Forbidden Fruit Pt. 02A

"Aftercare..."

I raise my voice above a whisper, and go on in my normal tone, "Call yourself slave. Is Master reading his slave's mind correctly?"

"This slave, ahhh -" she gasps. "Yes Sir, Master knows exactly, I, I -- this slave -- Master, please ..."

"I know, slave, I know. Sounds too good to be true. That's why it isn't. The downside of Three is, I take off this blindfold and listen to your confession. Then I untie you. And the next thing that happens is ..."

I finish the thought brightly, "We have that lunch you were making."

I chuckle at her surprise. "We'll have a good laugh over our salads, what a thrill that scene was, even if it was too intense for the frightened slut, and she had to throw in the towel. Ha ha, silly slut. You're ashamed of yourself, but you'll get over it, I hope. Then dessert. Then I'll be on my way -- always room for me at the Bellagio. We'll stay friends, keep in touch, no hard feelings ... but no play-time ..."

I give the blindfold a playful tug. "That would be the boring choice, really, but certainly the safe one. Say the word, slave, and that graceful off-ramp is yours. Tell me, is that what slave wants?"

"This slave ... if it pleases Master, has questions."

"My kneeling captive DS-929 has permission."

"No farewell fuck?"

"No."

"Will Master come visit his slave again... in the, the future...?"

"No," I state flatly.

Then quickly add, "Although, the flip side of that is, if my Desert Slut slave opts for One or Two... and makes it through the slave-training I have planned for the weekend... and performs to my satisfaction, well..."

"Sir?"

"Well, I like the idea of having a well-trained sex-slave in the desert -- an obedient fucktoy and painslut, disciplined, always available to me. If I had that, well... Master will definitely come again."

She gasps. It sounds like pleasure -- that delicate, fragile noise -- but the look on her lips says, it's pain. Good. She's learning to mingle the two.

That will help her cope, later.

"So.... decision time."

I tug on the blindfold, playfully lifting it, letting in the faintest crease of light.

"No -" she blurts, a small edge of panic in her voice. I see her shoulders buck, hear the cuffs clatter, an instinctive but futile move to reach up and stop my hand from removing the blindfold. I let go of the latex band and pull back my hand, disengaging the contact of our skin, and I lean back in the chair.

My DS-929 is antsy for a few moments, then she composes herself. "If it pleases Master, this slave wants to keep the blindfold, she, umm -"

"Really? So it'll be One or Two. " I laugh charmingly to put her at ease, encouraging her once more to take the safe way out. "You're sure?

She nods. Yes.

I shrug. Can't say I didn't try ...

Out of simple fairness, I wanted to make the choice as comfortable for her as possible. Because, if she doesn't take it now, well ... the next series of steps are just one trap after another.

My DS-929 doesn't realize it yet, but she's already started surrendering consents. Just the very outer onion-skin layers of her shield of permissions. After the next couple of steps, she's on the road to fucked. Soon, I'll have stripped away the last shred of her consent ...

... And when that happens, my Desert Slut Mimi P., you will realize -- after it's too late -- that you're trapped. You'll be powerless then: my unwilling and terrified... helplessly-restrained and strictly-gagged ... uselessly struggling and exquisitely suffering ... Torture-Doll.

"Last chance," I coax her, chuckling, my voice encouraging and reassuring.

"I, I -- If it pleases Master, his Desert Slave, slut DS-929, his captive, does not want ..."

The pause is short, but heavy in the air ... and fateful.

"... to stop."

Ten.

Tested.

Mimi P.

I LOVE THE BLINDFOLD AND I HATE THE BLINDFOLD. Of course, I love the helpless feeling it gives me, the heightening of fear ... that sense of, the bound bitch doesn't get to see her captor ... her rapist? And how that feeling of enforced blindness not only presses into my eyes, it shoots straight to cock-hungry cunt.

But that's not how Master Daniel is using it. I mean, he using it to remind me I'm his captive, just like the cuffs behind me do, but what I hate about it is that it's forcing me to think. It's a frustrating kind of blindness instead, a form of torture, really, that tests me in two ways. First, I can't read him; I don't get to see if his piercing blue eyes are hot with lust or cool with disappointment; or whether there's something in them that I should really fucking fear?

Second, how the tight latex band forces me to stay alert, hanging on his every Dominant word, ready to react when commanded or interrogated. Hoping I'll get the proper words out of my frustratingly ungagged mouth. In that way, the press of the blindfold crams all my thoughts tightly inside of my head, far from my rope-restrained pussy. That's the part, the way he's using the blindfold now, that I truly fucking hate.

Like I said, torture.

Have I really said no to Option Three? Master made it sound like I had the right to take it back, change my mind. ...Of course, I do, I still have consent... Mostly, I rejected it to buy time. Honestly, I was terrified that if he took off the blindfold, that would seal my fate before I had a minute or two to make my own choice.

Choices? Is that was these really are? The choice to be whipped, to be cock-choked, or to be dismissed into chaste irrelevance -- once again, and probably the last shot this Master will ever give me at redemption -- set aside, unused, unsatisfied. Those three, and only those. Maybe I can bargain my way around the rules or the rewards, no matter which one I choose, but there is no Door Number Four. So I have to fucking think. As always, Master Daniel knows how to mind-fuck me into the next decade.

I confess, my self-preservation part wants a say in this. For one thing, it reminds me me I'm starving; I wasn't kidding, I was too nervous to eat today, and I really was looking forward to my lunch. For another, Option Three has the sweetener of removing the uncertainty, the queasy sense of anticipation, and the fear. Fear of pain.

That part of me makes me admit it: I'm not the masochist he wants me to be. I am deathly afraid of the whip, I confess it. Fuck me, I just am.

But I can't take Three. I know where I am. Even though it's taken over two decades, for whatever reason, I'm back under his Domination. Bound and kneeling at his feet. Grateful to have his attention, but also aching at his distance ... wondering what I need to do to feel his rough, assaulting hands back on me. Wanting, no craving, his touch.

And knowing, if Master Daniel is back, bothering with me at all, it's because he offers me a chance to redeem myself. How can I choose One and live with the not-knowing?

Or worse, disappoint him again. I can't.

. . .

September, 2001. We met at a bar just around the corner from his flat in SF. Months of online teasing and BDSM phone-sex had proceeded all this, of course -- things he wanted to do to me, promises I made I wasn't sure I could keep -- but this was the first face-to-face. Early evening, he'd just come from work, and he wore a suit, navy-blue with a power tie. I wore executive-casual like a woman on a business trip, unwinding for the evening, but still putting up appearances. My attire was a small nod to who I really was, the VP of Sales for a thriving food and beverage service that supplied Vegas banquets and trade shows. And I did a lot of conventions, I'm saying, so I had the wardrobe for it.

But I wasn't here on convention business. I was here to submit to this man -- this polished, experienced and skilled, charming, handsome, articulate... and sadistic... California Dom.

So in a way, my dress-for-success ensemble was there to make me feel like he was taking my success down a peg or two, humbling the bitchy boss, when he stripped it off me. My idea, frankly, not his.

Drinks lasted only as long as it took for him to give me my instructions. Half a martini, in my case. Next, with his house keys in hand, I went ahead. I climbed the steps to the top flat, let myself in, and went straight to the middle room -- the sound-proofed one, he'd told me -- where he had the gear laid out. How I then restrained myself, he'd given me a clear directive on the order of things, and despite my racing heart and juicing pussy, I managed to remember it because it made sense.

First, I took off my blazer and placed it neatly folded on a bench. I knelt on the cushion by the wall, next to the heavy eyebolt set in the floor, then I cuffed my ankles. Let on my slutty black pumps. While cuffing my feet under me, I noticed how the chain that ran from the ankle-cuffs through the bolt met the handcuffs on the other end ... which was going to be the last step.

I tied on the gag, which was a fat wad of cloth knotted in the middle of a longer strip, and I made it good and tight. Then the blindfold, a padded leather mask that buckled in the back. Again, good and tight.

Then one last thing before I completed my self-bondage: I took hold of my blouse, both hands on the collar, and tore open my own shirt, buttons flying off. I scooped inside my bra and hoisted out one of The Girls, leaving my jug hanging outside the underwire cup. Just one, not the other. That was supposed to make me feel unbalanced and disheveled,

in addition to just exposed ...

...

... And vulnerable.

The way you planned it, Master Daniel. The skin of my bare front felt the lick of cool air from the oscillating fan in the corner. It was a hot night for SF, I remember that now, you'd told me the autumn was the balmiest time of year in the City. But comfort wasn't the reason you put it there, Master D. You wanted the chill on my skin to make me feel like what I was supposed to be: kidnapped by assault, overpowered, manhandled and subdued, half-stripped.

A chained prisoner. Powerless to resist what was coming at the hands of you, my sadistic captor.

Which was what I became -- powerless -- once I completed my instructions.

Everything else in place, there was nothing left to do but reach behind my back and lock the cuffs onto my wrists. I took hold hold of the cuffs and found I had to tug them a little bit, rattling the chain through the eyebolt, to get them up to my wrist. That told me how short my hobble was between ankles and hands. Almost a kneeling, metal hogtie.

And that was the first time I felt the grip of fear in my chest -- not my pussy -- about what I was getting into. The second was when I closed the first bracelet on my right wrist.

*click*

And ratcheted it tight. No slipping out of it, I made sure of that.

The third was when I paused, the bracelet open over my left wrist, fingers of my right hand in place to close it. Knowing this was the point of no return.

After this, you will have me powerless, Master. And I don't know exactly what you're going to do with all that power.

But, despite feeling a queasiness in my stomach, I did it anyway.

*click*

*ratchet*

Helpless prisoner. Nothing to do but wait.

You lied to me, Master, that was your first mind-fuck.

In the bar, you'd said you would be just a couple of minutes behind me. It turned out to be over an hour. Maybe two. The state I was in -- restrained, horny, overpowered by feelings of anticipation and dread, futile regrets spiking in my brain, but helpless to take it back, to do anything about it -- time lost coherent meaning.

Eventually, I rolled down off my knees and rested on one thigh and a butt-cheek, scooting back toward the eyebolt to make slack in the chain, settling into the closest semblance of 'comfortable' that my self-bondage allowed. Even after that, it was a long wait.

And of course, what I did with all that spare time was ... imagine the worst.

You'd told me your plan. Once you got here, according to the kidnap-fantasy of the scene, it would be the first time since you'd first abducted me, chained me to the floor and locked me in this cell ... that you were going to take your time and 'use' me.

Your word, 'use' ... vague, and intended that way. I assumed it would include oral, anal and pussy-rape ... but maybe that was just me. Just as vague, your word 'punishment.' You told me you intended to 'punish' me first ... as a preliminary matter of business, to give me a taste of the consequences of resisting you.

"Pain first, talk later," you'd said in the bar.

Then you'd 'use' me. Then, take out the gag and give me a chance to show you how fearfully obedient I was going to be. Then 'use' me some more, 'punish' me some more.

'Use,' 'punish,' 'use,' lather rinse repeat.

Finally, you'd 'break' me.

And then, you'd 'own' me.

All that time waiting, I spent too much of it cataloguing in my racing mind, all the things I told you online about my tastes, experiences, pain thresholds and limits, trying to remember how much of it was lies -- or, exaggerations, like you do in a job interview -- and wondering helplessly how much of that I was going to regret. And soon.

Because, the way his plan was supposed to go, by the next time I had a chance to use my mouth and bargain, I'd probably be a shivering, weeping wreck of apologies and regrets. And I knew, despite what I'd promised, honestly or not ... I wasn't ready for the whip.

So, when you finally appeared, wordlessly entering the room and shutting the door -- sealing in all sound, you led me to believe -- I knew I was not ready for YOU.

You wasted no time. You laid rough hands on me, unlocking the hog-tie chain and standing me up ... laughing evilly and calling me degrading, threatening names ... 'bondage-toy,' 'fuck-slave,' and 'whip-meat' ... and you locked a metal collar around my throat, stringing a chain up to the ceiling, holding me breathlessly upright, tottering on my heels, hands helpless behind me.

You tore off my skirt, pulled my panties down to my knees. Your hand clutched my ass-cheek ... not my desperately craving cunt ... and your nails dug into my tender flesh.

I heard the sharp, taut sound of a whirrrrr through the air, the warning stroke of the cane.

And you started your speech, your lips close to my blinded, gagged face, hissing in my ear,

"Slave, I'm going to teach you to obey. My way is, you don't get to beg me first to show me what a good slut you intend to be. First, you're going to find out what it'll be like if you disobey me. The gag stays in 'til you learn what that means. My motto is, pain first --"

-- And the next thing that happened, that's where it ended for me.

You slid the blindfold up over my forehead. And looked me in the eye. And saw the fear, the pleas ... the red-light. More than that, you saw all my lies, each and everyone of them. And you were disgusted with me.

And I was so ashamed, I felt like ... well, so ashamed, I think if you'd fingered me right then and there for just a couple of seconds, Master, I'd have cum like a rocket ...

Weird, but true. I still don't understand it.

...

The rest of the weekend, to be fair, he did 'use' me.

It wasn't like my failure in the opening minutes shut down the rest of our play. He 'used' my pussy and mouth; fucked me exactly three times, climaxing me hard; took my mouth and fed me his cum, a few more times than that; but left my ass alone. He 'punished' me too, spanking and paddling, nipple-clamps and pussy-cropping, but he kept the cane, flogger and whip in the cabinet. He showed me his rope-bondage skills ... but no more metal, no tit-bondage, and no getting me off off while bound. That was it. No more kidnap-bondage-rape-torture games. I'd had my chance at that, and I blew it.

Anticlimactic, you could say. And kind of dreary.

In fact, when it came time for me to go back home, he took back his offer to drive me to the airport. Because, he said, "I have to work late."

I took a cab from his flat to the airport.

The years passed, we became friendly online and stayed in touch; I mean, he wasn't a monster, after all. Eventually, I retired early, settling comfortably in the Henderson suburbs (which is why I now have my weekends free ... just saying), and apart from my pups, single. I stayed in the kinky-dating game, but like I said, not with much long-term success. I tried not to wonder, over the years, how different things might have been for me if my wide eyes, freed of the blindfold, had told him Yes, instead of No! ... but I did anyway. Stupid idea, knowing him. But I thought about it.

IN a way, I started thinking about it in the cab to the airport, to tell the truth. I thought, did you really "have to work late?" Probably untrue, but if so, it was a deception I appreciated, for the same reason he did. Not having to say goodbye, neither of us would have to look each other in the eyes ... Where I would see in his, I knew, disappointment and disgust; contempt for the way I chickened out when the chips were down. And he would see in mine, failure, disgrace and shame. The weakness and humiliation of a liar, cornered.

But maybe, just maybe, he'd also have seen a flicker of hope ... A hope that he wasn't going to give up on me. That someday, maybe I would be worth a second chance. A shot at redemption.

The whip? my steamy, bound cunt coaxes me.

Not ready! my self-preserving part reminds me.

I lick my lips.

Nine.

Tested.

Daniel T.

DON'T BOTHER GUESSING WHICH OF THE REMAINING TWO OPTIONS MY SLUT PICKED.

Mmm-MMMHH *slurp* mmmmmmmhh... *SLURP*

Needless to say, I made her beg for it. (First trap!) But I can't say I blame her for her choice. It was the option that came with a shot at nookie down the line, an easier downside, and a fighting chance. In that last regard, Mimi has pinned her hopes on her oral talents... and I'm beginning to see why. There's the sloppy over-eagerness of a cheap tart in her performance, but also some skill and technique in her lips, cheeks and tongue that shouldn't have surprised me, but did.

On top of that, I can tell that the act of cocksucking on her knees, blindfolded with her hands bound, has her extra inspired.

Nngh, nngh, nngh *slurp* mmmmmhhh ...

I am standing with my pants and drawers down, towering over the kneeling slut, one hand lightly resting on her head... Not moving. Leaving my cock stationary as the fixed object of my slut's oral worship. Her thrusting face is doing all the work.

Getting into it, she rises off her haunches and starts putting more body into her face-thrusts -- more body, and more throat. This is getting interesting. The timer app says we're 21 seconds in.

"Ooooh, you filthy whore..." I groan.

It occurs to me, there's something I've trained her for online that I want to put into practice real-time. I strip off the blindfold. "Eyes, suckslut."

Looking down on her kneeling body from above, I watch her obey. Her eyes, screwed shut in concentration, pop open, raise up to meet mine. They are wide and wet, full of urgency and desire...