Forbidden Fruit Pt. 01A

FORBIDDEN FRUIT.

by prof_master

One.

Getting a Clue.

I PULL MY TOYOTA TUNDRA INTO THE DRIVEWAY of Mimi P.'s cute, suburban tract home outside Las Vegas. Get out and go around to the camper shell in back and open the tailgate. I pull out my duffel bag - full of tools and toys of abduction and torment - which I'm sure she'll mistake for my stay-over luggage. She needs to be a little more observant, though, she might pick up hints. So clueless, my ditzy slut Mimi.

Heading to the front door, I smile to myself. I'm gonna take advantage of that. My friend in the desert thinks she's hosting me a couple of days during the Vegas layover of my road trip - as in, friend-zone hospitality, not friends-with-benefits hospitality.

After all, I'm married, right? Forbidden fruit.

Marital fidelity. That was the strong undertone, anyway, in our texts and emails leading up to this visit. Always mentioning The Wife. But then dropping the odd, titillating hint or two, here or there. Like, asking about her masturbation, say, or pussy-grooming. Like, sidelong references to our past, now-curtailed online sub-training. Teases really, but if she picked it up and tried to tease it back, I'd ghost the whole topic. Gaslight her.

Like, txt me a pic of ur legs. This was two days ago. She complied: Black nylon thigh-highs, slut-heel pumps. That was asking for it, I thought, but didn't write. Instead, Wear that for my arrival. She replied with an enthusiastic emoji and, Yes Sir! Followed by, And?? Again I ghosted her.

Mimi turned to my Vegas plans over my stay. I suggested I had plans for us - A surprise, was all I would let on. Hinting about maybe something on the Strip. But thinking to myself, that's what I'm gonna do to you...Then I gaslit her all over again when she tried to ask more... leaving everything ambiguous...

That was by design. Keep her guessing... hoping, maybe...

... on edge.

All she knows to expect is, 'be dressed to go out' when I arrive, 'cute, but slutty...' She did.

"Hello, Sir!" she greets me at the door.

The 'cute' part is up top, a pink cotton, blue polka-dotted blouse - tight enough, though, to flatter herr full, natural bust, with a V-neck scooping low enough to exhibit her generous cleavage. Blue cotton skirt. And as directed, the black nylons and pumps. Good girl. Hah, the 'slutty' part, I see, is mostly waist down - kind of like you, hmm? No, that's not quite right. The sluttiest part is up top, Mimi P., in your head.

"Hi!" I answer, pulling her in for a hug. I don't expect her to initiate that, so I eliminate the guesswork. A quick, wet smacker on the lips, to boot, which also throws her off.

I pull back, looking at her. "So great to see you, Mimi. You look fantastic."

Her face, slightly flushed after the hug and kiss, lights up at the compliment. Shy as she is, though, her eyes dance away - and fall on my duffel bag. No expression.

No clue.

Her smile is bright, her face is pretty. I wasn't lying, she looks great. Especially after the weight she dropped since I saw her last, here in Vegas about ten years ago, and her dedication to the gym. I like the way she's styled her short, bob-cut hair, recolored to match the copper-red it was when we first met. Plus, her makeup, understated, tasteful. I catch a whiff of perfume too, savory - as if she's trying to send a rather spicy message to my crotch area. Can't blame a girl for hoping. All together, a pretty package: looking every bit the deliciously curvy, mature submissive slut that she was.

"Come in, Sir," she offers perkily.

Sir. Like the lingerie, I'd asked for that too. Again, Mimi, the clues...

She ushers me inside, leading me into the bright, airy open-concept space - living area to the right, kitchen off to the left. I am watching her walk. Sweet, compact ass. Her legs look great, too, the swimming has done a nice job on her calves.

Exactly as advertised, slut, when you texted me ur legs...

The way the hose fit, seams straight up the back, tells me there's probably some lacy garter action underneath. Panties, or no?

She chats breezily while she walks, "I boarded my babies, like you told me."

"I noticed. When are you supposed to go back for them?"

"Tuesday morning."

I mutter under my breath, I should be done with you by then.

"What?"

She looks back, unsure if I said something, but I shake my head. "I appreciate it. The art class?"

"Cancelled."

"And you don't mind skipping the gym for a couple of days?"

"No, Sir, I don't mind."

"Good." Then suggestively, "Cleared your schedule for me, I see?"

Her tone is a little plaintive. "It was so hard to pin you down on what you wanted to do, Sir, I just had to, you know -"

"Don't worry, I have plans for you," I clear my throat, "for us. It'll be a surprise. Anyway, I don't want to impose, you'll have me out of your hair soon enough. I have to be in Reno in a few days, meet up with The Wife."

"Speaking of that," Mimi purrs back over her shoulder, asking impishly, "you're sure she doesn't mind you checking in on an old flame?"

"Nah, she's cool. She's got every reason to feel... secure in our relationship."

Mimi pauses at bend of the counter that marks the kitchen space, looking back at me with a knowing smile. "Ah... you're faithful."

Hmm, so fucking blunt. No way that I'm going to answer that one directly. Smiling innocently, I say, "The Wife accepts that I have my own life apart from her, where I get to do things she doesn't like to do."

Mimi nods, face reddening again, too shy to follow up on the insinuation. Once again, Mimi and her feeble grasp of the hints ...Getting a clue yet, slut?

She has moved behind the stove, where she has a meal in the works. So considerate. It's mid-afternoon, so it's a late lunch. I follow her into the kitchen space, leaning my ass against the counter. I see there's a finished salad on the counter, and something Mexican-looking in a pan on the stove, beans, cheese and scrambled eggs. On the other side, cloth placemats, white linen napkins, silverware ready to go to the dining table once the entrée is done.

It's a cheery, peaceful scene. Mimi's body language, though, tells me she's a little flustered. Her face from the side still looks flushed. Good. I'm not going to let that tension ease.

"You know, you never asked me much of anything about The Wife. Like it's taboo for some reason, that subject - in your mind anyway."

Quietly, I put my duffel down on the floor. Her back to me, I unzip it and fish out the handcuffs. These I put in the back pocket of my jeans. "But it's not, it never was -"

She replies timidly over her shoulder, "Well, I just didn't want to -"

"Shush," I say, "don't interrupt. Since you've always wanted to know... she is my submissive. Always has been."

Mimi nods her head down toward the stove, stirring, saying nothing. Good slut. Just listen.

My tone is keeping it light, though, familiar, not sexy. "We first met in the kinky personals - thirty years ago, back in the days you read them in a newspaper and replied to a P.O. box," I laugh.

"But anyway, yeah, she's my sex-slave. Over the years, I've trained her expertly how to please my eyes and my flesh in all my favorite ways...

"You know... perfect fucktoy, sucktoy... bondage doll... collared housepet, learning pretty little submissive poses for me, and the like... Haha, I think I know you well enough, Mimi - you wouldn't enjoy all the slave-training, housepet stuff, hmm?"

"No, Sir," she replies, her voice bone-dry, barely audible. The hands working over the pan are stiff and skittish. "You're probably right about me."

I start moving closer.

"I don't wanna get all T.M.I. about it, though. " I chuckle, "Do you mind me telling you this?"

Her shoulders relax a little. She laughs, clearly deflecting, "Hmm, should I meet her?"

"I dunno, maybe," I say.

She turns to small talk. "How was your drive? You must be starving."

"Not all," I reply. I come in closer, leering down her cleavage while she works.

"I ate a couple hours ago on the road. Nice little diner along Route 15..." I twist the knife, "Country biscuits and gravy."

She turns to me, eyes full of hurt and surprise. "I told you I was making lunch."

"Oh. You must be hungry, then."

"Famished," she pouts. "I saved up my appetite for this. I even skipped breakfast, I was so nerv -"

"Good."

"Sir -"

My eyes meet hers coldly, "Good. I want you hungry."

Her jaw drops and her mouth works, trying to reply...

But I shut that right down.

First, I grab her by the hair. Then I deliver the last clue - one that even the most clueless couldn't possibly mistake - with the flat of my hand.

*SMAK!* --

Two.

Stunned.

Mimi P.

-- *SMAK!* --

My whole face feels like it's on fire.

But that's not just the shock and sting of his hand on the outside, it's the outrage I feel inside. A bitch-slap - am I your bitch? The unfairness of it.

>> u know what might be the worst torture of all 4 u?

It was the last thing Sir texted me, before ghosting me for the final time, a day and a half before he showed up on my doorstep.

>> I won't play fair

That gave me shivers at the time. I actually almost texted that back, *shivers. But at the moment, I couldn't answer because I was under his 'voice-discipline.'

That I'm so bad at, I'm told. It's true, I hate grammar. I don't like slave-syntax, formalities, learning rules and keeping track of training numbers, discipline, poses, pet stuff, and being left alone as a form of punishment. I'm more of a shut-my-mouth, tie-me-up-and-spank-my-ass, fuck-me-spread-eagled-face-down-on-the-bed kind of girl.

You know. A rape-toy.

I mean, if I had to put it on a resumé, technically it's: bondage-slut, humiliation-whore, fucktoy-suckslut-anal-enthusiast, low paintoy rating, but with room to grow in that department - and "struggler" with an overactive, overheated 'kidnapped-bondage-rape' fantasy.

But enough about me. Just kidding. It's all about me. That might be part of the problem.

Sir is right about me, by the way, I have an overdeveloped sense of fairness. If I don't think I deserve something - or I deserve it, and I don't get it - I rebel. I don't behave, and I don't obey. I can go from shamelessly immoral to morally outraged in seconds flat. It goes way back with me. Something anti-authoritarian in my upbringing, I don't know. Whatever it is, it's holding me back as a sub.

So is my mouth.

"Lippy" - that was a nickname someone gave me once. Not a Dom, unfortunately, a coworker - and coming from him, it wasn't the least sexy. Sassy was something I heard from a Master once, but he was amused, and didn't punish me for it. He asked me if I was a SAM - smart-ass masochist - and I had to answer him honestly that I wasn't much of a masochist.

But I wish I was.

I need punishment. That's Master Daniel's assessment of me. But also, the deal we made - Sadist to aspiring masochist - find out what kind of latent masochist paintoy I really have inside me - or not.

>> but either one, we'll find out the hard way

>> *shivers

The hard way. I tried to prepare myself for that, leading up to today, as best I could.

And keep in mind, I did that even though he gave me no fucking idea whether or not we would play - or if it was going to be another fun and flirty night out on the Strip, unconsummated, like we had ten years ago. Whether or not he ever strayed from The Wife.... Mind-fuck, yeah I get it now, Master... The point is, I had to be ready for anything - even if the pay-out was nothing.

I got my body ready. That was the the only thing I knew how to do, had any sense of knowledge and competence about. I worked out extra hard at the gym, stretching and strengthening, make myself as limber as I could (yum, I hoped he'd tie my elbows tight behind me, I love what that does for my tits). I felt I ought to improve my gag reflex, so I spent time with the toys, practicing (*gulg*gulg*gulg*).

I took his suggestion to get some thrift-store clothes I wouldn't mind seeing destroyed (yum, tear it off me, Sir!). Nice threads, though, reasonably fashionable for stepping out - though I'll admit, the nylons and garters, even second-hand those didn't come cheap. I practiced walking in higher heels than I'm used to. I practiced flogging my tits and my pussy, trying to make it harder than I could stand. Did I mention, I worked on my gag reflex?

Oh, and I got myself thoroughly cleaned and groomed, outside and inside, the morning I expected Master Daniel's arrival. Which is why, by the way, I haven't eaten all day...

That was the easy part, like I said, the body. The mind - not to mention the emotions - that was uncharted territory for me. I reread the record of our online slave-training - which I admit, didn't really hold my attention as closely as it should have, it was almost kind of boring. So yeah, I could've been a better student - but that's why you keep notes, so you can cram for the finals.

I focused on the lessons about (duh!) fear and pain.

How to cope with both. His lessons about relax -into, breathe-through, etc. etc. - the practical stuff, yeah, but my interest was more the mental stuff. How much of pain is fear, and how fear is in the head, and how both can be controlled by will and focus.

Eroticizing torture, giving your body over to Master's cruelties, taking pride in that, getting off on being his helpless plaything.

It was really good advice, all of it. The trouble was, it was kind of abstract for me. Really abstract, to tell the truth. I'm more of a hands-on learner.

But, fuck it, I've never had hands on me like his before.

My point is, for a Sadist like Master Daniel, you can only prepare so much. Practice makes perfect, and the proof is in the pudding: No dildo on earth is going to challenge your gag reflex like a hot cock that gives you no choice. I can only whip myself so hard. I can put on clothes that that I am prepared to see destroyed.

I just don't know if I'm prepared to be destroyed.

The last way I got myself ready for was by reminding myself - I am never gonna be ready for everything this Master has to throw at me.

I was right about that.

My first 'overpowering' scene, already in progress:

The bitch-slaps are shockingly unexpected, cruel, humiliating, more forceful and violent than I want.

But that was our deal. Take me captive, have your way with me, make it rough, play along the edges of my limits. Whether I like it or not - I have no say, no control. Take my control, render me helpless, and make me suffer. See how much I can take - then give me more.

Most of all, make me believe I'm at truly, completely at your mercy...

... but give me none.

Shit. Am I ready for that?

Sounds like a slutty, cocky, exciting thing to say when you're jilling-off or flirting via text. But Mike Tyson put it best. 'Everybody's got a plan until you get punched in the mouth.'

Or slapped in the face.

-- *SMAK!* --

Three.

Overpowered.

-- *SMAK!*

The four wallops I lay across her face are just hard enough to leave her shocked and dazed, but no harder. When I stop, her face is beet-red, hand-printed, her eyes are wide with hurt and bewilderment, and her mouth is open, lips quivering.

Stunned, she is motionless as I let go of her hair and grip her throat, squeezing. Instinctively, her hands shoot up to grab at my wrist. My other hand snakes out and ratchets the handcuff onto her left wrist.

Roughly, I spin her around, facing the counter, lurching her off-balance as I yank the cuffed hand behind her. I keep my grip tight on her throat and I twist her arm up behind her to show who has all the leverage.

"Nnnghh-no-!" she blurts, her voice choking on the brutal rip of with my hand on her throat.

"Not a word. Shut off the stove." She obeys the first two commands so meekly, I give her a third,

"Open up."

From the place-settings, I grab one of the linen napkins, reach around and jam the folded cloth between her open lips. Mmm-nnghh!

She gives a muffled squeal in response, biting down on the cloth. I hold it there while she yaps and bleats into the gag. Her free hand rises to my wrist... but just hangs there, limp, finger loosely holding me. Not resisting me.

Leaning in close to her ear, I explain, "That's a favor, bitch, that gag. You'll thank me for it. You were just about to speak out of turn - weren't you? - and that would've made me have to hurt you. So I nipped that in the bud. You're welcome."

She nods, mewling desperately.

"Now... give me your other hand."

She hesitates, freezing up tit to toe. I know she wants wanted to obey, most of her, anyway. What's a fantasy-rape scene, after all, if the hands aren't helpless?

But she falters, and I see why. It's because she knows, once she gives up that hand, she gives up all control over what happens, what I do to her, next. Oh, she's right to hesitate...

Just the same, eventually, she moves her trembling hand off my wrist...

...and compliantly, she surrenders it behind her back.

*click.*

Mine, I smile. My captive.

To be continued...