mail.

Still talking to Simon, I go and sit in front of my laptop and open my email account. I don't open the email yet. I wait until the phone conversation is over -- another twenty minutes. Then I open the email. I do it with my heart in my mouth… what if he hated what I wrote? What will that mean for me?

His email tells me that he had expected what I sent him to be good, but that it has exceeded his expectations. He has found it a very erotic read, but also it has given him an insight into how he is affecting me. There is no punishment. Instead, I am to be rewarded -- with TWO rewards.

The first reward is an assurance from him that I'm right to trust him 100%. He tells me that the old Paul is still alive and well and is still looking out for me, under the veneer that is the Dom alter-ego. And that I can rest assured that Paul is far stronger than the Dom is.

I am surprised to find that I am crying. That I have read that sentence three or four times in a row. Surprised because I thought I already was comfortable -- already 100% sure that I could trust him. But the reality is that, if that were the case, I wouldn't be crying now with gratitude and relief on reading his assurances. It is only now that it has become clear to me that all this is part of the mind-fuck. Part of the experience. My feelings are not consistent. On one level I know I can trust him, and yet on lots of other levels I have no idea whether I can trust him or not. In the light of this it is hardly surprising that I will return to this email of his, and re-read those assurances, several times over the coming days.

I get some sort of a grip on my emotions and read the rest of his email. Find out what my second reward is. It's a good one. He is giving me his permission to bring myself to orgasm, as long as I do it within a one-hour window. I glance at the clock. There is only half an hour left. Time to get to work!

Being allowed to touch myself when I thought I would have to suffer for another six days… well, it is a very intense experience. I try to go slowly and savour the building pleasure, but my body doesn't co-operate. I come fast and I come hard.

And I sleep very deeply afterwards. But not before texting him to thank him. And getting a reply from him -- "You earned it" -- which makes me grin like an idiot.

Tuesday. The day passes with no word from him. He knew I was going to be very busy with work, and working long hours, until Thursday afternoon. Is he respecting that and allowing me to do what I need to do? Or is he ignoring me as part of the mind-fuck? Whatever… I have a chance to get a huge amount of work done. And the same again on Wednesday. My arousal doesn't go away. I am always wet. And I think about him and his plans for me a lot. But I do have a chance to do my work and do my long hours.

Thursday morning. A text from him telling me that in the next 24 hours he will text me six times, each time with a simple question. For every question that I fail to respond to correctly and within five minutes, I will incur a punishment of his choice. He tells me that this is a test of my attentiveness.

My first thought is that the mobile phone reception in my house is terrible. Often after spending a while in one room I will pick up my phone and move to another room, and find that three or four text messages will come through all at once, because reception has been restored after a break. With a five-minute window to answer his texts in, I could be in trouble here.

Back at my desk and deep in my work, I half-expect a text question to arrive. But there is nothing. At lunchtime I walk the dog. I'm enjoying watching the dog run around and sniff around and mess around, and a woman with some dogs of her own comes across and strikes up a conversation. We admire each other's dogs and she starts telling me about the dog she had to have put to sleep ten days earlier…how much she misses that dog; how hard it was to make the decision that it was finally time to put him out of his misery; how the rest of her dogs are coping with his loss…

… and I hear my phone go beep beep. And it occurs to me that this could be a timed question from Paul. But there's nothing I can do -- I have to listen to this woman's grief. Then two of her dogs start bothering my little dog, and my dog starts to get uncomfortable, and the woman does the decent thing and walks on with her dogs.

I get out my phone. It is indeed a message from him "First question -- what is the square root of 169?". I see I have about a minute left to answer this. Mental arithmetic is not my strongest point but, in a panic, I decide that 13 x13 = 169. I send him my answer. Just in time -- I get a confirmation from him that the answer is correct and in time. A relief.

The next question comes just a few minutes later. "Second question -- what colour is a robin's chest?". For a second I wonder if this is somehow a trick question. But I answer straight away. Red. A reply from him "Correct, and impressively attentive". Again, I grin. Realise I'm now on tenterhooks, waiting for the next question… hoping I won't miss the next question and run out of time. He certainly has a hold on my mind.

I have to go out tonight, to the beauty salon. To get my cunt waxed completely smooth for him. He knows this.

Late afternoon. A text. "Third question- how wet is your cunt?". Well... I was slightly wet, slightly aroused. But seeing these words on my phone screen, when I'd been expecting another simple general-knowledge question… I am very quickly much wetter and much more aroused. I respond to his text. Again, I am praised for my attentiveness.

And then, very quickly, another text. "Fourth question -- is your cunt smooth now?". I reply to tell him no -- to tell him that my appointment at the salon, on the other side of town, is at 7.30 p.m.. More praise for my prompt reply.

I finish up my work. Get into the shower and wash my cunt. Again it is streaming and can't be washed clean. This is a worry. I have to go to the salon. I have to strip from the waist down. I have to lie with my legs open -- with my cunt open -- while she peers at me, and holds me, and -- oh shit……… she'll be able to smell my arousal, not just see it…..

I arrive at the salon, go straight through to the back, to their bathroom, and wipe myself as dry as I can in there and try to think unsexy thoughts (an impossibility at this stage, with what he has done to my mind).

She calls me through and I take a deep breath. She's seeing me a couple of minutes early. As she starts work I talk. And talk and talk and talk. The more I talk to her, the more she will be distracted and will have to look at my face rather than my cunt. I kind of feel that I can cope with this. She can clearly see that I am aroused, but neither of us is acknowledging it. She carries on with her work. At the other side of the room, in my bag, my phone goes beep beep. I glance at the clock. 7.30 p.m. on the dot.

He wouldn't, would he?

All done and dressed and paid up, I pull my phone out of my bag. Yes, he would. He has. At 7.30 p.m. on the dot, just when he knew I would be unable to reply within five minutes, he sent me the fifth question. "What's my favourite colour?". I am, at the same time, a little indignant (he has put me in an impossible position), and a little amused (how fiendishly fiendish of him!) and a little frustrated (he probably thinks I don't know his favourite colour, but I remember him telling me once, months ago… it's blue). And then I read the next text message from him. "Out of time -- punishment incurred". And now, mostly, I just feel nervous and very aroused.

I spend the evening downstairs at home, playing with the dog and reading a book and thinking about what is to come in the next few days. Late, I go upstairs to bed. As I turn the corner on my landing, phone in hand, a text from him arrives. "Sixth question -- are you asleep?". Instantly I reply -- "No". And instantly he responds. "Not attentive enough, young lady -- punishment incurred". It must have happened. The patchy mobile phone reception in my house has tripped me up.

I undress, thinking about his questions and about yet more punishment. I look down at my cunt. TOTALLY hairless, totally smooth, and rather pink from the waxing. I can see my glistening clit, swollen and fat, poking out, begging to be touched. I can feel the cunt juice escaping and starting to move down towards my inner thigh.

I am not allowed to touch myself. That knowledge only makes my cunt wetter. Only makes it ache even more to be touched. But I won't. I am determined to obey him. Already I have incurred enough punishments. And twice during the week I've found myself distractedly pinching my nipples and have had to confess to him -- I have incurred his disapproval for that too. NO more. I will wait. When -- and whether -- I am allowed to have physical pleasure… well, that's entirely in his hands now. None of this makes it any easier for me to resist stroking my cunt, feeling the baby-soft, still pink and sensitive skin or touching that fat, red, aching clit…. But I will stay strong.

Friday morning.

A text to tell me I have email.

And what an email it is. Before I even open it, the title of it -- "Detailed instructions for Sunday" -- just that title has one hell of an effect on me. I have to take a few deep breaths to get up the courage to open the email, all the while feeling the rising arousal in the pit of my stomach.

I open it and I read.

"Slut,

Here are the details for our encounter on Sunday. Compliance is mandatory and punishment will result if they are not met to my satisfaction

Your cunt will be smooth....very smooth. Your hair will be freshly washed and sweet-smelling. Your toys will be laid out neatly and conveniently.

White wine will be chilled and waiting and iced so that it remains chilled; clean glasses will be to hand.

Parking will be available for me on the drive, the front door will be unlocked but capable of being locked by me once I am inside, the hall will be dimly lit....all other house lights will be turned off

You will be in your bedroom which will be lit by candles, you will be seated on a dining chair with your back to the bedroom door, you will be dressed only in black knickers, your nipple decorations and a blindfold

You WILL NOT look round when you hear me arrive; you will sit still and will not squirm. You may not be entirely certain that it's me....you may not be entirely certain that I'm alone....but since you trust me 100% then that is not an issue....but perhaps may add an extra edge to your emotions and imagination.

Should any of the above not be carried out to my satisfaction then you will be punished in a manner of my choice

You will respond in a submissive and cooperative manner to all verbal requests and physical prompts that you receive. Should this not be carried out to my satisfaction then you will be punished in a manner of my choice

If you please me you will be rewarded in a manner of my choice

Be ready by 6.30pm. Final instructions and timings will be sent on Sunday.

I will not stop if you say "No". I will not stop if you say "Stop". I will stop immediately and at any point if you use the safe word which is HELICOPTER

If you are not clear on any of these points do not dare to seek clarification, use your initiative."

I re-read this email a good half-dozen times in a row. My heart is beating fast and I'm breathing quite shallowly. I don't know whether I'm intensely scared or intensely aroused. The reality is that I'm both.

I find my eyes -- and my mind -- return to, and linger over, certain parts of his email.

He refers to me simply as "Slut". How very far we have come in only eight days. Until last week he always treated me with implicit respect, with gentle affection, and with a gentle, teasing humour. Now I'm just "Slut". Not a person. Just a role.

It half-amuses me that he refers to the toys as mine. I always think of them as belonging to him, as he's the one who uses them. On me.

His instruction that I must not turn round or squirm when I hear him come into the room… that's going to be a hard one. I am bound to be in a very nervy, edgy state at that point… how on earth will I manage to stay still? Manage not to squirm?

Manage not to flinch?

Why does he say I may not be entirely sure that it's him or that he's alone? Yes, I do, as he says, trust him 100%... but yet again there are, at the same time, levels on which I've no idea whether can trust him or not. He knows me well enough to know that, in the right circumstances, I'd be open to a threesome or to sleeping with a man he chose for me. Yes. IN THE RIGHT CIRCUMSTANCES. And these would not be the right circumstances. My courage, my risk-acceptance, even my nerves, are all stretched to the limit already. All I can do is hope that, when I hear those footsteps, they will be his, and they will be his alone. This is something that's going to play on my mind. A lot.

The safe word is HELICOPTER. The safe word is HELICOPTER. The safe word is HELICOPTER.

What if I forget the safe word? I'm human -- I am most likely to forget the safe word when I'm most stretched mentally and physically and emotionally: I am most likely to forget the safe word at the precise moment when I need it. And then what?

The safe word is HELICOPTER. The safe word is HELICOPTER. The safe word is HELICOPTER.

I have to text him. "I lost my nipple decorations a few weeks ago". An instant reply. Two words. "Your problem".

Okay. My problem. There's not a hint of Paul in all this now. Paul has gone. From now on I'm dealing only with the Dom. A thought flashes across my mind. Maybe it's not too late to call a stop to all this, to send the Dom away and ask Paul to come back. But of course it IS too late. Or, rather, I owe it to myself not to back out now. I just need to find the courage, the nerve, to see this through.

The safe word is HELICOPTER.