Damian Ch. 08: WHAT'S HAPPENING?

"Damian, I have demons about you. I can't accept your forgiveness for what we did to you. I... I deserve..." her breath hitches as she makes herself speak the words "...to be punished. I need you to punish me before I can accept your forgiveness for what we did to you."

"Is that too much to ask? Do you even understand what I'm asking...?"

Well... how can I answer to make this meaningful for her? How can she know that I can provide what she's seeking. I see no alternative, but... maybe it's time to trust her with my little secret. Maybe this is the root of our first connection. Something we have that Cassie doesn't: at least until we let her have it too.

"...can you keep my secret? From Cassie? For maybe at least a little bit?"

She appears to be surprised at my response and maybe a little titillated. She smiles hopefully and nods.

"Okay. As a big part of my therapy, I've had to learn a lot... and I mean a lot... about BDSM. And with it, I've learned a lot about relationships. I've learned about communicating and really meeting someone else's needs where they are emotionally and not just where I think they are. I've learned about giving and receiving and a whole other level of emotional connection and acceptance.

"I had thought the culture was just perverts and sickos who were into pain, ropes and kinky sex. But now I know it's so much more. So much more."

"Here..."

I stand and turn around, then drop my pants: the afterimage healing of my last session before Tara left was not even remotely gone. "I've been learning things." I was speaking to the wall, letting Cynthia take it in; she is so close, now, looking at my rawness that I can feel her breath. "I know exactly what it feels like. I believe I know how to punish... and how not to." I pull up my pants and turn around again to look at her. She's got a wicked gleam in her eye: a glow of hope and promise. "I'm not an expert yet, but I'm told that I'm a talented beginner."

"Are you... a switch?"

I feel weirdly shy about telling her. I've already put the big part out there. And this little detail makes me a bit shy. "Yes, exactly. But dom-inclined."

Her breath hitches and there's lust in her eyes.

Then I go for it. It's what they both want. I think I want it too.

"Want to... play...?"

She smiles at me and slowly nods - it's a slow absolute, not a slow doubtful. We leave our half-eaten dinner and she takes me to the room.

"Cass has seen this room, but we don't actually play here."

She unlocks and opens the door. Her "red room" is actually themed in greens and wood tones. It's almost Victorian. It's smaller than the big garage Tara had rented, but still good sized. I walk around and inventory the contents. It has a different kind of bondage bench, hooks, chains, cuffs and pipes on the ceiling for suspension activities, a sex swing in the corner, a Saint Andrews cross and a good sized bed, but whuoaaa - the toys, devices, tools... It's really well-equipped.

"I really haven't been in here much since... since I've been alone."

I turn around and she's kneeling on a pad in her submissive pose. I didn't even hear her strip, but she's naked and wanton.

"I'm sorry, Master."

What do I do with this...?

"I don't think we've evolved to 'Master' yet, have we? For now, just call me 'Sir.' I think that's more respectful of this whole relationship... thing."

"I'm sorry... Sir. I did a horrible thing to you. It was unspeakable. I submit to your punishment. Please, make me suffer as I've made you suffer. It's my only freedom from this emotional pain. Release me. I am yours. Sir."

"Your safewords are 'red' and 'yellow'. You know what that means."

I'm trying to pull the dominant persona over my head to wear it like a tight-fitting t-shirt, but I still feel like a newbie here just pretending with - my god - the Head Mistress of the Lost and Found herself. I'm a pretender. It panics me a bit.

Then I think more deeply. This isn't about performance: it's about relationship. I don't have to be great; I just have to be great for her. It's simply two people meeting needs. Her need is to be purged of her guilt and only I can do that. My need - she thinks she's filling - is to be allowed revenge for what happened to me. She doesn't know how I'm wired so that's what she thinks. The offer is just... sweet... even the offer is almost enough. But I owe it to her to do this: put on my big boy pants and do it.

My voice is more confident "Cynthia, you are guilty. You hurt me deeply... heinously. Yes, you deserve to be punished. To learn." I indicate a place under the hook array on the ceiling with hanging straps and chains. "Stand here." She stands there obediently and holds her arms above her head, ready to be cuffed. I see in her eyes a little fear, but also a little titillation...

This is it: the ultimate act of trust and surrender. TPE. She hardly knows me, and she knows I'm new to this. She fears I hold a burning anger for her. But based only on what Cass has told her about me and what she's observed, this frail, sweet thing is offering me everything. Perfect trust. My heart swells in that moment. I could learn to love this woman.

Love is infinite. Tara taught me that.

I cuff her wrists to the ceiling hooks and chains. Not surprisingly, they seem perfectly adjusted for her. I walk behind her, then cuff her ankles outward, so her body forms an "X", though comfortably with her feet on the floor unlike how we started with Toy. I spank her on her left butt cheek and she starts. I spank her harder on the other cheek and she yelps, then I tease and spank her all over... gauging her reactions, varying the techniques and warming her body up. I'm learning her tolerance and her responses. Her body reddens quickly and I think part of it is from her sexual heat, because I can see her disappear somewhere inside herself as a part of this experience.

From gauging her, I learn she has a high tolerance for pain. It challenges me: I have to make this real for her. I have to make it a real punishment. And given how much she can take, I have to push myself to be able to push her. If I don't, it won't be real enough to help her absolve herself of her guilt. She won't believe it was real for me. To meet her needs, I'm going to have to go way outside my comfort zones. I have to cause serious pain. This is terrifying.

Do I confess to being a fraud? An amateur?

Stalling as I toughen myself, I whisper in her ear, "I wonder, what should I call you? Little one? Slut? Bitch? Pet? Cabbage? Should I give you a name? Like Spot or Rover? What do you think?"

"Ummm... It would be fair to call me 'Cunt,' Sir, for all I've done to you. But I would be so honored if one day you called me, 'Pet'".

"Okay, Cunt. We'll start there. Maybe you can earn better in the future."

She seems resolved at the debasement. She needed to hear it from me.

"We have a problem here, Cunt.

"I can't mark you much. Cass will see. You have your closing night party on Saturday and can't go as a whipped Domme; that's not your professional persona. What can we do that's clinical... and precise... and very, very painful, but after which... you'll be relatively unblemished in a day or two...?"

She hears me rummaging behind her through the toy rack, but is disciplined enough not to look. I walk back to her and move the leather pad of the riding crop over her shoulder and near her lips. "Kiss it. Make love to it. Beg it to hurt you."

She does all those things. She begs the crop: "please, bring me pain so that I can satisfy Sir. Please make it hurt. Please make me scream... Please help Sir forgive me."

"Where can I crop you that hurts, but isn't visible, hmmm...?"

I see her tremble as she takes my meaning onboard. She knows what I'm going to do.

In the tiniest of trembling voices, she manages: "thank you, Sir...."

I tease her ass, thighs and between her thighs with the leather pad. I drag the anticipation out. I'm happy to see some liquid ooze out of her pretty snatch as I do. I build and build. The I swat her ass; I swat it hard! She yelps bravely. Then she thanks me and asks for another. I continue: hard sometimes, soft others. Drawing imaginary circles and swirls on her flesh with the crop as if it's a pen... varying the time between punishments so she never knows when or where it's coming. She's thrashing in her restraints, crying, but thanks me dutifully after each strike of the crop.

Then I motorboat the paddle between her inner thighs, back and forth rapidly, working my way higher and higher. She's yelping and breathing heavily as:

CRACK! I swat her pussy lips. She screams. I swat them again, then her thighs and her labia again. She's weeping now, but thanking me as I go. Then I reach down and pull her clit out from its hood with my fingers. I know this is painful and demanding. She can't help herself and she rotates her hips madly, but I have the little treasure firmly in my fingers. Then she almost screams, "P... Pllllease...."

"...what? Please what?"

She considers her next words carefully. "Please... make me suffer..." I nod slowly, watching her face as she knows I'm processing. It's a connection moment for both of us. We're seeing inside each other.

And I pinch her clit hard, eliciting a primal scream, then bring the crop on it hard. And I keep swatting as she thrashes and whines.

But as I continue, it transforms for her; I see it in her expression, in the twist of her lips, in the changes to her keening. That magical thing is happening where she blends the sensations. She feels the cropping in terms of pleasure. As I punish her clit, she starts shaking and breathing irregularly... then she asks "Sir, may I cummmm...?"

I deny her an immediate answer, but after a few more swats I give her permission. She gasps in pleasure and starts to cum hard. I finish her with my finger: directly and brutally rubbing her clit. She gasps involuntarily, struggles and then completes, screaming, and falling limp in her bonds.

I check on her, look at her face, feel her breathing. She's okay, but I unfasten her cuffs anyway and start to lay her on the green room's bed.

She startles me by suddenly stiffening from being limp to grabbing my head and staring into my eyes like a panicked demon. "Sir, please fuck me. Take me hard. Make me yours...." She struggles out of my arms and rolls over onto all fours, begging to be taken doggy. So, I do. She wants to be owned she needs intensity; I grab her hair and pull back, using it like reigns on a horse as I get the best leverage to plunge deeply into her sopping wet pussy and I fuck her hard. After what I've dealt on her labia already, I'm impressed that she took it without screaming. It isn't lovemaking: it's just animal fucking. I'm making her mine.

I really don't think she's done this lately, because her reactions are so surprised, so primal and she's still remarkably tight. But it doesn't take long before she's fucking me back with her hips, while thanking me for every thrust. We feed off of each other's responses, until we're both cumming... I think I got there a couple seconds before she did, but we end up in the same happy pile after finishing at the same time, laughing.

I'm holding her now and we get quiet.

"Thank you, Sir. That was perfect. I don't believe that you haven't been doing this for your whole life. You're amazing." As I pull out of her, she winces and I find I can't touch her anywhere for all the places she's smarting and red.

I ask, "Do you have any lotion? Salve?"

She tells me where to get it. I bring it back and rub it gently over her punishments. I take my time, making this an act of care, of worship, of a joining of intent. Her moans sound almost orgasmic in themselves as I admire her curves and now her marks. The tattoo is breathtaking. Everything about this creature is pure and primal.

I carry her to her master bedroom jetted tub. It's big enough for two people. And I fill it, easing her into the bath. I rub her shoulders. Then I wash her and wash her hair. I towel her hair dry in the tub, brushing it slowly as if I were polishing a fine work of art. I find it fascinating the way the hairs pull in a perfect rippled pattern, separate, relax. Then I help her stand and gently wipe her body dry, rubbing in more lotion to the red parts. I finish blow-drying and brushing her beautiful, silky hair, while enjoying the feel of her body, the smell of her skin.

I carry her to the bedroom's bed. All through this grooming and caring, I see her watching my face every chance that she can get an angle, and I swear that that's adoration she's projecting with her eyes: honest, open adoration. It's clear she's needed this. She's ripe for this experience.

I set her down and lay next to her, stroking her forehead. Taking in every line of her face as I commit this moment to memory.

She's struggling to say something. I wait patiently. "D...do you forgive me?" The look on her face is open, innocent. I realize she has nothing left to offer me... for this, it's her last chance. And she needs to hear it. And I need to mean it.

"Yes, Pet. I forgive you."

She trembles and then cries.

I push it... "Do you forgive yourself?" She needs that.

And I want to meet her needs.

She sniffles and smiles at me.

"I have a chance now, thanks to you. Cass is right, you're wonderful. Sir." Then she realizes I had called her "Pet" and amends "...M...Master..."

I smile and relax next to her.

"Can you spend the night, Sir? Master? Please? I haven't slept in a Master's arms in..."

I knew that she meant a male "Master." I have to remind myself that we're not cheating on Cass: this is what she wants.

"I'd like that a lot." This feels so right.

After another couple minutes of holding her, I feel her body tense which makes me worry: did I trigger something? She gets up and I remind myself that I don't know her. I don't yet know how to read her. She goes to the kitchen and pours us each a glass of pinot noir wine. As she returns, I watch her sultry body glide in front of the penthouse windows: a silhouette of life and humanity framed in those harsh angular lights of the city; but those, in contrast, loved by the sparkling stars above. I'm transfixed. If only I could capture this scene forever.

I don't understand this moment: it is touching me like déjà vu, but I've never had an experience like this. But it's in me. I know this. I've been here?

She returns to me, too quickly to fully appreciate, but far too slowly to satisfy my visceral need to feel her body back next to mine.

I sit up in the bed and take the offered wine. It feels like a sacrament.

We toast to new beginnings.

Then she sits on the side of the bed and sets both our glasses on the antique nightstand. I watch openly as she reaches over and holds my head in her sweet hands... looking at me with that intensity that says 'this is important.'

"Damian? Master? Please..."

She breathes deeply as I brace to learn what she wants....

"You and Mistress are broken. You need to fix it. It's right." She strokes my cheek with her thumb, watching the motion. "Mistress needs you to fix it. You need you to fix it. The boys... they need you to fix it. And..."

I can see her glance aside a second: perhaps only now admitting something to herself. She looks me in the eye again.

"...I need to you fix it."

I just reply, "I know."

She shudders slightly, sips more wine and retakes her place cuddled to my body.

And we quietly chat and hold each other. It feels so right, how she tucks into me perfectly, me holding her from behind, us curled up. It's like we were made for this, that we were cast from the positive and negative of the same mold. From here, I can embrace her completely; she seems so fragile, like fine Dresden lace porcelain, and I feel in my gut that I need to protect her. Nurture her. It's so comfortable to express myself as I idly stroke her body. And she presses her back into me as if she's trying to make our bodies one.

It feels so right.

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NEXT: Wild times at the fetish club!