In the early spring moonlight, the back of the river seemed to lift and heave like the body of a snake, flowing over rocks and stumps, braiding its way through copses of saplings on the flooded banks, pooling and forming eddies as it washed around the concrete pilings of the bridges.

"What does that remind you of?" I asked her as we drove along. "What does that make you think of?"

Huddled against the door, Lena glanced outside, then back at me. "What? The river?"

She turned and looked back out at the night. The water gleamed as the moon came out briefly, making it look even more like a reptile's skin, then disappeared as the moon was covered over covered by the rushing, bruised-looking clouds.

"I don't know. A flooded river. Why? Are you going to tell me something profound?"

I'd been about to, yeah, before she cut me off. Now the metaphor seemed too obvious and trying to impress her seemed kind of beside the point. It had been raining all day--all spring actually-- and rivers were flooding everywhere, little creeks becoming raging torrents. The headlights picked out piles of debris and tree branches that had been left in the highway when the water had been even higher.

"I was thinking of how the river's kind of like a person," I said, pressing on. " This is normally a pretty quiet little creek."


"Teah. Kind of like a person, like we all are. When the pressure is low, we meander along in our nice, safe, channels with barely a ripple, placid little streams. But when that pressure gets too great, more than we can handle, we start to overflow and get wild, find new channels and carve out new paths, take routes we'd never think of taking normally."

She looked at me in a way that made me sorry I'd said it. "So we're going to play everything's-a-metaphor?"

I hadn't meant it about her personally, but of course that's how she took it. I gave her a disapproving look, though, and she backed off. I was treading a fine line here between taking this too casually and making a great huge deal out of it. I was trying to feel my way.

All through dinner we'd been talking about her, her own personality, rushing in the dark around some immovable obstacles whose shape she'd just been starting to discern, leaving her feeling fragmented and split.

"Tell me then," she asked. "If the river's a metaphor for the things we do in life, what's the metaphorical meaning of the pressure? What is that force that drives us?"

"I don't know. Lust? Desire? Nervous energy?"

"Love?" she suggested.

I didn't say anything for a while because I really didn't know. The river left us for a bit, curving off to the right as the car entered the darkness of a forest. The air entering the car smelled of leaves and mud and I turned the heater on.

"You think less of me now?" she asked. "I didn't really tell you anything during dinner you didn't already know."

"No. Of course not. But this is different, you know, being together like this. Before it was just words on a screen or on the phone. It's different being with you in person."

She turned back to the window. "You do feel differently towards me now. But that's okay. I knew it would happen."

She gathered her coat around her, not used to this kind of chill.

She'd been telling me about being assaulted when she'd been younger, about what she recalled, or imagined, or dreamed of it. It had been a constant theme with her, something that consumed her. The problem was, neither of us knew whether it had really happened or not, whether these obsessive images were memories, or fantasies, or some sort of mutated dreams or desires that she'd entirely made up.

In the end I'd decided it really didn't matter. Either the episodes had really happened--and there was more than one of these memories--or things back then had been so screwed up that her subconscious interpreted them in terms of being assaulted. Whatever they were, they'd left some horrible images and emotional stains on her mind that oppressed her and filled her with constant anxiety and dread. They made normal sex impossible for her and poisoned her relationships. They'd left her fragile and depressed. Damaged, was the word she used.

We'd talked about it before. We'd talked about it endlessly online, in text, in voice, sessions lasting far into the night, into the morning. It had been almost a year, a year in which differences melted and we opened up to each other. In age and temperament we couldn't have been more different, yet below this or because of this we'd become some strange blend of lovers and siblings, tied together. She'd become my lover, my protégé, my sub. I would tell her to do things and she'd do them. Tell her what to wear, what to read, when to masturbate and what to think about when she did, and she would. That was how she felt her experiences had affected her: she thought they'd made her inferior, worthy of nothing but punishment and degradation and other's control. I had a different opinion of her submissiveness, though, and we'd discussed and argued about this for months without reaching any conclusion.

Yet in all this time we'd never met, never had sex, never even seen each other in person. Tonight was the first time we'd laid eyes on each other, when I met her at the airport. The meeting had been no shock, no surprise, we already knew each other too well. We'd had dinner and talked, and now the inevitable. How she reacted would settle the issue. Would being put in the submissive role trigger a flood of abusive memories, or would it open the gates to her true sexuality?

"I need to get some hand cream," she said. "I don't know why I didn't think to bring some."

"We can stop."

"I don't know why, but I didn't expect it to be so cold up here."

"You still cold? You want me to turn the heat up?"

"No. I'll get used to it. I like the feel of the breeze. I like the night."

I took her hand in the dark of the car. It was cool and dry.


"Of course I am," she said. "Nervous as hell."

I looked at her in silhouette, the curly, jet black hair falling to her jaw line, mysterious eyes, pouting, little-girl mouth. My gaze made her uneasy and she looked away, looking for the river again through the trees.

There was really nothing more to say.

Maybe dinner had been a mistake, a chance for tensions to built. Maybe I should have just taken her straight to the motel and let her relax, let us both relax, engage in some easy affection, some play. She was dressed the way I'd told her to dress: a simple black dress with spaghetti straps, black nylons and heels, a black winter coat. Maybe I should have let her change into something more casual and relaxed.

"This could be dangerous," I'd told her at dinner. "I'm not sure what your reactions will be when we start to do this."

She wore a metal filigree choker with a large black stone at the base of her throat, her public collar. It symbolized her submission to me, her servitude. She said she wore it everywhere, felt naked without it, but sitting in the restaurant with her and knowing what we were going to do, it made me slightly uneasy.

"I'm not worried about that," she said. "We've done this online, in voice, and we both know how I react. I trust you, you know that. You're not going to hurt me or take me beyond what I want."

She always accused me of being too soft on her, of taking it too easy.

"That's not quite what I meant," I said.

She smiled. In the candlelight o the restaurant she looked olderand quite sophisticated, knowing. But then, she was older than her age--I suppose mature is a better word. Her pain had made her wise.

"You're afraid I'll freak," she said, smiling. "You're afraid you're going to set off some trigger or something."

"Based on your past, is that so unlikely? You know, playing these games and masturbating on line is one thing. It's something entirely different when it gets real, when I take control of you, when I get inside you."

Still smiling, she sipped her water. "We've been over that, Peter. I think your ego's showing."

I couldn't help it. I still had grave concerns about this. Her need to submit, the fulfillment she found in it, were very possibly tied to her memories of being used and exploited, or so she felt. She was afraid that her need to submit was a way of reliving that traumatic experience, an attempt to come to terms with it or overcome it. She felt, in short, that it was pathological, sick. She suspected that she wanted to be mistreated because she felt her experience made her damaged goods and worthy of nothing else.

This is a subject that I had rather strong feelings on, because I'd always maintained that sexual submission was not a pathology but an erotic preference. Yes, there were women out there who sought out the role of sexual submissive because they had miserable self-images and thought they deserved to be punished and degraded, but I didn't think this was the norm and certainly not the case with her. All the subs I had played with were very together women, confident, assured, and capable. Submission was just a role they chose in the bedroom, something they found particularly gratifying sexually. It had nothing to do with their own self-esteem or feeling of self-worth.

I was determined to somehow convince her that her submission was of this latter type. It was something to be proud of, rather than something to be shunned.

"Then what do you want me to do, Lena?" I asked. "What do you want to explore."

She chewed her food and shrugged. "I want you to do what you always do, what you do on-line. Whenever you do that, it always works for me."

Now, in the car, she'd grown quiet. The knowledge of where we were going and what we were going to do there was too strong and neither of us felt like talking.

I pulled into a strip mall where the road widened into a small town, and there was a drug store with its lights on. I pulled in so she could get her cream. The motel would be at the far end of town, where the road turned into highway again. It was cold and damp and a wind was blowing. I don't know what people thought of us--an uncle and niece? Maybe a teacher and his star pupil, a musician and his protégé, possibly. Certainly not a father and daughter. The currents between us were too serious for that, too sexual. Luckily there was no one in the place, just the teen behind the register.

I took her cream and paid for it, standing behind her. I was close enough to catch a scent of her perfume and thought it strange I hadn't noticed it before. The scent was dark and alluring, very mature. There was something very grown up and almost predatory about her. Her eyes were dark, deep, and knowing. If she was nervous, I couldn't see it.

The suspended traffic light in the middle of town was blowing and bouncing, and the place was deserted. The river here went under a sturdy concrete bridge, then swung back in close to the highway, and there, standing around a bend on the land side of the road, was the motel, looking bright and garish in the dark, blowy night.

I'd already registered, so we drove right around back to the room. It was on the second floor, and given the possibility of another flood tonight, I was thankful for that. I'd left the lights on, and I parked below and cut the engine. It was suddenly very quiet in the car.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a smallish box. She knew what it was; I'd showed it to her earlier, before we'd gone into the restaurant. It was a black leather collar, with a chromed buckle and three sturdy, chromed rings, a classic bondage collar.

"Put this on," I said. "It's time for the real one. "

"Here? Shouldn't we wait till we get to the room?"

"No. Here. This is where I take over."

Lena picked up the collar and put it in her lap. She unhooked her choker and put it in her purse, then unbuckled the real collar, preparatory to putting it on.

"Shouldn't you do this?" she asked.

She was right, so I turned in my seat and motioned her forward. She scooted up and half-turned so her back was to me, then shrugged her coat down to expose her bare neck and gathered her hair and pulled it aside. Her neck was warm and the metal buckle of the collar was cold. I could feel her goose bumps as I buckled it in place, the leather tongue sliding through the silver buckle, the pin penetrating one of the holes in the leather as I snugged it in place.

"Too tight?"

She shook her head no, but didn't speak.

"Alright. Let's go."

We stepped out of the car and I got our stuff from the trunk and led her up the stairs to the second floor. Just then a squall of wind tore at us and it started to rain, nasty and hard; driven rain. She rushed up the stairs and pulled her coat over her hair and huddled under the overhang as I keyed the door and we went inside.

The sound of the rain was loud on the roof, sheets of it blowing against the window as we stood there, looking around at the two queen beds, a dresser, big TV, night stands with lamps, a table for a desk. Big bathroom, a rack for hangers, the whole room done in hunter's colors: autumn browns and ochre and forest green. The lamps were a bit bright but I left them like that.

It was a classic featureless motel room, with no distractions: beds for rent, privacy assured. Immerse yourself in sin and perversion. Check out at eleven AM.

Lena looked around. "Not so bad."

I put my bag on the table and closed the curtains to the rain, locked the door and turned the heat up in the wall unit to high. I wanted it to be hot in there. I wanted us to sweat when we fucked. I started unpacking some stuff while Lena checked out the bathroom and closet, then turned on the TV and started flipping through the channels.

"Think they have any porn?" she asked. "Something to put us in the mood?"

I knew she was joking but I didn't smile. I was starting to feel it, the dominant taking over. It had started as soon as she'd put that collar on, and now I was aware of the dry heat of impending sex starting to stir in me. The door was locked, the beds were virginal, and Lena was willing. She'd said as much.

I wasn't aroused yet--it wasn't the wet heat of immanent desire--it was more a kind of grim efficiency, collecting my forces and preparing for battle. Things seemed to get very clear and there was no room for fooling around.

On the table I laid out a crop, some rope, a bandage scissors (always a good idea), a flogger and a vibrator; a red ball gag and a blindfold and some nipple clamps, a chromed leash. Lena stood by the TV with her coat still on, flicking channels and pretending to watch the screen, but I knew she was watching everything I did, cataloguing everything I'd brought: things meant to hurt or please, penetrate or immobilize, clamp, tie, hold, silence, and blind. Implements of control, violation, subjugation, all laid out like a collection of keys ready to be tried against the fastness of a lock.

She's a very intelligent and perceptive girl, and anything but passive in the classic sense. Submission doesn't come easy to her. It's not something she just falls into. I'd have to take control of her. With each item I laid out I felt something in her stiffen and become resistant, draw back.

"Take your coat off, honey. It' s soaked."

She seemed to notice her coat for the first time. She took it off and threw it in the chair and waited, seemingly unaware of the way she was dressed, in clothes I had chosen for their power to arouse me-- the snug black dress, the stockings and heels, the bare shoulders. She seemed unaware of what her very presence there was doing to me.

I went to her and put my hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes, and she closed them expectantly. She was there, and she was ready for my kiss, whatever it might be. After all these months and all this false intimacy between us, I touched my lips to hers and held them there, lightly, patiently, waiting to feel her attention shift to her mouth and the connection between us.

She didn't disappoint. There was the shock of recognition, of her and me together and touching, the surge of sensuality. I opened my mouth and bit her lower lip gently and she made the softest sound in her throat, a sound of acquiescence and relief, of tension released. Her arms came up around my shoulders and she pulled herself against me. Her mouth opened and she offered it , eager and vulnerable.

I took her with my tongue. She had to be tasted, licked, invaded, and all became silence between us as we switched to the language of sensation. The rain beat on the roof and lashed against the window as we stood there kissing with that elemental oral hunger that makes you want to devour and possess. I'd been waiting for any sign of rejection, any sign of pulling back or of her traumatic past reasserting itself, but there was nothing. Just a kiss, growing warmer and deeper and more sexual with each beat of our hearts

I pulled her closer and felt her body soften, losing its residual tension. She was letting go, letting the resistance drain out of her, and more than that: pressing back, pushing herself against me, already eager for it, ready to abandon herself.

I let my lips leave her mouth and trail down the side of her neck till I tasted the leather of the collar, bitter and harsh. It reminded me of what we were doing, of her pledge to submit to me, and my hands tightened possessively on her ass, pulling her against me, pulling her against my hardening cock.

I broke the kiss and pulled away slowly, my hands on her shoulders to steady her. She opened her eyes and licked the taste of my lips from hers, then looked at me.

"What's the plan?" she asked.

"Plan? There isn't any plan. I'm going to show you what submission is like, and then you're going to tell me how it makes you feel, if it's bad or good."

She considered that. "And what if I can't?"

"You can," I said. "It's not like some kind of test you have to pass."

I looked at her for a moment, then said, "Get down on your knees, facing me."

I saw the quick blush, the sudden self-consciousness.

"Just like that? No extended foreplay? No words of love?"

"Get down on your knees and turn off that damned TV."

Lena stiffened. "Fuck you. You can't just order me around."

I looked at her and she met my gaze, prepared to hold her ground. I'd been waiting for this. I'd been expecting it--her resistance, her sudden willfulness. I knew what it meant, why she did it. She wouldn't just give herself; she had to be taken. She had to see that I wanted her and how far I was prepared to go to have her. She needed to know it wasn't just a game.

I lunged at her and managed to grab onto her forearm, tightened my grip on it and pulled her towards me, throwing her off balance. She reached for my arm but I seized her hair and pulled her head down and to the side and she caught herself as she fell against the table.

"Okay, okay! Jesus! No need to get violent!"

"Don't fuck with me, Lena. Now's not the time!"

"Just ask nice, that's all! Just don't order me around like some slave."

"Get on your knees!" I whispered in her face. "Who do you think you are? The Queen of fucking Sheba?"

"Okay! Okay! Just let go of my hair! I can't get down when you're holding my hair!"

She'd been like this when we played online--resistant and recalcitrant at the start--and it had been harder to handle then, when I had no recourse to force, to physical dominance. Now I was able to grab her, though. I was able to bring my strength to bear, and she was startled by the result, by my adamance.

But just because my reaction had been automatic didn't mean I wasn't still watching her, looking for some evidence of earlier trauma or abreaction. I was fully aware that application of physical force might trigger some buried memories or feelings of panic.

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bydr_mabeuse© 17 comments/ 75840 views/ 47 favorites

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