His instructions had been very clear and Emma had followed them to the letter. Thomas was gentle and gentlemanly until she disobeyed a request (they were never "demands," always "requests," but it made no difference once they weren't met) and then he shrugged his gentleness off and became the exacting, powerful master she loved. Though he excited her in every incarnation and was a considerate lover, it was when they played these games of power that she was most aroused. Thomas, her mild-mannered, refined, seemingly conservative and slightly older lover was a consistent and important presence in her life, as was "Thomas, Sir," the man he became when they played, the man who reduced her body to a quivering mass and her strong, independent mind to an obedient puppy.
Tonight's instructions had begun with an outfit request. Dressing her was a particular pleasure of his, one that included specifics about how she should dress herself and what she should think of as she did, which put her in the proper mindset for what inevitably came later. These ritualized preparations made her feel pampered and cared for rather than controlled, which had come as a surprise to her when they'd begun.
She would never forget her indignance the night early on, after they'd first been intimate, when Thomas had whispered in her ear as he was saying goodnight, "Tomorrow I'd like you to be a good girl and wear those black panties you told me you bought the other day."
She'd looked at him curiously, not sure what to make of such a request, and frowned slightly. "Thomas, I wore those the next day."
He had smiled and gripped her arm with just a bit of pressure and held her to him. "Then wash them tonight, and wear them again tomorrow. I'm looking forward to you honoring my request." And then he had kissed her softly on the corner of her mouth and left her to stew at his arrogance. He had gripped her arm! And told her not only what to wear but also when to do her laundry! Where did the bastard get off making such requests of her?
And yet later that night in her bed she had recalled Thomas's firm grip, his deep voice in her ear, his unmistakable scent, spicy and earthy, the prickle of his facial hair against her skin as he had kissed her, and she was flooded and restless. She had stroked herself a bit, hoping to fall asleep, but that had only inflamed her more, and she wound up digging her vibrator out of her drawer and bring herself to several intense orgasms with it, fucking herself hard in the last round and climaxing with it jammed deep inside herself, spasming around the silicone shaft and recalling his controlled, dominant voice telling her to cum for him. When she was spent and finally settled enough to sleep, she padded out to her laundry room, washed the black lace panties, and hung them to dry on the rack before crawling back to her bed to fall into exhausted slumber.
That night was her introduction to submission. Her submissive side, which she'd never even thought she had, grew and developed nicely with Thomas, Sir taking her firmly in hand. She had always scoffed at what she thought were the very silly and misogynistic stories she'd heard of Doms and subs, of Masters and Slaves. She'd read The Story of O and 9 ½ Weeks (even watching the movie version and lusting over the young, virile Mickey Rourke) and though some aspects of it were titillating, she never got past the idea that it was all just a way to get a bunch of stupid, impressionable women to do a man's sexual bidding. And, of course, she thought herself above all that.
Afterwards she would concede that she'd never cum so hard or so often, that she had a submissive streak a mile wide, that in fact she understood how women could become Slaves, even, because the drive to please him was so strong. Thomas had chuckled at her enthusiastic expounding on the subject one night in bed as they lay in post-coital bliss. They'd had a particular intense session in which she had been physically restrained and he had been practicing orgasm control with her. After bringing her to the brink countless times, he'd finally tipped her over the edge, demanding, "Cum for me, Emma." She had swooped over that peak and avalanched to the bottom, bucking against the wrist restraints that bound her hands and the spreader bar between her knees and the anal plug he had inside her and the vibrator he had touched one final time to her throbbing, aching, oversensitized clitoris. And while she lay collapsed on the bed, he removed every implement and thrust inside her impossibly wet, still spasming depths and coaxed two more climaxes from her while he fucked her, describing the beauty of her submission in exquisite detail as he did so.
So began their journey, an experimental and amazing five months ago, and Thomas, Sir could now make her cum just by telling her to, so strong was their bond and her desire to please him and her body's response to him.
Tonight's outfit request was a favorite dress of Thomas's, a deep purple wrap-style dress that accentuated her firm breasts and rounded buttocks. He had requested that she wear under it a champagne-colored push-up bra with matching thong, which was a very feminine set, all lace and shimmering satin. He had also requested her most favorite (and least comfortable, she noted wryly) black strappy sandals, which wound around her ankles and gave the appearance of caging her feet.
He had also made one strange request – that she not shave her bikini area. This was the fourth time this week he'd made such a request, and she was a little unnerved having so much growth. She was dark-haired and her body hair grew densely if not checked; normally she shaved every day, trimming her bikini line and keeping her plump pussy lips hairless and smooth with a neatly manicured bush up top. With no shaving all week there were tiny hairs spilling from the edges of her panties and causing a great deal of itching on the insides of her thighs with the prickly regrowth. She hoped all this had a point, though she imagined it was just another way to test her and make her do something she didn't want to do. She had been willful lately and knew Thomas, Sir had a long memory for insubordinate behavior.
She had agreed to meet him at his apartment early. He said he had some things to take care of before dinner and would like her to come by and have a drink before they headed around the corner to their favorite sushi restaurant, which was a quick walk or even quicker cab ride from his apartment. When she arrived he was puttering distractedly, his sleeves rolled up and his hair mussed and that slightly stressed look he had that let her know that when Thomas, Sir took charge she was going to be in for quite an evening. She knew Thomas well enough to know that Thomas, Sir was an outlet for him as much as her submissive side was an outlet for her. It was a way they both sorted things out, and for two people who compartmentalized as well as they did, it was a great way for them to meet their individual needs in a very mutual and pleasurable manner.
Once she had tried to explain to it to a girlfriend, and her friend (an open-minded girl, or so she had thought) had recoiled from the very notion. "So is it, like, a Jekyll and Hyde thing?" she asked in horror. "He changes like that? Emma, that's not sexy; that's schizophrenic!" And Emma had tried to explain to her that he didn't turn into a different person, or anything, it was a way of speaking and both verbal and nonverbal cues that they had developed, based on many long conversations and lots of communication of needs and wants. It was more a manner of attitude than anything else; he loved to dominate and she loved to submit to his dominance. But Stacia hadn't understood at all. She bought into the idea that Emma was doing something anti-feminist, degrading, potentially harmful, and altogether sick. Emma never got a chance to explain to Stacia how beautiful it was to have someone know and accept her, all of her, the way Thomas did; how lovely it was to trust someone in such an intimate and vulnerable way. She couldn't explain to her friend how being challenged and stretched was helping her grow in her sexuality. Stacia wasn't buying it, and fear of facing that kind of reaction again kept Emma from discussing it with anyone but a few online sub friends.
Thomas kissed her and as she pressed into him she felt how warm he was, nearly sweating. He was indeed tense, and in her mind she made herself still and kept herself in the space in which she needed to be. She knew his control would focus him and in turn focus her. And during these times, when he was moody or tense, their time together was like a reset button. At the other side of it he was restored to his most perfect self again, and she was calm and fulfilled, and their connection was deeper.
"You look beautiful," he murmured. "This dress is my favorite."
"I know how much you like it, Thomas, Sir. It was my pleasure to wear it for you."
He smiled. "It makes me happy when you wear things that I choose for you. Those sandals are especially gorgeous." He paused. "Are they comfortable?"
This was a test. He insisted on honesty but would not brook complaints. Her response had to be perfectly phrased. "They're not my most comfortable pair, Sir, but they are beautiful, and I love wearing them for you."
A gentle squeeze of her buttocks told her that she had passed that test with flying colors.
"I have a request," he began, leading her to his bedroom and gesturing for her to sit on the bed. "And it would please me very much if you would agree to honor this request without first hearing what it is."
Her heart pounded and she swallowed hard. "You know it is my deepest desire to please you..." She looked at the floor and waited, her stomach cramping with nervous anticipation.
"I'd like to skip dinner. Well, not skip dinner. Just skip the restaurant. I'll order in. I'm just not feeling up to crowds tonight. Would that be okay with you?"
She looked at him through her lashes. "Certainly, Sir, whatever you wish," she said softly.
"But that's not the request, of course."
"Oh..." she started, and then recovered. "Sir, whatever you have planned for me this evening, I'm sure I will enjoy it immensely, as you know your pleasure is my only goal." It was a lengthy "yes," but sometimes these things just poured from her, this desire to please so strong in her that she nearly babbled in her need to communicate it.
He smiled, understanding her completely. "Would you like a drink?" he asked softly. She nodded and he went to the kitchen to pour her something to help her relax. And she took in her surroundings, appreciating not for the first time his fastidiously kept apartment, with its minimalist décor and masculine air. She enjoyed his place, how much of him was in it; she could see him in every item in his home. He was a man who gave very careful thought to every single thing he did and said, and it showed in every facet of his life. Where other people had general clutter or the odd stack of receipts or unopened mail or a pair of running shoes kicked carelessly into a corner, Thomas had no such blemishes in his pristine home. His sense of order was absolute.
He returned to the bedroom with a glass of wine, and he handed it to her carefully and then went to his closet. Her stomach flip-flopped in anticipation, as she knew he was in his special drawer, the drawer from which many surprises came and many memories had been made between the two of them. When he returned he had his favorite blindfold, a simple black silk scarf that he loved to use on her, despite the fact that he also had several other mask-type blindfolds. He laid it carefully on the bed next to her, folded neatly in half, and went back into the closet again. It was a favorite piece of the game for him to take his time laying out the evening's implements so that she could have time to get herself in a proper place of question and arousal and complete and utter submission. Usually by the time he even began using his toys she was a puddle of desire.
After bringing out some restraints and a towel, he asked her to undress for him and leave the shoes on, while he watched from the bed, so she obliged, first unwrapping the dress slowly and letting it fall open in the front, revealing her creamy breasts, and then shrugging it off her shoulders until it slid down around her hips and she draped it neatly on a nearby chair. Then she reached around to unhook her lacy bra, setting her beautiful tits free. She smiled and reached for her panties, pulling them down slowly, inch by inch, over her hips and down her pelvis, over the patch of fur and the rogue prickles, down her thighs and past her knees until the dropped at her ankles and she stepped neatly out of them. She swiped them off the floor and offered them to him, and he took the lacy handful from her and brought it to his nose, closing his eyes as he inhaled the scent of her, causing her pussy to seep as she watched him taking pleasure in her aroma.
She stood before him completely nude except for her sandal-bound feet. He smiled at her and set the panties on the bed, picking up the scarf and rising to approach her.
Her heart pounded as he pulled the scarf taut in front of her and walked around behind her, placing the folded silk carefully over her eyes. She sighed as he adjusted it a bit and then pulled it tight, tying it in a large bow behind her head. She felt his lips brush over her shoulder, and she quivered a bit as he slid his lips across to her shoulder blade and then the top of her spine.
"God, you are beautiful like this," he breathed.
She stood perfectly still, forcing herself not to sway on the impossibly high sandals, only the slightest imperceptible tremor betraying her nervous excitement.
With her sight gone, her other senses slowly began to compensate. She could hear his breathing and the soft rustling of his clothing as he moved about. He held the wine glass to her lips and she drank deeply, the taste and aroma and even texture of the wine intensified.
He licked the last drop of wine delicately from her bottom lip and she fought not to swoon. When he moved from her it was almost painful. She wanted him closer and he was walking away, going to the next room. The minutes turned into interminable seconds and her legs began to ache, both from the height of the heels and the efforts to remain still.
She heard him clinking about in the bathroom and setting up something on the dresser, but her concentration was on remaining motionless and calm. She was new enough to this still that sometimes she got a bit nervous if she allowed her mind to wander off task. She did not want to be nervous tonight. Excited, yes – another anticipatory cramp ripped through her as she wondered what new pleasure he would inflict upon her – but not scared. She trusted him, when it really came down to it, which is what made it so satisfying. But she nevertheless struggled with that trust from time to time.
A tingle in her left foot made her shift her weight and she prayed he hadn't seen. But he had, though he was not displeased. "My good girl," he crooned. "You've stood such a long time in those shoes. Would you like to sit on the bed now?"
"Only if it pleases you, Sir," she said as calmly as she could. And then he was leading her to the bed and sitting her at the edge of it.
"Go ahead and relax, my sweet. Enjoy it, because I'm not sure how comfortable you will be in a short while." His voice was velvet, but she knew if he was promising discomfort, there would be discomfort.
She lay back on the bed, her knees bent and heels dug slightly into the mattress. Her feet were swelling in the stupid sandals, but she didn't dare ask to remove them. She could feel immediate relief now that she was on her back, but she didn't know for how long she would be allowed to lie down or what was coming next.
She heard more clinking. And then she heard the unmistakable sound of Thomas undressing.
He liked to strip down to his boxers while they played. He liked to have just that much clothing on while he restrained and teased her, and then he liked for her to remove that last barrier of clothing before sex, when there was sex – sometimes with her hands, sometimes with her teeth. She was a little taken aback that he hadn't asked her to this time, but assumed it was because he wanted things a little... different this time.
She felt his fingers circle around her wrist and expertly twist his special tie around it, drawing her arm back carefully until it was stretched to the headboard, where he fastened it to one of the posts. He did the same with the opposite wrist and she felt the slow roiling in her brain, the splendid reaction of being bound limb by limb. Then he took hold of her right calf, running his hand from her Achilles tendon to the swell of her calf muscles, then along the sensitive back of her knee, up to the middle of her thigh. She thought she was going to be bound at the ankles, spread-eagle, but he surprised her and instead tied each calf to its thigh, so that her legs were forced open and back, her sex on display for him. Before she registered what was happening she was bound fast.
The position she was tied in was slightly uncomfortable, but more than that, it was utterly degrading. Thomas smiled at her as she struggled to get comfortable, helpless on the bed, and took in the gorgeous sight of her. She imagined how she must look: her long dark hair spilling over the tops of her full breasts, her chest heaving, arms outstretched and wrists bound, her long fingers curled helplessly into fists. Her legs were bound in such a way that her breasts were pressed between her knees, and her creamy thighs spread. Her feet pointed down helplessly, even as she pointed her toes and tried to gain purchase on the bed she realized she could not. She wriggled around, but the only thing that happened was the ties at her wrists just dug into her skin.
She tried to make her mind quiet, because it was as frantic as a trapped rabbit, telling her to make him stop, to get herself out of this ridiculous mess. To say no. To use her safeword, which she had never used and had told him she would never use, while he had smiled at her with that damned calm, self-assured smile and arched his eyebrows and annoyed her so much that she'd been forced to do what she never did, which was attack him with his kryptonite. He was unusually sensitive to oral sex and reduced to a puddle when he was in her mouth, and he hardly ever let her take him that way for just that reason, but that time he hadn't stopped her - perhaps to make the very idea of a safeword more palatable. Perhaps to say, "We all have our weaknesses, and that's okay." But stupid, proud girl that she was - she'd sworn she wouldn't use it and that oath came to her now, trussed up like a goddamned holiday turkey. She fought herself not to say it. If she said it, he would untie her in a second, and this would all be over. He would make love to her and she would be more than satisfied, and then they would eat sushi and proceed with their evening. Maybe watch a movie. Maybe she would sleep over and they would make love again as they were trying to fall asleep, a comfortable cuddle turning into something more as he reached for her and found her more than willing; aching, in fact...
Aching because she was still unsatisfied, aching because no matter how many times he made love to her and no matter how generous he was ensuring her pleasure, in the end it all came down to this: she wanted it this way. She wanted him to tie her, to tease her, to make her body and mind uncomfortable. She hated it and loved hating it. Loved hating him. Loved hating the way Thomas, Sir peered into her soul and pulled out the things that put her most on edge and tamed her with them. Against her will. And totally in line with her desires.