The Experiment Pt. 01

This is a 2 part story, divided for easier consumption. This content is not intended for minors, nor does it contain anyone who is one.

It's 5:36 on a Monday evening and I should be riding the #4 bus that goes to my tiny apartment in Capitol Heights. But today I took a different bus. One that took me from my work and went farther south, beyond the staid highrises of downtown. The bus travels past rows of chic urban townhouses. Neat borders of trees line the road, along with mid-priced sedans and sensible hybrids. Everything seems very ordinary and normal. Except for this gothic looking row-house, the one I'm now standing in front of. Its windows have wrought iron bars, the kind you'd see on a business that is worried about theft. But the utilitarian feature is artful. Sculpted spires and dangerous spikes. I think it's a clever hint of what's inside. At least, I hope that's what is inside as I double-check the address mapped in my phone.

I ring the bell, I wait. My stomach is in knots, my armpits feel damp despite the cool sprinkle of rain that's falling. I tap my feet impatiently. Nobody's coming. It's the wrong house, or it's the wrong time, or I'm just flat-out wrong. This is what I get for arranging this entirely online with no phone number to call. I've probably given my credit card to some scammer.

The imposing front door painted a glossy black is unlatching, it's suddenly opening. A man dressed all in black is staring at me, a pleasant smile on his face.

"Siena?"

I nod my head. "Yes, is this the-"

He doesn't let me finish, already opening the black door. "Please, come in."

I quickly walk in, and step to his side. It looks like the hallway to any ordinary house: clean white walls and tiled floors, an expensive looking painting on the wall. He closes the door and takes a step forward, being sure to keep his distance from me in the narrow space. His outfit is sort of butler-like; black slacks with a black dress shirt, topped with a black vest. It also sort of looks old-fashioned, there's a gold chain hanging from the vest that's tucked into a pocket. I wonder if he's just the concierge of this unique establishment, or if he's the manager in charge, but before I can ask any questions, he starts walking.

"Follow me."

We walk down the tiled hallway until we reach a set of double doors that are propped open, and then we turn to the right. A sleek door of black inset with squares of gold is unlocked by the man. When the door is fully opened, the man steps aside and gestures for me to go ahead.

Four walls painted a dusky burgundy topped by an industrial black ceiling. It takes my eyes a moment to adjust to the dark interior, but the scent inside has given it away before I can even see it all. The tart smell of leather mixed with the deep oak of wood, intertwined with things like sisal rope and iron, the salty leftovers of human sweat. And most deeply buried in the layers is the scent that hits my brain like a warning. It smells like sex. The warm fragrance of a man's musk, mixed with the spicy hint of pussy. Oh God, I hope I did the right thing.

"To your right, there is a changing room. You may remove as much or as little as you like, but whatever remains should be something that you are not concerned for in terms of damage to the garment. I only ask that you remove any jewelry that could incidentally cut or injure you. We do not allow any illicit drugs on the premises; usage of such will result in your expulsion and forfeit your time. Lastly, your appointment starts as soon as you enter this room, be mindful of this when changing. One hour can pass in the blink of an eye."

He's staring at me, making sure I get all this info, his arm extended towards the changing room. I'm sure I look like a deer in headlights, but I nod again.

"Got it."

He nods back, watching as I go into the changing room and shut the door behind me.

It's a fairly big room, something like a hotel bathroom combined with a walk-in closet. There's a stall shower, a toilet, and a large pedestal sink. Near the door there's a sit-down vanity with a mirror rimmed in gold. I spot a small, pale pink tub sitting on the vanity. I realize they're baby wipes.

I take off my long rain trench, then my blouse and skirt. I almost never wear a skirt, but I did today so that I could wear stockings. When my clothes are hung up in the little closet, it seems a strange place to see my belongings. I'm a little nervous about just leaving my purse hanging there. But there's nowhere else I see that I could hide it. As if anyone else will come into this room when I'll be right outside, if, however, occupied.

One quick glance in the mirror before I leave the room. I keep my hair in its practical ponytail, I hoist up my satin bra and smooth down the seat of my underwear in a matching shade of dark blue. Something sexy that I decided wasn't too sexy. A ridiculous decision when I'm going to pay for a service. A quick tug on the top of each smokey black stocking. Maybe it's too much, so I kick off my black pumps.             

Another deep breath, and I leave the solitary safety of the changing room.

I feel a little cold in the room, goosebumps when my stocking feet walk onto the wood floor. On the far side of the room, the man in black is standing with his back to me, going through some things. I wasn't sure if he'd be the one doing my session, but it seems he is. For some reason, it's not what I imagined. He seemed too... ordinary? Maybe too short? I'm 5'7 and he's only a few inches taller than me. But I'm not sure what I expected out of my disciplinarian-for-hire. A fantasy that won't ever match the people who exist in your real life.             

I'm sure he's heard me come out, but he continues to putter, letting me stand there nearly naked. I feel even paler than usual in the dim room, the dark brown ends of my ponytail make a shocking contrast to the skin that hardly ever sees the overcast daylight. When he turns around, I instinctually cross my arms across my chest.

He walks across the room with something in his hands, a reserved smile on his face. I can feel my face going pink as he stares at me, his eyes traveling up and down, assessing his subject. He comes to a stop just short of arm's reach, then simply stands. Saying nothing. My earlier assessment that he wasn't intimidating was premature. I open my mouth anxiously, then stop myself. We're not supposed to talk anymore, or at least I'm pretty sure I'm not supposed to speak.

I try to take a deep breath, I try to relax my arms that are still locked in front of me. I'm stuck on his eyes, still looking at me. They're round and alert, a pale blue that is a little unsettling when matched with the placid smile stuck to his face. An almost serial killer-like calm. But he also has this thick mop of auburn brown hair that gives him a sort of boyishness. His thick reddish strands are wavy but styled nicely with enough product to contain those waves. I've fought enough with my own thick hair to know it takes some doing to keep it all in place. His skin is smooth and shaved, tan but not orange. He takes care of himself, which can translate into vanity.

The staring match ends when my eyes travel down his chest and look into his hands that are holding something. A pair of black restraints, cuffs of some kind. He notices that I'm staring at this, and speaks.

"Are you ready Siena?" he asks in a smooth voice, with just the hint of an accent, maybe something Slavic. Or Italian maybe? Whatever it is, it matches the formal way he speaks. English learned with better grammar than a native.

"Yes," I nod.

"My name is Damian, and in here," he gestures towards the floor, "I am Mr. Damian."

He pauses for effect, making sure I'm catching his drift. I think it's sardonic that he has chosen the same moniker as the supposed antichrist. But I can tell he's serious, so I need to play along.

"Yes, Mr. Damian," I parrot.

He smiles a little more genuinely, pleased that I am not a complete idiot.

"On your appointment request, you submitted your safe word as Purple. Is that still correct?"

"Yes," I respond, only adding on the Mr. Damian part a few a seconds later.

He's a little amused at my almost flub. "I have taken record of all your selections and preferences, but there may be some...improvisation. Boundaries will need to be set, and that is where you must make yourself plain and remember to use your word."

I nod meaningfully; I know I probably look scared shitless. "I understand, Mr. Damian."

"Good. Let us begin."

He takes a step to my side and gestures to our respective right. "You will come over to this bench and kneel in front of it to show me you are ready."

A small wooden bench with a leather seat in bright red stands in the center of the room. Around it are other devices of wooden furniture. Some look like a sawhorse, others have a larger at-home gym kind of configuration. From the ceiling hang a variety of hoops, ropes and pulleys. Everything almost has an ordinary look of simple wood, rope, and steel. Except I can see how each thing retains a space for a body to be placed within their confining dimensions. Everything meant to hold, and trap.

I walk over to the bench and gratefully see a black towel on the floor, folded into a small but thick square for my knees. I lower myself, facing the bench that comes just below my breasts. I put my clenched hands up on the bench, and try not to fidget as I stare straight ahead.

"Place your hands flat," he demonstrates with a turn of his hands facing palms down.

I flatten my sweaty palms out, and watch as he bends down with the cuffs. They're thick leather, or maybe vinyl, with links of metal that fasten them closed. He takes my left wrist in his hand and lifts it up to wrap the cuff around it. His hands are large; wide palms that could easily hold a basketball, yet are graceful as they manipulate my hands. My other wrist is cuffed next, shackled to its brethren with a gap of about an inch. My hands don't feel so much restrained as they do weighted down in the stiff material. He verifies the connection is solid and stands back.

"Now, you will stand up, then lean down resting your arms on the bench. Bent but standing with your legs straight."

In other words, bent over with my ass sticking out. It's a little awkward as I pitch back on my heels and then into a squat so I can stand, and my stocking feet slip on the wooden floor. He keeps an arm behind me so I don't fall, until I'm upright and then guides me over into position. I try to rest my entire forearm on the bench, but it's just short of my elbows. Something intentional in its design, I'm sure.

"Lean down, head on your arms," he instructs in a tone that is startlingly polite. I genuflect further, resting my forehead on my arms, trying not to squish my nose so I can still breathe.

He's still for a moment, inspecting my form, then walks away. I can hear things moving, a device of some sort that he is most likely procuring. Just for me.

When his footsteps come back, I can tell he stops behind me. There is the sound of fabric twisting, leather actually, the tell-tale squeak of the oiled material being bound, or unbound. It sounds like he's putting something together maybe, or maybe he's putting something on.

My heart begins to pound, my legs wobbling. My mouth is sealed shut, devoid of any saliva. Everything in my body is beginning to tremble, everything closing in around me so it's hard to breathe. I hear him taking a step closer, I can feel the air moving behind me. I'm so terrified, I can barely stay put. But I want this.

I'm so conflicted with the simultaneous desire to experience this, and the fear that is more paralyzing than the restraints that hold me in place. I've been thinking about this for... a while. Longer than I'm willing to admit. I've been stealthily searching and erasing my browsing history, living in an ongoing flux of shame and frustration. But I finally did it. I finally nutted up and made the appointment. I found a way. So now I'm here. And I have to fucking do this.

I close my eyes, preemptively cringing as I sense something swishing through the air. It hits me dead center on my ass with a dull smack. Actually, it was pretty light. My underwear is high-cut, a cheeky reveal that I debated for modesty and for access, but the leather finds the bare skin. He yanks it back, and smacks again- gently. The leather flails around in soft strips as he slowly drags it across my butt; it's a cat o' nine tails. He taps the implement in his hand with a chuckle. He knows I was expecting worse. I might have chuckled too, but for now I just need to keep breathing.

He takes a few steps, moving to what feels like the side of me, and then around me. He returns to my backside, a sound of him tapping the flogger in his hand. He flicks the flogger into my thigh with a short snap. It briefly stings, like the feel of snapping my stockings in place. And I realize that's what he's hitting, the top of each stocking- one leg, and then the other. Then he flails it down near the back of my knees, then slowly drags it up my thighs. Slowly taking the leather up until he reaches the crux of my ass, barely glancing between my thighs. Oh, that I like. Alot.

He smacks across my ass, a little harder this time, then repeats the drag of the flogger by going in the opposite direction down my thighs. I barely flex into this movement, hoping for a repeat. But he strikes again, harder. The sting across my ass makes me gasp, and I barely have time to flinch before he does it again. I cry out this time, quiet but audible.

He pauses, watching me breathing. "How is Miss Siena?"

It takes all my effort to unclench my jaw and speak. "Fine-" I sputter, "Fine, Mr. Damian."

"Just fine?" he asks with sarcasm, tapping my leg with the end of the flogger.

"No... it's good," I blurt out.

"Oh, I see," he replies with amusement, "and to whom are you speaking?"

Shit, I already forgot.

"Mr. Damian, I'm speaking to Mr. Damian," I blubber like a frat boy down on his knees.

Satisfied, he steps back. I breathe a little easier, waiting. He walks around me, past my head, then stops by my right side. The flogger plops down on my back, just below the clasp of my bra. It tickles almost, and he notices the wriggling of my spine beneath the strips of leather. He drags it away, only to smack down again on my back. It stings, but not as bad as the strikes to my ass. I can feel him tracing the muscles in my shoulders with the tip of the flails, the rigid lines I've created from four years of rowing in college. The flogger is curious, a hard place on my otherwise vulnerable body.

His hand coils around my ponytail and slowly but firmly pulls my head back, lifting my head off my arms. It's hard for me to see him, my eyeballs rolling up, but still not able to focus on him.

"Miss Siena works out," he states aloud, seeming to invite conversation.

"Yes, I do...Mr. Damian," I choke out awkwardly as my moving jaw pulls on my scalp.

"She is no stranger to pain."

He's waiting for me to meet his eyes, relaxing his grip on my hair ever so slightly.

"No, Mr. Damian."

I know my answer is ambiguous, but I'm not sure how to keep a conversation going in this position. There's a lingering feeling about my answer, but he slowly lowers my head down. His footsteps move around me, and then he strikes me three times in a row. All dead center, right on my ass. Each one hard and fast. They hurt like hell, saving the worst for last. But as each blow fell, I felt a corresponding ache. I'm crying out, but it's not what you'd think. More like a whimper.

There is stillness, and I know it's over. Finally.

He clears his throat. "Your time is up, Miss Siena."

I realize I've drooled a little when he undoes my cuffs. I'm trying to wipe my chin off with my arms as he assists me up. When I'm finally upright, he curls his arm around my back and looks into my face.

I'm sure I look dazed, and I feel it. I take a deep breath, trying to give him a weak smile. But I also avoid his eyes, suddenly incredibly embarrassed.

"You may get dressed," he quietly instructs, taking a few steps with his arm still curled behind my back. He opens the door to the changing room, and guides me in, then closes the door behind me.

I get dressed. I take down my tangled ponytail and comb out my hair. Then I put it back up. I put my rain trench on even though I'm not cold; in fact, I'm sweating. I wish for a hat or something else to be layered beneath, something to hide my face. My legs are still wobbly, and not happy to be forced to walk in my old 2 inch pumps.

When I leave the changing room, I inwardly cringe seeing that he's still there. Mr. Damian is leaning against the doorway, the door exiting the room of...stuff. I'm trying to fix my face into a normal expression, trying to look calm and not the fiercely wild feelings running through my brain.

He's staring at me, willing me to meet his blue eyes. I can only glance at them for a fraction of a second, a second of intense appraisal. Yes, I'm ok. No, you didn't injure me. I know I look like a deranged college girl from the suburbs. I feel like it too.

He silently guides me out of the room and leads me back out into the white hallway. Down the crisp tile floor and back to the door to the outside world. The world of regular people doing regular things that have no idea what I've just done inside here.

Opening the front door, I think he's going to ask me a question, but his lips stay sealed in a quixotic smile. I give him a weak smile back and go to step past him when he speaks.

"Good evening, Siena."

I glide home in a fog. I wished I'd arranged a taxi or Uber, but I knew it would be too embarrassing with a singular stranger. But the bus is equally mortifying, the feeling that everyone is staring at me. Everyone knows what I've done.

My apartment even feels the prying eyes of judgment. I avoid every mirror in my place, I undress with my back turned to the mirror in my bathroom. I slink into the shower and wash off the sweat and drool. I try to wash off the tempestuous feelings of compulsion. But it doesn't work.

The water is stinging in places, my bottom already bruising. Yet, I lean against the wall of my shower, squeezing the painful tissues with the weight of my body. I close my eyes and swallow hard. The aching has returned. A tight ache deep inside me, and I want it out. I want to set it free and release it. But whenever I've tried before, I failed. My fingers usually get sore before my body barely responds. The water helps the most out of everything. When I'm with someone, I have to pretend. I tell the guy it was good, I smile like it was amazing. Even the man I'm seeing now, I've faked it every time.

Tonight feels different. I feel my nipples get hard as the spray of water strikes them. I adjust the spray head to a finer spray, making the droplets feel like biting little stings on my skin. The aching inside me gets stronger, a pull deep in my cunt. I spread a leg apart, and start rubbing. My fingers play across my clit, the strange nub that will tease me with feelings that so often lead nowhere. But tonight I can feel it building and building. Tensing and tickling. I think of Mr. Damian pulling my hair, I think of his flogger going across my ass. I think of his strikes that landed so precisely and perfectly. How it felt to be bent over for him, his eyes staring at my sex. To think of what he might have done. How he could use my body for his own dark devices.

I holler in bursts, a foreign sound that is almost comical. The tight spasm ripples through my pussy, the elusive climax finally erupts from my body. It's such relief, such bitter happiness after so long a drought. I close my eyes as the tears start to roll down my cheeks. I keep crying as I lick my fingers off, as I try to remember the taste and the smell of my own pleasure. Why does my body fight me so hard? Why doesn't it let me have this? Why was this the thing that I needed?