tagBDSMSweet Submission Ch. 01

Sweet Submission Ch. 01


Author's Note: This is the first in a two part series of "light" domination - a bit of bondage, lots of control and no pain or humiliation. If that's your taste, read on and enjoy.


In my dream, I was naked except for a diaphanous veil of delicate gold which concealed nothing. The veil, light and ethereal as air, accentuated my nakedness and threw into relief the golden curls of my pubes, which framed the wet engorged lips of my cunt. I was spread eagled against a stone wall, my wrists and ankles trapped in iron manacles let into the stone. They looked unbearably fragile in the metal circles that held them. My body was impossibly stretched, the muscles in my limbs twisting and writhing like snakes under my skin. My nipples were elongated, engorged as if they had been pulled and teased by eager fingers or hot hungry mouths. My pussy was gushing, my juices glistening on the trembling muscles of my inner thighs. My face was twisted in ecstasy, my eyes glazed, my swollen lips parted in a shuddering moan.

But that was all there was – that frozen moment of other worldly passion. My dream revealed nothing else – of what had led to that sublime moment or where it would lead. The naked trembling body in my dream was too lost in passion to speak. Had my bound helpless body been used? Would it be used again? Was I in my dream a gift, an offering? To a God, a man, ... a beast? What had wrenched that moan from my shuddering lips? What had teased my nipples into hard, quivering nubs? What had made my pussy leak so with longing? I didn't know. What I did know was that I was unaccountably aroused by that vision, by my helplessness, by the fact that I was not in control of my fate and that I was at the mercy of someone or ... something that held the key to my manacles.

I had kicked off the sheets in the throes of my passion as that dream slowly consumed my mind. I ventured a tentative questing finger between my thighs. My pussy was awash. My juices had dripped between the cheeks of my ass and onto the sheet staining a wet clammy circle beneath my thighs. I had to do something about this, I thought for the umpteenth time.

The problem was I didn't know what. The images in my head, the visions in my dreams had now become so terrifying in their erotic intensity that I desperately wanted to live them out. But I was still screwing up my courage for what in my lucid moments I knew to be a mad and reckless adventure.

Trawling the internet for answers had not helped. I had not dared to respond to the many personals that I had stumbled across. Most were disconcertingly brutal – psychopaths seeking willing victims rather than lovers reaching out for solace. Anyway, I didn't know what to write in response to these personals. Anything that I wrote would probably scream inexperience. That also stopped me from posting a personal of my own.

I settled finally on what I thought was a less risky venture which wouldn't immediately place my body and soul in mortal danger. I would go to one of those clubs that dotted the city that appealed to more extreme tastes and "check out the scene," as it were. I had never been to one of them and had always scurried past the dark nondescript doors, flanked by enormous bouncers who looked like they belonged to another species, with my head buried in my shoulders, a delicious little shudder running down my spine. I was convinced that if I so much as glanced at the hooded eyes of those guardians of the gate, I would be grabbed by the scruff of my neck and dragged inside, kicking and screaming, to be subject to God knows what delicious depravities. Now, here I was planning to volunteer for the mission. I felt like one of those kamikaze pilots that I had seen pictures of, solemnly receiving a samurai sword as they prepared to abandon the company of the living and embrace death. ... All right ... so I have always been a bit of a drama queen.

Since I was wary of confessing what I had now started calling my "dark passion" to any of my friends, I had to go alone. That did make me nervous. But what is the worst that can happen to me? I thought. I could see myself sitting at a long burnished bar, its surface gleaming as I coolly appraised my company. If something piqued my interest, we would see. Otherwise, I would have a drink and slip back into the night, none the worse for wear. At least, that was the plan. Frankly, it didn't inspire too much confidence, especially in my frequent moments of craven weakness when I sat in my office, my heart racing, my palms sweating, as I contemplated bleakly the many horrible fates that could befall me. Those were the moments when I seriously considered therapy. Maybe my mind just required some minor tweaking. Only the $200 an hour I would have to pay to unburden my soul gave me pause.

Over the next week, I planned my campaign. I scouted several promising locations, whetting them from a discreet distance, trying hard not to be noticed, cowering behind a newspaper or pretending to be fascinated by some dreary window display. I finally picked out one that seemed likely. It was at the corner of Amber and West; and was called the Blindfold. The 'O' in Blindfold was a woman's face, perfectly oval, her eyes wrapped in scarlet silk, her lips parted in a shuddering sigh that signaled ecstasy ... or agony ... or perhaps both?

That Friday, I was a nervous wreck at work. My head was filled with chatter, my staid boring predictable church-going half squabbling noisily with my darker self which had now come into its own. I was like those cartoon characters, with an angel, complete with halo, perched on one shoulder and an impetuous little devil, horns glistening in the light, on the other. Only this was no contest. The devil in me was winning without breaking a sweat, every so often gleefully poking the angelic bottom with the business end of his trident making him squeal at the indignity of it all. I obviously wanted this little adventure very badly.

At some point during the day, the debate appears to have spilled out of my head and I must have been muttering aloud. There were strange looks thrown in my direction and my best friend, Amanda, asked me if I was all right, her eyes soft with concern. That was a tricky question, but I mumbled "Yes," not daring to meet her eyes. I was tempted for a moment to confess all and scream for help. I needed protection from myself and Amanda would know what to do. But my lips were sealed. I feared that our friendship would be changed forever if I confessed my dark secret longings. I could see it. Her eyes would first dilate with shock and horror and then become cool and distant. I have known friends become strangers for less. I kept my counsel.

When the day was over, I was anxious to avoid conversation, especially with Amanda who was still eyeing me warily. At home, I ran myself a bath and wallowed in the warm water for a long time, the tension that had pooled in my limbs melting. Afterwards, I scrubbed myself in the shower until I was pink and glowing. I appraised myself in the mirror and liked what I saw. I had my moments of crushing insecurity in this zero size world, but on the whole I was happy with my body. It had curves in all the right places. My breasts were soft and firm and fit nicely in a man's palms. My hips swelled gently from my waist and framed a bottom that I was especially proud of. I like to have my back turned to my lover when I take off my clothes. I like the gasp, the quick in drawn breath, the unconscious hardening of his flesh as his eyes drink in my globes.

I pulled on a short slinky dress of black silk, its hem barely half way down my thighs. The dress, which was held up by a knot behind my neck, left my back almost completely bare. I wasn't wearing a bra. I was feeling particularly racy and pondered for a mad moment whipping off the black lacy panties that I had on and going commando. Better sense prevailed. I was tempting fate enough as it is. I didn't want to make it an offer it couldn't refuse.

When I arrived at the Blindfold in my black dress clutching my little black purse in a grip like death, the muscle at the door looked at me like I was from another planet.

"I would like to go in, please," I said in my sweetest voice.

He looked me over silently for a long moment and then asked, "Are you of legal age, ma'am?"

I didn't think he had any doubt that I was. I suspect he was giving me a last chance to back down from whatever dimwitted plan he thought I had hatched.

"Yes, quite," I responded in as firm a voice as I could muster.

He hesitated for another long moment and then stepped aside to let me in, his shoulders lifted in an eloquent shrug that hoped that I knew what I was doing. I hoped so too.

The door opened into a short corridor with a coat check which led in its turn into a large hall, dimly lit, smoke filled and buzzing with conversation. I paused just inside the entrance to the hall, my eyes adjusting to the darkness. My heart was booming like a bass drum and I could feel my limbs become heavy and languid as if to say that this was as far as they would go. I sensed my courage begin to fail and panic pool in the pit of my stomach. I was torn. I was more nervous than I had ever been in my life. But having come so far, I quite simply refused to admit the possibility that I may not have the guts to take that final step and see this through. At some point in that debate, my body sort of uncoiled and I tripped and stumbled after a fashion into the hall.

A hush descended over the room as I teetered on my heels trying to regain my balance. The silence was so profound that I could hear a vein throb in my temple. Every pair of eyes in the room had swiveled around towards me and I wilted under the heat of that collective gaze. I could feel my face coloring as I smoothed my dress down over my thighs and desperately sought some sanctuary, some cozy hidden nook where I could tuck myself away from this avid scrutiny.

As I peered around nervously, a figure waved to me languidly beckoning me to the semi circular sofa set against the far wall where he sat alone. I couldn't make out his features in the dim light, but I was mortified at the thought that I had been recognized. The possibility that someone I knew could be in this dive had not crossed my mind though it should have. My first instinct was to flee, but if I had already been seen, it was an unpromising option. I decided to brazen it out and offer some suitably innocent explanation for my presence. What explanation I would have offered for turning up alone in the Blindfold on a Friday night wearing a little black number that screamed "fuck me" is now unclear. But at the time, I remember being almost relieved that there was a familiar face in that sea of strangers. It was oddly comforting. As I walked towards him, my eyes downcast, the buzz of conversation resumed and I was no longer the center of attention.

However, when I drew closer to his table, it became painfully clear that I was in a new pickle. I could not for the life of me place the man. I peeked furtively over my shoulder to make sure that he had not been waving at someone else, but when I turned back, his smile was warm and his eyes welcoming. It was apparent that I had little choice. I slid demurely onto the sofa gathering the folds of my dress into my lap. He could see that I was shaken. There was a pitcher of ice water on the table, its surface clouded with condensation. He poured me a glass.

As I sipped the water, I peered at him over the rim of my glass, hoping that his face close up would jog my memory. It was a good face, strong and angular, an unruly lock of hair tumbling over one eyebrow, his eyes gentle, his lips soft, a welcome counterpoint to the firm lines of his chin. But it did not look even remotely familiar. I began to admit to myself the possibility that he might be a stranger after all.

"Do I know you?" I asked, still unsure what answer to expect.

"No," he replied.

I looked at him expectantly for some further explanation, but it soon became apparent that none would be forthcoming. He was sipping his drink slowly, almost meditatively.

"Why did you wave me over?" I finally stuttered.

He turned to me then, shaken from his reverie.

"Look around you," he said simply, "If I hadn't waved you over, you would have been eaten alive in minutes."

It was only then that I truly began to take in the place. Earlier, the details had been obscured by my own nervousness. The tables were filled mostly with men who looked disreputable in varying degrees. The few women scattered around the room had men buzzing around them like flies.

There was another room visible through an open arch in one corner of the hall. A young girl was bent over a table, three men swarming over her. One had a firm grip on her ponytail and was yanking her hair viciously, the roots straining against her scalp. Another had trapped her delicate hands in one of his own pulling her arms taut behind her. Her buttocks were bare and her legs parted, her engorged pussy and a wet tuft of pubic hair visible through the breach. The cheeks of her ass were a flaming red and I quickly found out why. The third man who seemed to be running his fingers appreciatively over the girl's exposed flesh suddenly raised his arm and smashed his open palm onto one inflamed cheek. Her body jerked under the onslaught within the confines of the hands that held her and I flinched. Tears streamed down her cheeks, smearing her mascara over her pale face.

As I averted my eyes, they lighted upon a scene even less comforting. Two men sat opposite each other, their knees almost touching. They both wore leather trousers and open leather jackets with the arms sawn off, exposing bulging torsos and what seemed like acres of hard muscle. An Asian girl, who could not have been more than 20, was balanced on the knees of one of them, completely naked. Her body was shining with sweat, the gold rings in her nipples reflecting the light from a nearby table lamp. The man on whose knees she was poised had buried three of his thick meaty fingers into her swollen moist cunt. He was sliding them in and out with a wet slurping noise. While the girl moaned quietly, her back arched against his body. After a few strokes, he withdrew his fingers from her pussy and jerked her hips forward.

"All yours," he leered.

His friend was waiting. He thrust his fingers into the now empty cunt with a force that lifted her body clear into the air. He then gripped her frail shoulder with his free hand and began to fuck her brutally, his arm a silken blur. The man she was leaning against reached around her to grip her pierced nipple and twisted viciously. She shrieked and began to cum, the fingers in her cunt still unrelenting. As her orgasm began to rack her body, her eyes met mine. They were dilated with pleasure, but there was also a hint of desolation, a sense of overwhelming loss in those dark pools that made me shudder.

When I turned back, I was trembling. I lifted my glass but put it down again. My hands were shaking and I was sure the glass would clatter against my teeth if I tried to take a sip.

"So why are you here?" he asked quietly.

"I am into pain," I said. I have no idea what made me say that, but the moment I said it I knew with a complete clarity that had eluded me so far that I wasn't. I could feel myself hyperventilating, screaming at myself in panic inside my head. ... What the fuck is the matter with you? ... Are you nuts? ... You have to get out of here ... Where is the exit? ... Calm down ... Breathe deep ... Breeeathe ... Deeeep.

He could sense my panic.

"I don't think so," he said calmly.

"What...?" I asked in confusion.

"I don't think you are into pain."

I was glad I had been found out. At least, he wouldn't think I wanted to be hurt and start sharpening his knives, braiding his whip or whatever else they were supposed to do. But at the same time, I didn't want to admit the truth – that I was a fatuous idiot with my foot buried so deep in my mouth that my toes were wiggling in my abdominal juices. So I decided to go on the offensive. Sometimes I really wonder....

"So what are you doing here?" I demanded.

"Me...? I was just waiting for you."

"Oh!" I said, for some strange inexplicable reason satisfied with his answer.

He laughed softly.

"I own the place," he said.

It turned out that he had a chain of these establishments along the West Coast. He had spotted a yawning gap in the adult entertainment market. Nobody had been willing to cater to sexual tastes that were somewhat unorthodox and more extreme than the ordinary. He had opened the first Blindfold a few years ago and it had evolved into a nice lucrative little franchise. He allowed his patrons freer expression of their often unusual passions than most other places did. That had attracted a regular clientele that swore by him.

Of course, occasionally, his bouncers did have to wade in to break off a scene that was turning ugly and to gently dissuade his customers from excessive enthusiasm. But that was not often. The men and women who frequented the Blindfold never ceased to amaze him, he said, by their hunger to absorb pain.

"Letting the bouncers loose is bad for business. You know how it is. Too much testosterone in the air. These people," he said carefully, indicating his clientele with a nod of his head, "tend to take advice rather badly. Which is why I waved you over. I didn't want to have to drag you screaming from a melee of half crazed men."

All this was rather new for me and I was absorbing the information quietly, mulling over everything he had said.

"So what do you do?" he asked.

He could see my momentary hesitation.

"I am an accountant," I replied finally.

"Alright, say it," I said as he grinned, "What is someone as crashingly boring as an accountant doing in a place like this?"

"Oh, I know that already," he said, his eyes twinkling with merriment, "You are into pain."

I tried to look offended, but couldn't help giggling. When my giggles subsided, he coaxed, "Tell me what you really want."

I bit my lip in hesitation, but he had been such a comforting presence, so delightfully easy to talk to that I quickly overcame my customary reserve and told him what had brought me to the Blindfold. I blushed when I told him of my dream, but he betrayed no reaction, to save me from embarrassment. I told him of my fears and my doubts, of being repulsed by the personals posted on the net and of the resolve that had led me here – the resolve to at least understand the nature of the beast, the shape of my desires.

He looked at me quietly for a long moment as I waited expectantly for his reaction. Then he said, in a tone almost of wonder, "You are a fool."

"You came here to find out what you want? And you thought these good folks would let you do that?" he said, shaking his head, "In here, you are just prey."

"I felt my life wasn't enough," I said quietly, my voice catching in my throat, "I wanted more."

He saw the stricken look on my face and his expression softened.

"Don't we all?" he said, a new kindness in his voice.

He lifted my face, his hand on my chin and brushed a stray lock of hair back from my cheek and behind my ear. The gesture was so achingly gentle that I leaned my cheek into his palm and closed my eyes. He held his hand still for a moment before withdrawing it, his fingertips trailing on my skin.

When I opened my eyes, he was lost in thought, his brow furrowed as if he were trying to make up his mind about something. When he turned to me, his eyes were serious.

"I know I am not what you were looking for. But I honestly believe that what you are looking for is not here. You are aroused by the thought of not being in control sexually, of yielding your body completely to your lover. That can be liberating and it can bring you pleasure beyond your wildest dreams. But you can be helpless without being hurt. You need a person you can trust who will let you discover that about yourself. You have no reason to trust me. But I am going to ask you anyway because nothing about our meeting has been usual or ordinary. Would you leave this place with me now," he asked, taking my hands between his, "and see where the night takes us?"

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