Blackmailed Ch. 02

For the first couple of weeks of my new life, I didn't sleep more than a couple of hours any night. I knew, you know, down at that visceral level far below any thinking, that I would start getting calls any minute from people who I had known or worked with for years. Some of those names on my email list represented relationships that went back decades.

But no calls came. No pictures with my asshole on display showed up. Nothing happened.

My first thought was to tell David everything and be done with it but then I thought it wasn't about him and me. If Daniel was vindictive enough to send those pictures out, and I couldn't swear in court that I had been date raped or something which I manifestly could not, then my professional life would be over and my social life would be worse than over. I'd be a laughing stock and David would be brought down with me, not to mention the kids.

So I did nothing, and as time passed I thought nothing would happen. The whole thing started to feel like a bad dream.

And my life returned to normal. David made plenty of money, our son was off in the Navy somewhere, and I had time to be a good housewife. I also had the time to indulge in my interests. I was active in the Tea Party, intent on denying Barack Obama a second term. I was secretary for the local Historic Society, at 52 the youngest member of the board offering support for the old joke definition of such organizations - old men and old women saving old buildings for no apparent reason.

It was at a meeting of the Historic Society that my world fell apart.

I had bought into the whole mobile device thing pretty hard. My cell phone was lying on the table in front of me as I worked my way through the PowerPoint presentation about the changes the new owners wanted to do to one of the oldest houses in town. I was deep into the presentation. I really am interested in these things. As I was extolling the virtues of triple pane windows and showing illustrations of how the muntins and millions and stiles and sashes would match, visually, the originals, my cellphone buzzed, it was always on "silent."

I glanced down, distractedly, expecting to quickly hit the red "reject" button to let whichever salesman or pollster know I wasn't interested.

The adrenaline rush when I saw the message almost made me faint. My knees got rubbery and my bowels got hot.

Hello Judy. Room 617 at the Downtown Marriott. You have 15 minutes or I hit SEND. Have a Nice Day. Danny

I gasped a breath, grabbed the cell phone, and started toward the door.

"Family Emergency," I said over my shoulder.

I was crying as I got into my car and headed west toward downtown. The meeting was on the east side of town and Denver had long since outgrown its road system. In the best of circumstances, it would have been close but this was far from the best. Traffic was heavy and before five minutes had passed I knew I would never make it.

I was stuck in traffic as I keyed in his number.

"You're pushing it, Judy," he said and oddly it was the diminutive form of my name that bothered me most right then.

"Daniel, I'm trying. I'm in the car. I'm stuck in traffic. Please. I'm not trying to say 'no,' Daniel, I promise I'm not," I said, realizing I was babbling.

"Hmmmmm," he said, and I could picture him smiling, "How about this, Judy? For every 10 seconds you're late I lay my belt across that pretty ass of yours."

"Yes," I said, "Yes, please, yes."

"Well okay then, Judy," he said, "take your time."

When I didn't say anything for a few seconds he said, "I think the phrase you're looking for is 'Thank you, Daniel, for being so understanding."

I took a deep breath and said, "Thank you, Daniel, for being so understanding."

"See you soon, Judy," he said and then added, "or not so soon, it's all the same to me."

And the connection was broken.

I wiped my nose with a jerk of the back of my hand, only now aware of how I was crying, my nose running like a damn faucet, my vision swimming, and my mouth full of thick drool.

"FUCK!" I yelled into the car, my fists pounding on the steering wheel.

"FUCK!" I yelled again, the sound full of hate and fear.

The traffic was a nightmare. When I tried to switch lanes a horn honked and I yelled again.

I was aware of each passing minute and was still at least eight blocks from the hotel when my allotted 15 minutes were up.

I looked at my watch as I knocked on the door of 617. 23 minutes had elapsed since I was summoned.

The door opened and he stood there, naked, smiling.

"Come in," he said, almost courtly in his gesture.

I went in and turned to face him.

The slap across my cheek was so hard I had to take a step back to keep from being knocked down.

As I grabbed where he had hurt me I could feel it already swelling.

"Get out of your fucking clothes, Judy," he said and again my weird mind rebelled at the short form of my name.

But aggravated and hurting as I was, I knew better than to delay.

I started undressing, not making it a strip tease, just getting my clothes off quickly enough to avoid another slap.

I was aware, every instant, of his eyes on me.

On some level, I liked it.

I knew it was crazy. Hell, this whole episode was batshit fucking crazy. But there it was, that pressure in my belly, that tingle where my legs forked, that tightness in my nipples of pure sexual arousal.

The tears and runny nose only added, somehow, to the excitement I was feeling.

Naked, I stood before him.

"Down on your knees, Judy," he said, "where you belong."

I got to my knees.

"Look at me," he said.

I looked up and met his eyes. He was smiling.

"I smell you," he said, his thumb and fingers grasping my jaw and squeezing, making me moan.

"You're liking this, aren't you?" he asked.

When I didn't answer he slapped me again. It felt like he hit exactly the same spot as before, but this time it hurt even more since I was already swollen and sore.

"Answer me, Judy," he said, his hand on my jaw tightening and hurting me.

"YES!," I cried, "Yes, God help me, yes."

"Yes what?" he asked, his voice oddly calm and conversational.

"Yes," I said, holding his eyes with mine, "I like this."

"Tell my balls how much you love them," he said.

I was scared and hurting but also, there it was, that pressure my treacherous body was putting on me between my legs.

I leaned forward and kissed his balls and whispered, "I love you."

"LOOK AT ME!" he snapped and I looked up at him.

He raised his hand and I started crying again.

"Please, don't," I said, "please."

"Then convince my balls you mean it," he said.

I leaned forward and kissed his scrotum, and whispered, "I love you."

I caressed his balls and cock with my cheeks and forehead and eyelids, whispering "I love you" over and over. I feared another slap, of course, but on some deeper level, way down where my monkey ancestors went into heat and had to breed, I meant it.

I used my tongue and licked his scrotum, tasting ballsweat, and when I said, "I love you," this time there was no doubt. I meant it.

I kissed and licked my way up his shaft and drew back just enough to focus on it. "You're beautiful," I said to his cock, and I meant it.

"I love you," I said, kissing the head of his cock, and I meant it.

I felt his fingers tangle in my hair and then twist, hurting and forcing me to bend my neck at a painful angle to look up at him.

"That's better," he said, and there was that smile that had gotten me into this mess in the first place.

"Now," he said, smiling, his voice gentle, "it's time for your first lesson."

I said nothing. I was afraid to say anything. So I looked up, meeting his eyes, terribly aware of the way my nose was running, warm sticky snot running down my chin and coating my boobs.

"Point your toes, Judy," he said in that gentle, almost reasonable voice, "your shins should be on the floor, contact from your knees to your toes."

I pointed my toes, my ankle bending almost painfully, and pressed down, feeling the skin from my knees to my toes touching the thin motel room carpet.

"Good girl," he said, patting me on the head, "hands on your thighs now, right at the top, palms flat, fingers pointed."

I laid my hands on my thighs, bending my wrists to an almost painful 90-degree angle, my fingers very straight.

He slapped the back of my head, not hard but enough to hurt a little, "Spread your fingers just a little, Judy."

I did and he patted my head again and said, "Good girl."

"Arms straight, now," he said in that almost reasonable voice, "and back straight."

I straightened my arm and my back.

"Head down, chin on your chest," he said.

I bent my neck, put my chin on my chest, and looked straight down at a spot between my knees.

"This is the position you will assume whenever I say 'KNEES,' like that. Do you understand me?" he said.

"Yes," I said, my chin bumping against my chest with my words.

"Good girl," he said, "now let's practice."

He paused and I thought he was thinking.

"Do you know what an 'up-down' is?" he asked.

"A what?" I asked, not understanding the question.

The slap to the back of my head made me cry out.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Judy, are you DENSE!" he said and slapped me again,

"It's a simple 'yes or no' question you numb cunt. Do you know what an 'up-down' is?" he said.

"N-n-no," I said, crying again.

"Better," he said, and resumed that soft, conversational tone.

"An 'up-down' is a football exercise. You stand and when I say "go," you drop to a squat, shoot your feet out behind you, back to a squat, and then stand again. Got it? Up and then down and then up again," he explained.

"Stand up," he said, and I stood, quickly, not wanting to earn another slap.

"GO," he said suddenly and I squatted, got my feet behind me, got back into the squat position, and stood.

He slapped me again. "WATCH, dummy," he said.

I watched as he stood, dropped rapidly to a squat position, kicked both legs back at the same time while catching himself on his arms, hands flat on the floor, kind of jumped back to the squat position, and stood, actually jumping a little off the floor as he did.

"Got it?" he asked in his reasonable voice.

"Y-y-yes," I said.

"GO," he said and I tried to emulate what I had watched him do.

"Better," he said, and patted my cheek where I could feel it was swollen and tender.

"GO," he said and I did an up-down.

"GO," he said as I returned to my feet.

"GO."

"GO."

I wasn't counting and I have no idea how many of those damn things he had me do. I know that when he finally said, "Okay, good girl, rest," I was sweating and gasping for breath.

"KNEES," he snapped and it took a few seconds to register what that meant.

The slap on my tender, swollen cheek reminded me and I dropped, assuming my position.

He went to the honor bar and got out a beer, then went and sat in the office chair that seems to be standard in modern motel rooms, along with the little desk.

I didn't dare look up. I didn't want another slap.

After some interminable time - sometime try setting a timer and then standing, just doing nothing, for two minutes and you'll start to understand what I mean - out of the corner of my eye I saw him get up from the chair.

Then I heard the little clicking sound, the faux single lens reflex sound of his cell phone camera.

I could no more have stopped the soft moan that escaped my throat than flown.

"Look at me," he said and I looked up, aware of the tears, the swollen cheek, the snot flowing from my nose and down from my chin onto my boobs in thick strings.

"Smile," he said, and I managed a smile.

He walked around me, getting pictures from every angle. I could hear the steady click-click-click of the camera and each individual click was another stake driven into the heart of my future.

"Eyes down," he snapped and I bent my neck, looking at the spot between my knees.

"Now, there is the little matter of your tardiness," he said.

I could see, out of the corner of my eye, as he got a pad of paper out.

"Now, by my reckoning, you were eight minutes late, Judy," he said, "does that sound about right."

"Yes," I said, afraid to not answer.

"Sooo," he said, drawing the vowel out, "at one stroke for every ten seconds, that six per minute, right?"

"Yes," I said again.

"And six times eight is forty-eight, right?" he said in that casual, conversational tone that I would come to hate and fear.

"Yes," I said for the third time.

"Well, all right then," he said, sounding almost cheerful, "there it is."

He got up and came to where I was, holding my "KNEES" position.

"Get up, Judy," he said, overworking the diminutive of my name. I assumed that he knew how much it irritated me.

"Now," and he was back to that easy, conversational voice, "here's what we're going to do. Your feet about here," and he touched two spots on the carpet about three feet apart.

I moved to put my feet where he had touched, making me spread my legs quite a bit.

"Now reach down and grab your ankles," he said.

So I did, feeling naked and exposed and terrified.

"No," he said, walking around and looking, "that won't do. Scoot forward about a foot."

So I scooted forward what I figured was about a foot. That put me pretty close to the bed.

"That's better," he said, "now grab your ankles."

When I did that my head was almost touching the bed.

"That's close," he said and I watched, from that awkward position, as he flipped the spread and sheet down and laid one of the pillows on the edge of the bed.

"Can you lay your face on the pillow?" he asked.

I leaned forward and laid my face on the pillow. In that position, I was almost losing my balance the way I was leaning forward.

"Scoot forward another half foot," he said, and I did.

"Face on the pillow," he said, and I did. This time it was awkward and uncomfortable, but I could manage the position.

"There we go, Judy," he said.

I watched and felt my bowels go hot and watery as he took his jeans from where they were laying, neatly folded, on top of his suitcase and slowly pulled his belt free from the loops.

"Now the deal was one stroke for every ten seconds you were late, right?" he asked.

"Yes," I said.

"And you were eight minutes late, right?" he asked.

"Y-y-yes," I said, oddly ashamed of the way I was starting to cry.

"So since 60 divided by 10 is six and six times eight is 48, that comes to 48 strokes, have I got it right?" he asked.

"Please," I moaned, earning another slap on the back of the head, almost knocking me over since I hadn't been given permission to release my ankles.

"ANSWER MY QUESTION, JUDY!" he snapped.

"Y-y-yes, 48," I said.

"Okay, we agree," he said, almost cheerfully. "Now here's the rules. If you feel like you need to scream, you bury your pretty face in that pillow, got it? I don't want the neighbors calling the police or anything like that."

I said nothing, just held my position and watched, strangely fascinated, as the tears dripped off of my nose onto the rug, and the thick string of clear snot hung from my nose until it broke and left a slimy spot.

David and I had played at spanking, as a sort of spicy foreplay, from time to time, so I knew how it could be.

Or I thought I did.

"Oh, Judy," I thought, "You should have just let me send the pictures. After this, you are mine.

The first stroke of the belt was worse than anything David had ever done. I couldn't stop myself from reaching back to protect myself. My foot kicked, almost a spasm. The tears were instantaneous. I was gasping, trying to catch my breath.

"Oh, Judy," he said, "you are in for a very long night if you can't do better than that. But I'm going to give you a break since I didn't explain all of the rules. Now listen up."

"Okay," I said, struggling to get my shuddering body under control.

"Rule number one," he said, "is to keep hanging onto your ankles. If you release them again, the count goes back to one. Understand?"

"Y-y-yes," I said.

"Rule number two," he said, "you count. After each stroke, the proper response is the number followed by 'Please, Master, may I have another?' Understand?"

"Y-y-yes," I said again.

"Okay little Miss Snottynose, grab those ankles," he said.

I moaned but did as I was told.

The second was as bad as the first.

"T-t-t-t-two," I said, "Please, Master, may I have another?"

I held off until eight before I screamed into the pillow.

At twelve he spoke for the first time since the strapping had started.

"I'm in a good mood today," he said and the soft caress of his hand on my ass made me jump, "so you get a two-minute break."

Strangely, throughout our relationship, Daniel has never lied to me, so I accept that he gave me the full two minutes to rest. It felt like about 10 seconds.

"Th-th-th-thirteen," I managed, "Please, Master, may I have another."

I was screaming into the pillow almost constantly by then, stopping only to draw breath and say my litany.

At twenty-seven I threw up, and it went through thirty-one as I gagged and bawled and struggled to get my plea for another out.

I passed out.

When I woke, maybe "came too" is the better word, he was standing over me, tapping his foot, dramatically demonstrating his impatience.

"Now look what you did," he said in that weird, chatty way.

"Wh-wh-wh-what?" I managed, struggling to come fully awake.

"You moved your hands so now the count has to start over," he said.

And I broke.

I felt it, deep inside. It was just too much to bear.

I rolled over and prostrated myself, literally prostrated myself, laying on my belly, squirming to him and kissing his feet, sobbing uncontrollably, and begging him.

"Please, no," I begged, kissing his feet, licking them, my tears and snot making them slick where I was kissing, "please, Daniel, please Master, no, not that, please."

"Wellllllllllllll," he said, drawing the alveolar lateral approximant (the "L" sound) out, "what do you offer in exchange for leniency?"

"Anything," I said without hesitation, my voice muffled because I was kissing his feet.

"KNEES!" he said and I scrambled to assume my position.

"Look at me," he said and I bent my neck and looked up to meet his eyes.

My crying was down to sobs and sniffles. I didn't dare move my hand to wipe my nose or mouth so drool and snot continued to stream down to my breasts.

He touched my mouth and asked, sounding reasonable, "Whose mouth is it?"

And I knew, with no doubt, what he wanted me to say. But I was afraid to say it, afraid to cross that final Rubicon.

"My mouth," I said and he slapped me.

The last shreds of my resistance were broken.

"Whose mouth is it?" he asked again in that same quite reasonable voice.

"Your mouth," I said.

He stroked my hair, and said "Good girl."

The relief I felt was so palpable it was sexual and deep in my belly I felt a stirring of arousal.

"Whose tits are they?" he asked.

"Your tits," I said, and I felt a rush almost as powerful as that rush you get when something startles you and your adrenaline pumps into your blood triggering your fight or flight response, but this was centered between my legs.

This was another of those timeless events. As he inventoried my body I gave myself to him, piece by piece, and somehow, deep in my core, I felt myself becoming more and more female, more feminine, with each gift to him.

And I realized that I was owned, utterly and completely, that I had held nothing back from him.

I liked it.