A Visit Pt. 01 - Friday

Indeed, pet, while you are here with me this week, you are mine. You may leave at any time, but while you are here, you will obey me.

You know your safewords, and they will always be honored. They will ruin nothing about the days ahead if used, but I expect you to communicate with me to avoid their necessity. Remember that broken, you are of no use to me. I plan to push you this week, beyond what makes you comfortable, beyond what you believe you can tolerate. But I do not want to break you. Now, or ever.

When I am out, which will be most of the time, you may leave for meals, by yourself or with whomever you like. You will text me each time you leave and state your expected time of return. Should you be delayed while out, you will update me. And then you will return here when you are finished.

And by here, I mean to this very spot, this very level of nakedness. Each time you enter this room, you will spend some number of minutes conducting a devotional in this pose, letting go of the outside world and reengaging with who you really are: my cockslut, my holes, my filthy little whore.

To this end, I want you focused while you are here. For this reason, you may call or text whoever you need to while you are in this room, but you will not use your phone to surf the web. Nor will you watch television to pass the time. Your phone, especially, will tempt you. You will not give in.

Instead, I encourage you to pursue other enrichments in your downtime, ones that will focus instead of distracting. You've brought a notebook at my request. This is entirely for you. You may write as much or as little as you like, and you may choose whether or not to share any of it with me. While I am curious about your thoughts, I do not wish to invade the privacy of your mind uninvited.

I also encourage you to stay active. You may use the hotel gym as you please. You may unroll your yoga mat whenever you like here, or downstairs. If you care to step out for a jog, you will ask for permission, but it will be granted.

While you are here I want you desperate, but not sloppy. Therefore you may drink while you are alone, but you may not get drunk. Eat well to keep your strength, but do not overindulge. You may touch yourself as much as you like, but you may not come. Take care to not exhaust yourself in my absence. You will need your energy for me.

You may not shower or otherwise bathe without permission. If I spray my cum on you, or let mascara-colored tears roll down your cheeks, or let drool dry caked to your chest, it's because I want you like that until I say otherwise. Handwashing is exempt from this restriction given present worldly circumstances, though know if I had it my way your hands would perpetually smell of sex to remind you constantly of their purpose.

When I enter this room, unless I have instructed otherwise, you will always be naked. If you are not, you will be punished. Therefore I encourage you to remain nude as much as possible while inside. When I arrive, you will greet me properly each time you are able and not already restrained. I will look forward to learning what this phrase means to you, and correcting if necessary.

Keep your phone on and charged. Listen out for my messages and calls when you are alone. You may message me at any time; status updates and smut will always be appreciated. Calls should be reserved for when you need something. Remember what I said about communication with me; I will need your help to stay informed as I push you. Endeavor earnestly to adhere to protocol, but do not let it stand in the way of your well-being.

It has been a long time since I filled each of your holes with my cum, pet. Too long. Be a good whore for me tonight, and this will be your reward.

I looked back up at you when I was finished reading. For a moment, I was all nervous smiles and pink cheeks, struggling to maintain eye contact. But I forced myself to relax into my mantra, calming myself down.

I'm your whore, Sir, I'm your filthy little whore.

"I understand, Sir. Thank you very much for the detailed instructions. I'm not sure exactly what to expect, but I'm really happy to be here with you right now."

You smiled back at me. "You're welcome, whore. Do you have any questions?"

"Umm," I paused. "Yes, Sir. Are there any restrictions on using toys when you aren't here?"

"Not right now. This may change, but as of this evening you may play as you like. Keep track of what you do to yourself, though. I may ask for reports."

"Okay, thank you, Sir."

"Anything else?"

I thought for a moment. "Not right now."

You nodded, rising from your seat. Walking back toward the kitchen, you instructed me over your shoulder. "Let go of your arms, and stand up. Bend over the couch, and put your hands on the cushion in front of you. Spread your legs and arch your back."

I did as you asked. It took me time to stand. My knees were stiff and screaming as they came off the floor for the first time in well over an hour. I paused when I stood, shifting my weight from leg to leg, stretching my hips. I was grateful for the reprieve.

"Thank you, Sir, for letting me stand and stretch."

"You're welcome, whore."

I heard you grab the ice bucket and move back toward me. You stood behind me. I felt exposed as could be, the room's air feeling downright cold across my soaking labia.

I was sure you could see how wet I was from where you stood. I always hated this particular form of violation, being bent over and inspected from behind, and I knew you knew that. I also knew this was deliberate; off the bat, you would strip from me that sense of control. Indeed, it was the first thing that had to go. To please you, I would have to get used to this, however uncomfortable it made me. I tried to relax.

You reached into the ice bucket and retrieved a cube. You ran it across my folds. I recoiled.

"Don't move."

Then, from behind me, you quickly worked five of them inside of me. I kept flinching and gasping as you did it. You placed a hand on the small of my back, holding me firm, speaking over my whimpers.

"When you can't feel the cold inside of you anymore, you may move. Unpack my suitcase for me, have another glass of wine if you like. Go eat dinner. Then return here and wait for my instructions. If you finish early and find yourself bored, play with yourself, or write, or rest."

As the cubes melted inside of me, I clenched my lower half, my mouth forming an "o", as if screaming silently. I shivered, regretting turning the thermostat down.

"Be good, whore."

And then, again, footsteps, whoosh, click. You were gone.

***

After the ice melted, I took a deep breath and sighed. I straightened up, put my hands on my hips, ran them down my sides and massaged my quads. Then I grabbed my phone, walked into the bedroom, and collapsed on the bed.

My heart was still racing. I was so turned on, so excited for what lay ahead, I felt like I was exploding. I laid there for a few minutes, replaying every moment of what had just transpired between us. And then I collected myself. I had tasks before me. Tasks that would please you. I reminded myself of my purpose.

I tried to organize a to-do list in my mind, drawing from your instructions and the messages I scrolled back through one by one. Unpack your bag. Wine. Dinner. There was to be protocol around that - a text upon leaving, an ETR, the undress-and-kneel ritual upon my reentry. Somewhere in there, I needed to consider and decide what my greeting for you would be.

I decided to begin at the last task; I feared being caught unprepared by your return. And a few minutes more on the bed, letting my legs recover from my ordeal, sounded appealing.

After considering the greeting from as many angles as I could think of, I decided the goal of my action was to demonstrate and display my submissiveness to you. To show you I was aware of my place, and grateful for your return. I needed not debase myself unnecessarily; that would be too much. I dared not touch or reach for you; that would be too presumptuous. I needed to be able to carry it out beneath you, and while naked. It had to be an act of service, something useful and warm, but couldn't take too long.

And just like that, I knew what I would do. I smiled. It was perfect.

I stood up from the bed. Calmed down and distanced from the warmth of the duvet, I realized the room temperature was far too low if I was to remain naked most of the time. I returned to the thermostat and set it at a much more comfortable 72 degrees. I returned to the bottle of barbaresco, which had opened up by then. Its full potential realized, I enjoyed my first few sips of the second glass tremendously. And then I returned to your suitcase to unpack.

It felt strangely intimate, unzipping your bag. Domestic, even. Which I then supposed we were going to be, in some strange kind of way, for the week. We had never spent more than, what, 24 hours together straight? And even that had been in the woods, where time falls away and stands still. This was part of what was so unsettling about spending this time together: it was entirely foreign territory. I had no business knowing which shirts and socks you had packed for your trip here, nor your comings and goings. And yet this felt strangely comfortable, unpacking your belongings. Serving you, being a convenience for you even in your absence - it gave me a peaceful sense of purpose. I felt, well... submissive. And after everything between us, the ebbs and the flows, that felt oddly alright.

It didn't take long to sort through your things, to refold some items and stick them into dresser drawers, to hang the other items, to line your shoes up in the closet. I unpacked your toiletries into the bathroom alongside mine. After I was finished, I looked at your backpack, trying to recall your exact instructions. Unpack your suitcase, I was almost certain. I decided to leave it.

Dinner was next on my list. I wasn't very hungry, but I remembered your instructions and knew I needed to eat something, especially when your gaze already made me so lightheaded. Contemplating my regular spots around the hotel, I settled on Kintaro; miso and a chirashi bowl would be perfect. Plus, being confined in the room felt a bit maddening at the moment still absent a proper fucking from you. I figured I could probably get a walk-in spot at the counter before too long despite it being primetime on a weekend.

At 7:45 or so, I threw on jeans, a sweater, and Toms while finishing the last of my wine. I went to the mirror and tidied myself up. Leaving the room, I smiled at the grey geometric wallpaper as I walked down the hall and messaged you.

Headed out for sushi. Expect to be back around 9.

I can't wait to have your cock in my mouth tonight (presuming it pleases you, Sir).

Tucking my phone into my pocket, I felt relief as I waited for the elevator. The afternoon had been intense, in a way, and I was grateful for the time off. Walking out of the hotel and across the street, I wondered where in the city you were, and if you were feeling the same.

***

As my dinner wound to a close, and I asked for the check, I finally allowed my thoughts to return to the night still ahead. I checked my phone: 8:56. I messaged you quickly to update my ETA to 9:15, and noticed with a little relief the checks from my earlier messages had filled in. You weren't totally abandoning me.

I reread your messages from earlier this afternoon once more, wondering again what lay in store for the remaining days we had together. I signed the check trying to not get ahead of myself. One step at a time. For now, I refocused on how it felt earlier to see you.

Reflecting on it on my walk back, I hadn't noticed at the time how odd it felt to be so exposed while you were fully clothed. I supposed that was the nature of our engagement, and that fact tickled me. I hated being naked, but I liked being naked for you. And I similarly enjoyed the objectification.

I got back to the hotel at 9:18; the check had taken a hair longer to settle than expected. Friday night and all. I passed a few groups of people in the lobby, all on their way to take advantage of the city's nightlife by the looks of it. I smiled and looked down, enjoying my little secret. While they were headed out, I was headed in.

When I returned to the room, I beelined for the bedroom and stripped down quickly, refolding my barely-worn clothes. And then, just as you'd instructed, I took my pose where the coffee table once sat. "Some number of minutes" to me meant as long as it took to shake off that feeling of normalcy, of freedom, that I'd encountered upon leaving the room. To remember my place and my purpose.

I couldn't say how long it was exactly that I posed for you. I'd had two Sapporos with dinner, and, between that and the wine, was feeling a bit buzzy. It was quicker to sink into my basest self than I expected. But I stayed there more time than I thought I needed to, just to be sure.

Moments before I stood up, I heard my phone chime from the bedroom. Your sound. Upon rising to my feet, I walked over and I opened your message.

Take a few minutes to relax and prepare yourself. When you are ready, do the following: put your pink cuffs on your wrists. Figure out a way to attach them to the headboard. If need be, use the rope. Put the quake in and make sure it's connected. Put your headphones on and put on a long playlist, volume high. Blindfold yourself using one of the bandanas. Then connect yourself to the bed. Do not unclip yourself until I call you.

You have been well-behaved so far tonight, whore. Would be a shame to ruin that progress. Be good.

I raised my eyebrows, a grin crossing my face. This was going to be interesting.

Though I was eager to get to the latter parts of your instructions, I forced myself to take a few minutes for some sun salutations in the foreroom. Lengthening, folding, chaturanga, and repeating. I vinyasa'd in the nude until my excitement gave way to calm. From there, I moved slowly around the room, collecting the things I'd need.

Entering the bedroom, I buckled the cuffs to my wrists and contemplated the bed. There was no easy way to attach anything to a solid piece of wood, so I encircled the entire headboard with the rope and pulled it taut, tying it in place with a strong climbing knot. I tugged hard; it would hold. I climbed onto the bed and followed the rest of your instructions in order, working the toy into my slit, putting a Gorillaz playlist on shuffle, darkening my view, and, finally, clipping the cuffs together over the rope and scooting myself down the bed so they'd hold my hands in place.

It felt silly for a minute, laying there like that, listening to the loud beats, my movement restricted. Feeling awkward, I returned to my mantra. It calmed me. I began moving my hips subtly to the thump of the bass, feeling the soft duvet beneath me and the cool air across my nipples, giving myself into the moment. I thought about what had already transpired today, the ways you'd touched me. I thought about your boots on my back, your fingers working ice cubes inside of me. I lost myself in reverie for you, hips turning. I wanted so badly to run my hands along my breasts, to tweak my nipples, to dig my nails into my hips. My breathing quickened, then gave way to sighs that verged on quiet moans.

And then, I started vibrating.

***

The rhythms from the toy were unpredictable at first; they started and stopped. You were fucking with me. I could do nothing to express my frustration but release exasperated vocalizations to an empty room. Which I did. Profusely.

It was a little while later, just when random pulses began forming waves that it happened. Much, much sooner than I'd have thought. Laying there before the vibrator began churning, I had begun to let myself hope your actual touch would be a part of this experience. That I wasn't waiting for a phone call.

I'd imagined, if this was your plan, that you'd leave me there, writhing, for quite a long time. It was a Friday night, after all. But about six songs in, I felt it: your fingernails raking gently down from the center of my chest to my lower abdomen. I shrieked with pleasure. You were already in the room.

"Thank you, Sir. Ohmygod, thank you, Sir," the words exploded out of me.

The waves got stronger. I felt your hand on my hip and your mouth on my nipple, your stubble coarse against my bare skin. I moaned. You used the opportunity to dip your fingers deep into my mouth, toward the back of my throat. I gagged, then lapped them up. The vibrations reached their peak, and stayed there. Your fingers did not; they moved everywhere.

You toyed with me for a few minutes, alternating your mouth and hands across my trigger points. Perhaps you were observing the intensity of my reactions. Perhaps you were just enjoying yourself. Quickly, I felt the build within me; your touch was electric.

"Ohmygod Sir, ohmygod, I'm going to come, I'm going to come, please let me come, Sir," I gasped throatily.

Immediately, your fingers pulled off of me, and a moment later, the quake stopped vibrating. I held the edge for a split second before it ebbed. I whined. I panted. My cunt spasmed in protest.

It was another minute or two like that, panting, backing down. And then the vibrations started again in pulses. We were on repeat. I breathed deeply and leaned into the pulses, understanding intuitively there was to be a rhythm to this. I anticipated your next assault on my senses.

I did not anticipate well. I jumped when the crop came down across my abdominals, letting a loud noise escape my diaphragm.

It was not a hard strike, but it caught me unprepared. And it did hurt. But not nearly so much as the next one across my chest. Or the next one after that, which clipped my ribcage. The strikes got stronger quickly as the waves progressed in kind. I writhed on the bed, arms pinned above me, as unable to escape the relentless beating of my stomach and chest as the vibrations tearing through my cunt.

You showed no signs of slowing or stopping after twenty or after thirty strikes, so I pulled my neck up, tucking my chin in, grimacing, and began begging. "Please, Sir, please, Sir, pleeeaaaase." Looking back at it, I'm not sure exactly what I was begging for. I wanted you to stop. But I also wanted you to keep going.

No matter. The begging did nothing. You did not stop. And so, in the dark, unable to hear you, unable to touch you, in agony as you raised fat welts across my body, I flicked the switch. That delightful switch. I went limp, and entered bliss.

In that hazy space, I lost time. I still felt every thwap as it happened, but I felt the heat in my cunt more. Most of all I felt my own breath. In and out. The vibrations, the blows, my breath all became one rhythm, moving together. Moving me on a wave. I churned my hips as I rode it, pulled at my restraints. I felt the build.

I fought the urge to remain non-verbal in my spacedive. As I got closer and closer to the edge, I felt grateful for every bite of the crop. And so I began to thank you. Over and over again, after each blow, I thanked you. It became part of the rhythm.

It didn't take much longer, there in the hazy dark. "Sir, I'm going to come soon, please Sir, please let me come."

This time, you didn't stop. The build continued. I approached the cusp. The vibration, which I'd thought was at its highest intensity, increased once more and reached a fever pitch.

It was a rageful edge, a twisted revolt against your assault. As you stayed silent, I crossed it, thrusting my hips toward you and crying out. The dopamine rush that had been building all day flooded my brain.