Muse 3 - Forced Desire 1

"Why I didn't allow you to come?" She nods slowly with a mixture of frustration and fatigue. "You already came this morning." I run my finger across the seat of the stool next to me and smell it. The heavy perfume of her lust. She flushes with embarrassment. "While writing, I suppose?"

She doesn't let it get to her. "Yes," she confesses without hesitation.

I fetch the suitcase and place it on the floor in front of her. "Time for punishment." Those words dispel the last vestiges of her remaining stupor and she sits up straight. "Punishment? Wasn't denying me my climax punishment? Or using me as stationery?"

"No, those weren't punishments," I say with a grim face. "The first one was denying you what you already got." and I abandon my strictness with a smile, "the second qualifies as well-intentioned criticism, don't you agree?"

She growls dangerously with a suppressed smile. Her gaze wanders to the suitcase, and she nods with a deep sigh. Until now, I've enjoyed our game. I appreciate the few moments of resistance, because it tells me she's experiencing everything consciously and is not a mindless victim of my coercion. But will she take the next step and subject herself to my sanctions?

I sit on my haunches in front of her and open the case so she can see its contents. A luxury riding crop decorated with silver ornaments on the handle, a shiny paper scale with detailed engraving and a jade phallus from Japan, all tucked in black velvet lining.

She squints. "This is punishment?"

I nod. "These are three different punishments. Humiliation, pain and surrender. The choice is yours."

"What is what?"

I point at the riding crop. "Pain, but that will be obvious. The scales stand for surrender and the phallus signifies humiliation," I say and hesitate, "although you may experience the latter two the other way around."

"What do you reckon?" she asks, running her finger over the shiny leather of the whip.

"I reckon you won't choose the whip."

The idea of surprising you and going for the whip after all is tempting, but I'm not sure whether I can handle that kind of punishment. I assume you will respect my limits if I use the stop phrase, but I don't want to be forced into doing so. I'll go for the safe choice, the phallus of jade. How will you humiliate me with this? You leave the phallus on the table next to the plug, and leave, getting me something to eat. According to your rules, I need the plug to be your slut, your slave or your plaything, and that urge is still there.

When I have the cell to myself again, it amazes me how comfortable I am with being led by you. Apart from the demure and decent lady that apparently I'm not, where is the independent, self-confident and intelligent woman that I am? Why do I enjoy being your submissive slave girl, who only cares about her master's approval? I don't know, I only know it is so. You provide me with enough security to play that role. Through the calm in your voice, the controlled way you act and the choices you leave me, I experience your deep respect for who I am, whatever I am, despite all the humiliation.

When you put the cold dishes and a large pitcher of iced tea on the table, I realise how hungry I am and indulge myself. During dinner, you repeat your promise not to read my diary unless I invite you to. The intention is to express my thoughts as they are, without enhancements or embellishments. No more drafts or torn out pages.

"If I have to write it like that, I doubt you'll get to read it. The first version was rather... rough," she says and wipes her hands on a napkin.

I already suspected that. "That doesn't make it less accurate, where it concerns your emotions. It will help you understand and process your experiences."

She discards the napkin and leans on her elbow, searching my eyes. "How do you know my desires? And how I felt about it?"

"The inspiration your painting provided will last me for a while. Apart from that, I see how you react to the game, of course."

Absorbed in her thoughts, she draws circles with her index finger through breadcrumbs left on the table. "I don't think you've applied many of the things I've incorporated into the painting yet."

"It's a bold tableau, Milena. Some desires I gleaned from it may be pleasant to fantasise about, but can be a very different experience in real life. I prefer to develop our game at a slow pace. A little practice in following my commands doesn't hurt in that case. I have my own needs to indulge at your expense."

She chuckles with a raised eyebrow. "I've noticed that, yes. You like to humiliate me."

"Yet you haven't used your word of grace."

She shakes her head and ponders about it. "No, but it was close. Right now, I don't understand why I didn't," she says and focuses on me again, "just like I don't understand why humiliating me is so enjoyable for you."

A question I could expect; it is my turn to look away. What comes so naturally within the game seems so inappropriate outside it. Especially in relation to her.

"First of all, I hold you in high esteem. The humiliation itself is only part of the pleasure for me. A more prominent pleasure is the suspense: will you accept what I dish out or not? I play with the limit of what you can handle. Like a jester who mocks the king. If the jester goes too far, he loses his head. If I go too far, you use the word of grace. And, like the jester, my game must be inventive and exciting enough to please you. An enjoyable challenge in itself. But most important is not to lose your trust in me. The courage you show when you set aside your dignity for me. Courage you will need to realise the fantasies you painted."

She stares into the distance in silence. "Maybe we shouldn't go that far."

"Have we gone too far already, you think?"

She shakes her head with conviction. "No. Even though it's all strange and scary, I can't deny I enjoy it. The sex and the challenge too. But..." She sighs with the beginnings of a smile. "I wouldn't turn down a little more gratification in conclusion, so to speak."

I chuckle. "The first criticism. I can tell you what's in store for you today, if you'd like. It's not unusual to discuss a scenario before playing."

She stretches with her hands in her neck, showing off the words surrounding her nipples as clearly as her breasts themselves. "Given my difficulty with the idiom, I prefer to be surprised. If I don't like the surprise, I'll chop your head off with the word of grace," she says, smirking, "that will keep it exciting for you as well, won't it?"

After dinner you get the plug, and I know what you expect of me. Leaning over the table, I spread my buttocks, and the plug fills me up. The game begins with me dictating the words you wrote on my body while you write in my book. At first, it seems like you wrote in the Cyrillic alphabet my grandmother taught me. Then I recognise your graceful handwriting is in reverse and I turn to the mirror on the dressing table. I see myself standing there, naked and covered in profanity. It is still strange; you humiliate me and yet I am proud of myself. Without further ado, I dictate each word, clear and out loud. The letters on my back are hard to decipher. Apparently, you didn't have such a steady hand while fucking me.

After I recited it all, it's time for my punishment and you take me to another room nearby. I'm more fearful we meet someone than for my imminent punishment, being naked and covered in salacious words. You assure me we have this part of the dungeons to ourselves.

The brief journey ends in a luxurious bathroom, tiled with colourful and scabrous mosaics, sparsely lit with a few candles and oil lamps. A bath dominates the room. It's sunk into the floor, filled with steaming water and fragrant oils. A marble cherub with a pitcher adds hot water, gurgling gently. A tranquil setting, disturbed by the phallus you place on the bath's edge. Even though it's prettier than the ivory one I own, a sinister threat emanates from the green stone. I suppose it has everything to do with the punishment that awaits me.

The rest and relaxation of warm water caressing me is no punishment, on the contrary. Definitely not when you join me in the bath and massage my feet and knees. Especially the latter suffered under your orders and the hard wooden floor. You allow me to lie with my back against your chest, while you gently kiss my neck, and your cock presses half hard against my buttocks. Delightful. Even more so when your hands run up my legs and your fingers caress my clit. You make me horny again. Is that the punishment? I doubt it. The phallus still stands on the bathtub's edge.

"Do you want to come?" you ask with a sultry whisper. The languid warmth, the stirring need caused by your caresses and my submissiveness induced by the plug in my ass, robs me of my voice. I can only nod yes. You move to sit across from me, pick up the stone phallus, and offer it. "Fine, go ahead, I'll let you."

For a moment, I'm lost. I don't understand what you mean. Then you smirk and I get it. The punishment is humiliation. I have to masturbate myself to an orgasm with you as my dear audience. With a sigh, I close my eyes and put the phallus to good use. It is heavy but the right size and pleasantly warm. I imagine moments of lust and ecstasy, but with you watching me, I can't go where I want to be. But why not? I am not ashamed, yet this seems too private to share with you.

I change tactics, leave the phallus for what it is, rely mainly on my fingertips and challenge you. I gaze at you and try to tempt you into action. Caress your cock with my feet and rub with my crotch against your shin. The glint in your eyes betrays your excitement. And your half hard cock, of course. But you don't do what I hope for; you don't take any initiative and continue to enjoy the view. I enjoy the pleasure I provide you, but it's not enough to get me off. I miss the blindfold, am too aware of myself. It's as if I am swimming against the current to escape a waterfall, instead of letting myself be swept along.

Can't I do this? Do I have to disappoint you? The thought flashes through me, but before it sprouts into dread, you stand up and lean forward, grabbing my wrists and pinning them to the ledge of the tub, one on each side. The panic subsides.

Your hands, like cuffs on mine, push me deeper into my already aroused state. You lean over me, locking my eyes, and then you start to recount. About how you experienced the previous day, how you enjoyed me and my body. I see the lust in your eyes; you see what your words do to me. You continue, describing how I looked, bent over the chair; what you did to me, what you could do to me, what I was to you. Your slut, ready to be fucked by you, drooling and wet, my body offered and at your mercy. As if I am experiencing it again, the heat in my cunt increases. I press my thighs together and apart, push my hips up and down, my groin caressed by warm water.

It's not enough. I'm constantly on the verge of an orgasm, but it doesn't happen, and I get frustrated. I need release and I don't want to be ashamed of my need. Finally, you let go of my wrists and I fuck myself with my fingers, unrestrained, swept along with the flow and plunging into a thunderous orgasm, almost on your voice alone.

When I surface again, you sit on the edge of the basin and smile at me. I want more. Now I want to please you. I kneel before you in the water, grab your wrists with my hands, clamp them and watch how you react. You nod, tense, but you allow it. I keep watching you as I slowly stroke your cock with my tongue and suck it as it grows in my mouth. I push further until I have it deep in my throat, giving up my breath for you, tears running down my cheeks and my gagging reflex massaging the head. It's hard, but I enjoy it, enjoy putting your satisfaction above my own needs in this way.

It doesn't take long before you release your seed with a roar. Into my throat, into my mouth, and over my face. Exactly as I want it, as it should be, and I let your wrists go. I look up at you with appreciation, and you wipe the seed on my face into my mouth so I can swallow it all before you kiss me. Then you remove the plug and leave the bath, but not before giving me one last assignment.

I gently kiss her lips and taste my seed. "Thank you," I whisper, "we'll continue tomorrow. You're free for the remains of the day." She nods and lowers herself back into the warm water. I step out of the basin, tired but more sated than I've been for a long while. The awkwardness I feared earlier is gone. We fit together, complementing each other sensually in a way I haven't experienced often. My role in our agreement is not a part I play for her. It is what I am, even when she takes the initiative. Despite dark memories, it doesn't bother me. I take back the initiative with equal pleasure.

"By the way, I don't expect to find any traces of my literary draft tomorrow," I say, and hand her a brush and a sponge. "Good luck." She sticks her tongue out at me. I chuckle and kiss her, letting my tongue play with hers for a moment before I release her lips. "Keep going," I say grinning, "Now I expect you to transcribe the final version I wrote in your book. Fifteen times."

She laughs smugly. "What, just because I stuck out my tongue? I thought you appreciated its uses."

"I love your tongue. But some practice in how you speak with it wouldn't hurt, would it?"

She sighs, semi-distraught, and washes the fading letters with a sponge. From a cupboard I grab towels and a bathrobe, which I leave for her, and I dry myself off. "Can you find your way back when you're done? Your atelier is nearby."

She gestures me towards the door. "I'll be fine. See you tomorrow."

I am your slut.

I want your dick, your cock, your shaft in my mouth, cunt, or ass.

Fuck me how, where and when you want.

My pleasure is yours

I am your slave

I want to serve you

I exist to be used by you.

My body is yours

I am your plaything

I want to be mindless

I have no will

My will is yours.

You captured the words you forced me to say in these sentences. They touch me. They frighten me and evoke a forgotten desire. No, not forgotten. Asleep is a better word. The desire waited for you to kiss it awake. Like the words I write do when I read them back. Even though you promised not to read my diary again without my consent, it still feels good to address it to you. If I write it for anyone but myself, it is for you.

You're my first audience to read this manuscript, and the first readers I don't personally know. Suggestions, comments and (dis)likes are greatly appreciated.

Oncemorewithfeeling