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He held up the first weight to her face so she could see his plan firsthand. He smirked at her and he could see the hesitant grimace that swallowed her face. The weight was covered in black latex—she wasn't sure if this was for effect or whether it had some purpose. It looked to be similar to a fishing weight, used to ensure that the fisherman's hook would sink to the ocean floor. It looked to be a small weight, but ample, nonetheless. He first inserted the weight into her mouth, instructing her to tongue it all over. He then attached the small weight to the O-ring and released it. She immediately felt her nipples and breasts sag lower, the weight tugging away from the hardware that held it in place. There was pain, certainly, but it felt somewhat arousing to her, as if someone were using their fingers to squeeze her nipples and pull them lower. The next weight he showed Kat was larger, and she assumed heavier, than the first. As he followed the same tonguing and then clipping procedure, her assumption proved correct. Her arousal seemed to dissipate as it turned into a raw aching. She let out a yelp and she had to concentrate to put her focus on something else, anything else, lest she would be overcome. A third weight was tongued and then added, equal to the second in size and intensity. Now she was over the edge. She grunted and groaned, trying to make it through the intensity. She wondered how much more she could take. She wondered how much more weight could be added before the nipple clips simply pulled off her nipple—this would not be a pleasant feeling, she knew.

Now, it's important to realize that the weights Phil Curtis used were generally smallish, measured in ounces, not pounds. Although there are some in this lifestyle whose intent is to cause significant pain through this exercise, he wanted enough pain to be uncomfortable, yet highly erotic. Enough for her to think about what was happening. Enough for her to have to focus to try and keep her mind off it. Enough to cause her to agree to do whatever he wanted, just so he would stop and replace one painful activity with one more erotic, no matter what it was.

As she strained to take her mind off the pain, Mr. Curtis started removing the wooden clothespins from her body. He started with her torso, opening each fully before removing them. However, about every fourth or fifth clip he did not open fully but instead pulled off without opening them. This caused Kat to squeal each time he did this. When he was finished, she was left with tiny welts all over the top half of her body but with the metal nipple clips and weights still in place. Her nipples were aching to be released—the pain was enough to make her want to scream loudly and yell for help. She also knew that would do her no good as Mr. Curtis was in command, could easily put an end to any outburst from her, and would make it even more painful, in some way, if that was his wish.

He removed one weight, then another, then the last. She had much relief after that, but she still wondered how he would remove the nipple clips. The clips had locked down on her nipples for close to thirty minutes to the point where some of her body seemed to merge with the metal. It would be painful when they were removed.

"Open your mouth," he commanded. She did as she was told, and he pulled five or six ice cubes from the bucket he had brought back from his earlier walk down the hallway. "Do not eat, bite or swallow these," he instructed. He then placed a few more ice cubes in her mouth so that it was full and her jaw was having a bit of trouble opening as wide as it needed. "When the ice melts, you are not to swallow the water—none of it. You are also to keep your mouth open until I tell you to close it. Do you understand?" "Yesh-Shirr," she slurred, her mouth now completely full.

He went to the bathroom and selected a hand towel to dry his hands. He then walked back to her. By this time, the ice had not only started to melt in her mouth but also create another pain—that of the intense coldness of the sub-32-degree cubes. The longer the ice remained solid in her mouth the more her cheeks, tongue and even lips would be in pain. She couldn't chew, bite or even move the cubes around in her mouth. She just had to leave them there. Phil Curtis sat down and watched her predicament. He watched her closely, and she knew it—she could see it. After about five minutes of this, he stood up, walked over to her and removed one nipple clip, then the other. She groaned through the process, feeling her nipple pull away from the metal clip that had been locked on the most sensitive part of her body. A few more minutes passed and the ice was melting. She wanted to swallow but was not allowed. The water became uncomfortable in her mouth, both due to the coldness of it and the welling up of it at the back of her throat. But she wasn't allowed to swallow it. As the ice continued to melt, her jaw received some relief, but she had to fight against almost an involuntary swallow reflex. As her mouth filled with water, the first small stream fell out of the side of her mouth and ran down the length of her body from chin, to chest, to hip, to leg, to foot, to toe. She thought it actually felt good— cooling and refreshing, actually. The melted ice was now producing more liquid than she could hold in her mouth and the second stream of ice water that exited her mouth was much larger than the first.

"Look straight ahead," he demanded. "Do not move your head." Again, she did as instructed and looked straight ahead. That second stream of water, larger and fatter than the first, ran out of her mouth and again onto her chin. But this time, instead of hitting the middle of her chest, it hit her right nipple squarely and then bounced onto the floor. The ice-cold water on her inflamed, raw nipple sent a shock wave through her body. It both shocked her and stung like nothing she could remember. Her scream caused close to half of the water in her mouth to exit its natural catch basin. Of course, when that happened, it had the effect of moving quickly over her chin and dousing her entire chest, both breasts and nipples included, which caused even more pain. "Devious," she thought.

When the last ice cube had melted, he told her to let the rest of the water run out onto her body. He even turned her head to make sure that the last few drops of ice water would hit her nipples. "Cruel," was the word she thought of next. That it was. And she elicited a smirk from Phil Curtis, who knew exactly what she was thinking—and relished it.

Chapter 9

As her head hung down, recovering from what had just happened, he started talking to her. He looked into her eyes, put one of her wounded nipples between his fingers and asked, "Whose nipple is this?"

Looking at him a bit confused, without even thinking she responded "Mine, Sir." Immediately, she felt that same nipple seize up with pain as he pinched it hard.

"Whose nipple is this?"

Not understanding the game and not thinking straight because of her painful state, again she said "Mine, Sir." The pain went through her again as he pinched both nipples this time and placed the nipple clips back on her. He pulled on the chain that was still connected to the nipple clips. Although this time there were no weights attached to the chain, there was tension nonetheless as he pulled outward, away from her body so that her nipples stretched towards him. She could feel that tension as her nipples pulled her breasts unnaturally out from her body; they stuck out like torpedoes, searching for their target.

As he relaxed the chain, he moved towards her. She flinched but did not scream as she was surprised by his hand that went straight to her chin, holding it firmly as he stared into her eyes.

"One last time, whose nipple is this?"

"Yours, Sir. It is your nipple."

He then removed one nipple clip and grabbed her breast, full in his hand. Glaring into her eyes he worked his way to the other nipple.

"And whose nipple is this?"

"Yours, Sir."

He removed the other nipple clip, this time more gently.

"And whose tits are these?" He grabbed her breasts with his hands.

"They are your tits, Sir."

Sticking two fingers into her pussy, he asked "And whose pussy is this?"

"It is your pussy, Sir."

"And what can I do to this pussy?

"You can do anything you want to this pussy, Sir, as it is yours."

Chapter 10

Those in the lifestyle call it BDSM. The condensed acronym was created back in the 1990s to combine terms of various sub-communities and practices that had a significant amount of crossover— like B&D (Bondage and Discipline); S&M (Sadism and Masochism); and DS or D&S (Dominance and Submission). The practice of erotic power stirred the primordial juices of those who practiced it. And although many practiced BDSM without sex, this was not the way Phil Curtis enjoyed himself.

For Phil Curtis, BDSM was intrinsically linked to sex. One oftentimes led to the other. He loved the power and control he held over another when they were tied up and unable to move. He was an unadulterated Dom, or Dominant. He sought out submissive, or sub, women. He felt those who claimed to be a switch, with the ability to go back and forth between Dom and sub, were lying to themselves and their partners—although many would disagree with that opinion.

His greatest pleasure was enabling the sub to take her boundaries to a level above where she had never been before, or even thought she'd be. Not by force, but by leading her down the path and getting her to the point that she was so enthralled with what she was going through, going to a place she had only fantasized about, that he would simply show her the way and she would ask for it. Before a session was over, she would want him to take her to that place that was taboo, even unfathomable to some. She would do this because it was a natural next step. She would also do this because she would end up wanting to please him, even though he was putting her through a never-ending sequence of pleasure and pain. He also calculated that his women wanted him to take them there because no one else would. It seemed most subs were unwilling to tell their true feelings to even their most intimate of "vanilla" lovers for fear of being deemed to be disgusting or sick. He gave them a chance, in his time and setting, to take themselves to that place of darkness and make it instead into a place of freedom and absolute liberation. After their first "session" the women were often never the same again—he seemed to think that they were more self-assured and had more confidence, a somewhat counterintuitive result. Losing one's inhibitions can do that for a person, he knew.

One of his favorite activities was to participate in what he called a "power role play." He was always the Dom, the Top, as they say. He would create a scenario, sharing it with his sub, or bottom. They each would play a particular role and would dress accordingly. It could be a scenario such as boss/employee, master/slave, priest/nun, or his favorite, teacher/student. The sub would know the scenario and would be asked to dress in a certain way and to prepare for the session in a specific way. Following his orders for preparation also gave him pleasure. But the role play was not just playing a character by dressing appropriately. It was also playing that character's emotional state and saying "no" when they really wanted to say "yes." Some resistance was of course necessary before one could bare their soul.

He was always safe; he had to be. Taking someone up to, and often beyond, a point of pleasure or pain that they were not used to oftentimes caused that person to lose the ability to think clearly. He also needed to know whether a "no" really meant "no" and not a veiled "yes." The way to accurately see through this and determine whether someone was truly in trouble was to use a safe word and a safe action. A safe word would be used only if the sub could not take the pleasure of pain anymore. It would be a signal that he had to stop. It would be a word that was unlikely to come about during their normal conversation within the "scene." A word like "butterfly," for example. In this case, if "butterfly" was uttered by the sub, he would stop what he was doing, and the scene would end. A safe action was required if the sub was gagged in some way and therefore could not utter the safe word. The usual safe action was for the sub to snap her fingers three times in a row. After one scene almost went bad, he made sure at the outset of every interlude that the sub could actually snap their fingers!

With subs with whom he had previous experience he might even use multiple safe words to provide an intermediate point, or degree, of rest. For example, a phrase like "red light" would be to stop entirely, but something like "orange light" would be code for "This is getting too intense; I need to rest for a bit, but I do not want you to stop altogether."

He really never was into the pain component of BDSM. Sure, making the sub uncomfortable was interesting, even exciting and arousing. But he had no intent to inflect permanent scaring or long-term hurt on his partner. Maiming was out of the question; his drug was control and power. To get whatever he wanted sexually from them. And he was addicted.

The real test for a sub was for him, of course, to take them to where they had never been before. It could be lasting longer than the last time; it could be handling more weight on the nipple clips; it could be taking a larger dildo or butt plug; and his favorite, licking the pussy of another woman for the first time as he watched and directed the action. For the sub, it was going farther each time. And the ultimate sign of reverence for the Dom, for Phil Curtis, was when the sub went farther than she ever had in her life, to do the things she would never think she would do and to do them for him. To do them for him and not have to use a safe word of any kind. No rest. No stop. Just do. For him. That was the ultimate praise and, for him, the ultimate pleasure. That, and a lot of sex mixed in!

His methods were used to entice his sub. It was an erotic dance he would choreograph days and even weeks beforehand. His intent was to take her, to take Kat, to a place where she, due to his methods, would do just about anything to please him. To do what she had never done before. To say the things she had never said. To admit to things to which she had never admitted. To bare her soul before giving him everything he wanted.

Chapter 11

Now, Mr. Curtis decided to get more comfortable. He began to remove his clothes as Kat had finally a chance to rest, but also to watch. She was always attracted to Mr. Curtis. That brief interlude after the company Christmas party where he pulled her into a side room of the hotel and kissed her strongly made her go wet almost immediately. But she was so surprised at what he had done that she let out a scream and pushed him away. Her rebuff caused much soul searching and bridge repairing over the next several weeks at the office. He never did more than place a comforting hand on her again. Until now.

Mr. Curtis was about forty years old but looked much younger. He was a workout fiend, so he was in great shape with a powerful chest and sculpted abs. As he removed his shirt, Kat could see his pecs making quite the impression on his undershirt, straining underneath.

He walked over to her and purposely pushed up against her. She could smell his sweet cologne. He started to unfasten her wrist cuffs from the overhead O-ring but keeping the cuffs on her wrists, possibly for later use? When she finally let her arms drop to her sides the blood rushed back into them as if a water spigot had been turned on full blast. It felt good to her. He then unfastened the ankle cuffs from the spreader bar; first one, then the other. She thought for sure that he would take her right there; and she hoped so, too. But she would have to wait for that as well.

"Undress me," was the order. She then obliged by removing one piece of his couture, then another. After removing each piece she either folded it and placed it out of the way or hung it in the closet, being careful to respectfully put each piece in its rightful place. As she removed his shoes, then socks and pants, Kat ogled him now, out of the corner of her eye, taking him all in. When his undershirt was gone she had her first view of that chest and abs and arms that she had only imagined in her fantasies. He stood there, almost teasing her, in his tight-fitting cotton boxer-briefs that outlined the size of his bulge. He was large but not yet fully erect, the head of his penis forcing the waistband of his undershorts to pull away slightly from his body. The undershorts, although form-fitting and stylish, were not made to constrain a raging hard-on of the size of Phil Curtis, not even one at half-mast. She then reached to remove his undershorts.

"Wait," he said, wanting her to wait longer for her prize. When allowed, she slowly pushed his briefs off his body, revealing his veined growing cock. Long and thick, she anticipated what was to come and how much she wanted him in her at that exact moment. But she was not in control and she could not make that decision.

His cock was growing by the second, becoming fully engorged with blood and anticipation both. His size poked easily through the waistband now and she had a better view of it. It was heavily veined with a slight curve to the right with a large head that reminded her of a mushroom cap. She was glad that she was having that effect on him. She always knew he would be large, ever since that holiday party when he pressed himself against her—she could feel his girth and heat then and she could see it now, right in front of her.

When the last stich of his clothes was removed and put to rest, he had her kneel in front of him. "Look at me," he directed. Tilting her head back at a 45-degree angle she looked into his eyes, wondering what was in store for her next. He took a half-step towards her so that his cock was only a fraction of an inch from her face. She dared not move towards it until directed. "Don't even think about it," he commanded. "My cock is not yours to have." As she stared straight ahead, still kneeling, almost in reverence, yet disappointed by that last comment, he pushed his cock forward so that his balls pressed against her lips. She smelled him; the sweat of his cock was created from being trapped under his clothes for several hours. She loved the smell. He then moved his cock and balls all over her face, as if to give her a good cleaning; no part of her face went untouched. She so wanted to just swallow him then but knew that would be an unforgivable mistake, rife with severe consequences. He moved his manhood over her face one last time, stopping in front of her face and placing the tip of his cock exactly between her two lips. She could even see a small drop of pre-ejaculate accumulate at the tip of his cock. "Stick your tongue out," he said, smiling. She did so and he allowed just the very tip of his cock, with the drop or two of pre-cum, to touch her waiting tongue. She tasted his fluid. "Do not swallow it or wipe it off. Just let it sit there," he issued. As he smiled, he drew himself back from her.

"Do you like my cock?" he asked.

"Yes, Sir."

"What do you want to do with my cock?"

"Whatever you want me to, Sir."

He gave her a quick slap on the face, which startled her. "Don't play games with me Kat. Don't make me repeat myself again. Answer my questions fully when they are asked and answer in complete sentences.

"What do you want to do with my cock?"