Experiments Ep. 01

I stand, nervous yet drenched and dripping, at the entrance to your new house. For months, we have discussed the possibility of this day with hope and almost pained excitement. Finally, that day is here.

Unbeknownst to you, I arrive wearing patent leather stiletto Mary Jane-style shoes, those best befitting a slutty baby girl, which I hope I am. The sheen on the shoes from the warm light over my head warding off the gloom belies their ebony color. A matching mid-knee length trench coat hides the surprise beneath from prying and hungry eyes. My hair is pulled back in a high ponytail, a handle to use when things get...rough.

I shiver with pleasure mingled with a tinge of alarm at the thought of your roughness.

You've been deliberately coy with me. The plan originally was for me to implement your "particular" plans for your new abode; pressing matters at home kept me from that delightful enterprise. So, that is why you have forged ahead with your detailed and diabolical "playhouse."

With an insidious chuckle that made my tummy flutter, you said that we would only experiment with one innovation a visit. To do more, you insisted, would be too much for my novice submissive's body and fortitude.

AND YOU WOULD NOT TELL ME WHAT TO EXPECT! Only that pleasure and pain would mingle in that knife's edge.

For months, we had shared our interests via images and gifs, the more visceral and profane the better. Which of those tableaus would I visit tonight?

My finger poised on the buzzer, I glanced down making sure the black sheer thigh-high stockings ended a good inch below the bottom hem of the coat. The lack of garters should be a tease for your senses.

The big question was, as I stood there waiting for you to open the door, when should I reveal my remaining ensemble?

You opened the door and greeted me with a grin that I could only call affable, to put me at ease, although the glint in your eyes negated that joviality. There was no mistake: tonight, I would serve you. Tomorrow, I would leave until the time for our next "experiment," as you took to calling it recently. My presence tonight indicated my consent to being your toy for the night, solely for your use.

It was only then that I realized you had spoken not a syllable. With a parody of gentlemanly courtesy, you step back ushering me in. I step in, only to yank efficiently and economically at the tie on the coat, spreading it and letting it fall from my shoulders to my feet.

My neck, as I am uncollared, is bare of any circlets. This is not a relationship in that sense, merely a series of experiments for our mutual pleasure. Save for the chrome-and-black nipple clamps and chain, my torso is bare of any clothing or accessories. I sink, with far more grace than my speeding heart beat should afford, to my knees, legs spread, back straight, hands holding up my coat in supplication, head down.

Something other than your hands lifts it from my slack grasp. Out of the corner of my eye, I take in enough visual clues to recognize its identity as a black riding crop. You've long known it to be my weakness. I take a deep breath and the scent of leather fills my nostrils and my pussy drips on the heavily polished dark wooden floor of the entry way.

"Tsk, tsk, pet," you finally break the heavy silence. My cheeks color, blushing, revealing to you all those times that I typed "blushes" that I truly meant that action.

I swallow hard struggling to find words to push through my suddenly parched throat. "I'm sorry, Sir," I wince because my voice sounds so rusty, so unused.

A soft brush against my cheek. The crop, not your fingertips. "Look at me," you command, your voice changed from the indulgent tone I know so well from the phone.

I look up and kiss the crop reverently as it presses to my lips. You nod approvingly.

Your approbation warms me, even as my nipples peak uncomfortably from the chill and the clamps. Smiling, you savor my discomfort. Oddly, I feel proud to have brought you pleasure through my discomfort. "Such soft white skin," you nearly croon, tracing the crop down my neck, then lower to tease my collarbone.

"Stand, pet," your voice snaps again. The tab of the crop nestles under my chin, and you tug on it drawing me forward. For entire minutes, an eternity even, you explore my mouth with your mouth, your tongue, learning my taste and my touch and teaching me yours.

Dazely, I look into your eyes only to realize you have placed a training collar around my neck, cinching it tight as the lassitude from the kisses fades. A chrome leash, not much different from the chain connecting my clamps, descends from a ring. Your hand that is not clenched around the crop holds it, tugging me forward.

"Come, pet," you state, and I step forward tentatively.

You lead me across the entryway and living room into a narrow hallway that leads to a door. Directing me to hold the crop, you unlock the door, turning on the light that illuminates the stairs leading down to the basement.

My heart and belly flutter wildly as I ponder the illicit adventures we will have below. You lead me down the stairs but refuse to turn the light on when we reach the basement floor. By touch you guide me to an apparatus and force me to bend over, tethering my wrists and my ankles.

Even before you turn on the light, I feel the rough wood of the sawhorse between my breasts and against my dripping pussy.

You walk to the edge of the basement and, moments later, a single spotlight blinds me, focused on the sawhorse and its captive, me. The effect is truly maddening. I can see you vaguely in the gloom, and I KNOW you can see me, but I can't see anything else in the basement.

All I can do is feel. Soon, I feel my anus probed by something cold. Not your cock, even though I sense you behind me. Then, I remember. I had masturbated to pictures of the anal hook in your collection, had begged you in text and by voice to use it on me. "What do you say, pet?" you bent to whisper in my ear.

"Thank you, Sir," I moan with pure gratitude.

A dark chuckle that echoed throughout the chamber I could only assume was cavernous. "Do you know what I like about the 'horse, pet?"

"N-no, Sir," I whispered, and I cursed my weak and hesitant voice.

"Well, pet, it allows you to be placed just 'so' for so many things: the hook, the crop on your ass, and your mouth to take my cock."

I bit back a whimper of pleasure from the images your words invoked. "Please, Sir, please may I suck your cock? Please?"

An out-and-out laugh now, not merely a chuckle. "Such an eager baby girl. But you did speak out of turn. Open wide, pet, to enjoy your reward—and your punishment."

Opening my mouth eagerly, I feel you grab the base of my ponytail, not allowing me any freedom in enjoying your cock but roughly pulling my mouth over it until my nose presses against your pubic hairs and I choke hard as your heavy length invades my mouth. Your other hand introduces my exposed ass to the pleasures of your crop.

An effective gag, I know your cock muffles my yelps and whimpers as you tell me how my ass is pinkening nicely to a dusky blush. You say your goal is that I cannot sit comfortably for a week without remembering this discipline session.

Meanwhile, your cock thickens and lengthens occupying my mouth as the infiltrated military base. There is no room to talk, to breathe as you begin pounding the back of my gullet.

Somehow, this use wells up in me a wild abandon. My fate is in your hands. You will have your pleasure on me, both sexual and dominating. Somehow that idea of servitude, of being the vehicle and vessel of that dual pleasure of yours, arouses me further. My pussy grinds against the sawhorse and you laugh, although your breathing is labored from the enjoyment my throat affords.

"I will go easy on you this time, pet. You may cum when I do. And, because of your magical mouth, that tight little throat, it will be soon." A few more thrusts and I feel your jizz flood the back of my throat, coating it, and I swallow reflexively.

The thick slightly salty cum makes me moan with delight, even as you pull out to let the second ropey splash coat my face. Then, my vision darkens as my body takes over in my own orgasm, explosive and pure.

I come to, seconds, minutes, hours later, possibly. Your tender hands are untethering me from the horse. Leaning on you, my cum-soaked body—both mine and yours—shuffles up the stairs. You lead me up a second set of stairs to the second story, then into the master bedroom, and lastly into the master bath.

You deposit me to sit on the closed commode as I dreamily watch you draw bathwater. With the last of my strength, I step out of my shoes and slip off my knee highs, and crawl into the blissfully steamy bath.

That gentle side, so long a part of our friendship, so at odds with the time in the basement, washes me, cleanses me, rendering me a pure baby girl again.

Rejuvenated, I step out of the tub as you enrobe me in a fluffy bath sheet. Once dry, you lead me nude to your bed and snuggle in behind me, spooning me to safety.

Instantly, I fall asleep with your lips at the back of my neck. My sleep is dreamless, deep.

The next morning, I arise with the sun. I have a long drive home, and so I have to go right away. No words are spoken. You lead me to the car only to brush my forehead with your lips in a feather light kiss.

As I pull away in my car, I curl my fingers in a mini wave of fare-thee-well. Until next time, Sir.