Binding Arbitration Pt. 01

She takes me in greedily, the whole shaft at first, cradling the tip with the back of her tongue. Then draws back, taking my head between her lips, tongue flicking insistently at the glans.

I want to face-fuck her senseless, of course... but well, first, that's kind of contrary to my interests at the moment... and second, I don't think she needs any encouragement. Offhand, I think it inspires her to give head on her knees with her arms restrained behind her. But that's just a guess; maybe she just likes to give head.

Either way, she's fucking good at it. I check my watch. We're twenty-four seconds in. I let go of her hair, which was a small turn-on I can do without right now, if I'm going to ride this out.

After about a minute and a half, hate to admit it, I'm a little worried. But I think about case law, statutes... Uniform Commercial Code... Canon of Professional Ethics, chapter and verse. Then baseball stats... Harper's career homers, Kershaw's ERA this season... I'm up to Buster Posey's lifetime average with two outs and runners on, when the second hand sweeps over the twelve, and I pull out.

"Awwww," she pouts. "That was not three minutes!"

"Time flies, baby," I reply, putting my cock away. "You were really good, though, I give you that. A challenge."

"Cheater," she grouses.

"Sorry, slut, I made the rules, and I'm the ref, too."

Before she can retort, I reach down and drag her to her feet, spin her around and untie her elbows. I find the key in my pocket and undo the cuffs. Spin her around again, facing me. She looks disheveled, at worst, but not worn or worried. She's going to be a tough nut to crack.

Her hands free now, it's time for me to give her something to obey.

"Strip!" I shout. "Buck naked, chop-chop, jewelry included. Clothes, there!" I command, pointing to the coffee table. Then to a spot on the carpet in the middle of the room:

"Knees, there!"

* * *

"And quickly!" I am shouting around the partition that walls off the lounge section of my office from the wet bar. I'm looking for the Johnny Walker Black Label and a rocks glass. "You're on a timer," I lie.

I can hear the rustle of cloth and the jangle of metal and the panting exertions of a woman stripping down in a hurry.

"If I don't see a fully naked whore kneeling on my rug in - well, I won't tell you how long - you'll be punished! Whiskey?"

"Make it a double," her voice is edged with effort, but not a lot.

"Got it. Now shut up!" I snap. "That's the last word your lips will utter until further notice. Disobey me, and you'll spend the rest of the game gagged."

I pause. No reply. Good. ...I mean, I can picture her lips wrapped around my favorite ballgag, and I like the visual, but I'd rather not. I'd rather we have a conversation while I break her down. That could be hot.

I pour my whiskey on the rocks. And for Vik... I reach down into the cabinet under the sink, pull out a tin dog-bowl, and pour her the double she asked for.

Whiskey, neat, humiliation back.

Glass and bowl in my hands, I round the partition and... stop where I am, surprised. Her clothes are neatly stacked on the corner of the coffee table, immaculately creased and folded, her thigh-highs and pink satin panties topping the stack, with earrings, bangles and a necklace carefully arranged on top. Was Marie Kondo in here while I wasn't looking?

Vik has stripped completely. She is kneeling where I directed. And... her hands are clasped behind her neck, chin up, off her haunches, knees spread, pussy and tits thrust forward. Eyes straight ahead, focused...

Just the way I train it. 'At-Attention.' What the fuck?

But I smile. I walk over, moving alongside and behind her, swirling the whiskey in my glass. Saying nothing for a very long time, keeping her uncertain...

Meanwhile, I take in the glorious and long-awaited sight of Viktoria Y. James, Esquire, naked... and humbled. Her skin Is flawless, smooth and - flushed as she is now - rosy, almost radiant in the muted light.

Her body is firm and toned, head to toe - from playing (highly) competitive tennis, if I have that right - and her deliciously full hips and bottom aren't "thick" but tight; likewise, her magnificent rack - even with the advantage of the elbows-out discipline-posture that lifts and juts her tits forward - appear high, firm and generously rounded thanks to gym work on those sturdy pectoral muscles of hers. I go on objectifying her naked treasures at my leisure...

... Exquisite. And for the time being, at least, all mine.

Done ogling my prize for now, I reach around and place the tin bowl in front of her. "Drink."

Without hesitation, she folds and clasps her hands behind her back, leans over to put her face in the bowl... and slurps. I shake my head, smile and take a gulp from my glass. This is above and beyond simple obedience. I think I sense a little... enthusiasm.

I let out a self-satisfied sigh. "I don't know about you, Vik. But I intend to bill this time."

* * *

Soon, I have my Viktoria-slut crawling across the Persian rug on hands and knees. Naked, dog-collared and leashed. She grips the yellow silk loser-flag tightly in her left hand and the thin end drags across the carpet as she crawls. I am walking alongside her, leash-handle in one hand, riding-crop in the other. Slapping the crop striker on the thigh of my pants to set the pace.

*THWIK! THWIK!* The slap of the striker is muffled in cloth, but loud and sharp enough to do the job. She keeps up. She has a good sense of tempo.

"Awww, poor, groveling Viktoria James, Esquire - look at you!" I taunt her. "Crawling like a bitch-in-heat! Head lower, ass up!"

At my command, she crawls with her face close to the rug, and her firm, rounded cheeks shamefully up in the air. But not too shamefully. I always leave room to ramp up the humiliation. A chip I hold for later.

I lean in, piling it on. "How does it feel, Viktoria? Crawling at the feet of your superior! Hmm, tell -"

I stop myself: I don't want to order her to speak, because the rule is, she must obey. No, I want the next thing she utters to a little more spontaneous, or accidental. Another fuck off, or a yes Sir, or Is that all you got? If I get any of those, it'll be a disobedience-demerit on her ledger. Strike one. I'd welcome that.

What I want to hear, though, is, Ooohh, it feels HOT to crawl naked at your feet, Sir, pleeease whip me too, that'll make me even HOTTER!

Or whatever. But I get nothing. Vik's lips are sealed and I think she might even be biting them inside. No retorts. Silence. That's the way you're coping, Vik. But with what, exactly... the stress or the arousal? And while her sealed lips tell me one thing, the stifled moans and sighs behind them tell another. She's going to need some additional stimuli.

So I start whipping her.

"Faster, slut!"

*THWIK!-THWIK!* My riding-crop swats out the tempo on her flanks, the striker kissing alternate sides of her ass. The first lashes startle her, no hiding that - but then she responds by taking direction from the whip - accelerating her frantic crawl-gait. I think, too, she's learning quickly that, lightly administered, the crop isn't torture exactly, more of an exquisite little flesh-stinger.

So as she begins adjusting to the whip, I double down on the humiliation: "How do you like groveling for me, slut? Does it make you wet...?"

"Mmgh!"

"I mean, look who's dominating you, Viktoria! A hated rival - a man, no less - who's put you on your hands and knees, conquered and subjugated you! Naked slut, cunt, whore! You're Frank Morgan's bitch now!"

As I drive her along with my crop-tempo, verbally degrading her, I hear more soft moans mixed in with the grunt and pants of exertion. I start to lay in the whip-lashes underhanded now, catching the rounded undercurves of her sweet ass, watching those lively cheeks twitch and jiggle with each lash, the flushed pink stripes piling up one next to the other.

"Back the other way!" We've reached the edge of the carpet again. "Faster!"

When she hesitates, I lay in the whip sharp and true on the left-ass sweet-spot, where the cheek meets her inner thigh meets the back-side curve of her vulva.

*THWIK!*

"Yip!" is all she says.

Now alertly, fast and determined as she can, she lurches forward into a faster crawl. *Thwik-thwik-thwik!* Jig time. From behind, I am driving her like she's a dogsled instead of a house-pet, whipping her ass all the way, watching it as it slopes down toward her laboring back.

I hoot and jeer and mock her. "Ass up, face down - degraded at my feet - whipped like an animal by your adversary?"

*THWIK!* Underhanded, the sweet spot on the right, then back to the left. *THWIK!*

"Nnghh!" She flinches hard, then reverts to silence.

"Filthy whore! How wet is my bitch's hungry, aching cunt now? Hmm?" I laugh mockingly. "How can you take it, Viktoria? Give it up, counsel, make it end - not an order from my lips, but an appeal to what's left of your dignity: Drop the necktie!"

As I flog her across the rug, I check her pussy: lips swelling, the little pink buds inside flowering and juicing... but not exactly gushing. This could go either way. Fine. I'm game for either.

Maybe it's a mistake to throw down that challenge, but I don't think so. The words caused a different kind of flinching in her. I can see the stress in her neck and shoulders, fatigue setting in on her taut upper arms, still strong but weakening as the tempo keeps increasing. Now, wearing the sub down physically is an integral part of breaking her, and you can't say Vik wasn't warned. She knows it for real now. Even though I can't see her face, I know there's a seething tension and stress building up in her.

Something is going to burst soon...

...And then I'll see what I have. Either the aspiring sex-slave who's secretly wet and hot in the belly at the intensity of the bondage, humiliation and whipping, and craves to submit? Or the proud, stubborn, rebellious captive who needs to be broken some other way...?

Which is to say, by force. I think Vik knows that. And she knows, too, if she chooses not to submit as a panting, moaning slut, then she'll be consciously inviting the other way. Unluckily for her, I'm up or that.

"Drop the tie, counsel. Let it go ..."

*THWIK! THWIK!* "Poor baby, must be so hard on you, huh? Whipped like an un-housebroken bitch, cowering and whining on all fours. All that can end... Just let it go..."

I keep after her inner thighs exclusively now, firm, sharp swats. "Faster, whore! Ass up higher! Face lower! Cock-sucking cunt!"

I increase the tempo and cadence of the whipping, quickening your crawling stride. "Turn! Back! Faster, whore!"

After that last lap around the rug, I whip and drive her past the edge of the carpet and a short ways onto the marble flooring in the entrance hall of my office. I position her facing the closet, lift her by the shoulders so that she is kneeling upright.

She starts moving her arms and thighs to re-assume the slave-posture I saw before, but I whip that right back down. Without words, my crop directs her new posture: kneeling back, ass on her heels, thighs modestly spread - hands resting on them, palms up - shoulders slumped, face bowed.

Humbled, penitent, yielding.

She doesn't like it. I see that in the muscle language of her shoulders, upper arms, her neck. But she assumes the acquiescent, 'Waiting' discipline-posture dutifully. She is playing by the rules. The crop commands just like my voice does, and what the crop commands, she obeys.

"Relax into that, slut," I direct her.

I open the closet door and angle it just right, so that in the full-length mirror that hangs inside the door, you can see your humiliation, Viktoria James.

"Slut, look..." With a couple of love-taps from the crop to the underside of her chin, I make her look up to take in the sight. I watch her eyes lift up although her face is tipped slightly down.

"Slut, do you see what you've become?"

Leaving her and her reflection alone with that question, I go to the cabinet by the wet bar and come away with a three coils of fine hemp rope and a gag. Returning to her, I take her left wrist, the one gripping the yellow flag, lift it up and hold it straight ahead of her.

"Eyes open wide! Do not remove your gaze from that sight!"

I see her eyes are fixed straight ahead on the mirror. If nothing else, on her nakedness. The collar at her throat, the leash in my hand. Aroused. Pained. Showing me signs, however small, that the humiliation is beginning to wear on her. Or if not that, then it's her fear of what comes next. Either way, she looks a little less brave to me now.

And she sees me behind her looming over her shoulder, in my Canali suit pants, shined black leather Ferragamo wingtips, pressed, pale-blue Hugo Boss dress shirt, French cuffs rolled up, riding-crop and leash-handle in one hand... ballgag in the other.

I speak menacingly. But softly.

To be continued...