The Experiment Pt. 01

I stay under the water until my body threatens to collapse from exhaustion. I crawl into bed with my nightshirt still sticking to my wet skin, and as soon as my head hits the pillow, I fall asleep.

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I'm so happy the next day, I'm practically floating. I look in the mirror and forget my embarrassment when I see the smiling brunette. My reflection looks rested and content, she looks like someone who enjoyed herself. But I wish there was something more conventional in the pursuit of this enjoyment. I wonder how many people also seek the services of someone like Mr. Damian. Enough that they made it a business and built a website. I remember his expression when I was leaving, and I think that I missed something. A look that he was maybe... impressed?

This strange pride lasts until I get a text from Eric, the guy I've been seeing. Five months of awkward conversations and even more awkward sex. He mostly checks all the boxes, he's cute enough and nice enough. He can make me laugh, and he's not some bigot or misogynist. But I can tell he doesn't really get me. We don't know how to navigate the post-college dating world, but we're both lonely and horny. So we keep meeting up for these infrequent dates that devolve into booty calls. Except he always gets to blow his load, while I'm lying there un-fulfilled with his cum laden condom.

Eric wants to meet up next Saturday; I agree and try not to think about it. Instead, I grab my laptop and pull up the website for my secret experiment. I schedule the appointment for next Friday night. I know I'll be tired after a week of work, but if I'm going to fuck Eric, I need to try something before then. I go to sleep wondering if I'll get Mr. Damian again.

Friday rolls around too quickly, or not quickly enough it seems. Work is semi-distracting; I'm still the new girl in the lab so of course the other technicians don't let me do much. I do the grunt work: aliquoting, preparing plates and slides, growing germs. Today they were feeling particularly lazy and left all the glass washing for me. I went to college for this, it's something I think is fascinating. But it can also be tedious and static. I still miss my old job in the nursery, I miss being outside and having some physical exertion to help burn off my nervous energy. Except, tonight I will get some assistance to exert myself in a different way.

The house with the iron bars and the black door awaits my arrival, and as soon as I ring the doorbell my pulse ticks up. I have no idea who will be the person assigned to my appointment. The website only allows you to choose the gender of the "facilitator", or you can leave it blank if you don't care. I could've asked for Damian under the section for "Special Requests", but I chickened out. My embarrassment feels pathetic. A dumb and antiquated fear that a woman shouldn't ask for what she wants.

Relief washes over me when the door opens; it's him. Damian's inquisitive blue eyes greet me with a relaxed smile. I think maybe he's a little happy to see me too, or at least that's what I'd like to think I see in his expression.

"Good evening, Siena."

I feel a flutter when he says my name. Something resonating in his voice that is more than just the utterances of a greeting.

"Hi," I chirp back. I want to say his name, but I'm afraid if I say Damian without the mister before it I'll screw it up later on.

"How has your Friday treated you?" he asks as he guides me down the white-washed hallway. I'm not sure how much small talk I should engage in.

"Uh, it was ok. I worked today."

"A busy day?" he asks again, standing aside as he holds open the door to the inner sanctum of pain.

"Kind of. More long than busy," I answer as I walk in the room, "I work at a lab, so never that busy."

I'm not sure if I should've told him that, waiting as he closes the door. I notice he doesn't lock the door to this room, but it does appear to have a simple push-in lock, the kind you'd see in someone's home bathroom.

"A lab," he repeats as he turns around to face me. "Intriguing."

There's just a hint of sarcasm in his voice, or at least I think there is. But his eyes are appraising me again. Maybe I'm not the usual customer of his establishment. He comes to a stop and bows slightly.

"I shall be waiting for you, when you are ready."

Somehow, this sounds vaguely dirty. I feel the flutter again, and scurry off to the changing room.

The layers come off: rain trench, shirt, slacks (no skirt this time), shoes, and my knee-high dress socks. Bare feet will have better grip on that wood floor. And it looks far sexier than socks. Another sweep of some deodorant in the armpits, and a quick comb of my hair- no ponytail today. I think I liked that too much, and I want to try other things today; the other options I selected on my appointment booking. Things that might leave me in more pain than I bargained for, but I want to try it- if at least once.

When I exit the room, Damian is waiting near the red bench, a reminder of where I'm supposed to go. I quickly walk over and kneel in place, but I notice the little towel is gone when my knees hit the wooden floor. Comfort isn't really the point of this place, and I should get used to it. I take a deep breath in, then out, and rest my arms on top of the bench. Waiting.

He lets me sit, watching me for at least a minute before he speaks.

"Stand up, Siena," he instructs in his polite but commanding way. Once I'm upright, still facing the bench, he speaks again. "Hold your arms out in front of you."

I lift my arms up, keeping my wrists close together, readying for them to be restrained. The black leather cuffs are once again placed on my wrists, but this time I notice there's a long chain running down from the cuffs. The chain grazes the floor, its length revealed to be long enough to connect to the restraints he's now placing around my ankles. A matching set of smooth black leather, identical to the wrist cuffs, snug but not painful. Once they are in place, he instructs me again.

"Space your feet apart, at least shoulder-width."

I take a careful step with my left foot first, and realize there's a chain running between the ankle cuffs. I stop, and then move the right foot so that I can balance the length of chain to an even split between my feet. The chain is just long enough to stop me at shoulder width. It's a heavy chain, heavier than the weight of the chain running from my wrists, which is connected in the center of my ankle chain. But the wrist chain is also a tad short, pulling me forward ever so slightly as my arms hang down as far as they can.

Damian circles me, checking the connections of each cuff, a brief clasp of his hand on my arms and legs, the feel of his warm fingers encircling my limbs. I feel him come to a stop behind me, staring perhaps at the way the shortened chain forces my bottom up, with my legs spread apart. The configuration of the restraints alone, the feel of constriction, the cold chain that glances my thighs, is already having an effect.

After inspecting me, Damian walks away, retrieving something. I hear the sound of tinkling, another chain maybe. When he returns, he stands behind me for a bit, preparing something. I can hear the sound of fabric, no- it's leather. He's putting something on.

Coming around to face me, I can see his focus changing. His eyes go down to my chest; a thoughtful gaze, deciding something. I think it's my bra. I wore a lacier, demi-cup bra. One that hoists my breasts up a bit more. I'm not huge, just a healthy B cup that borders on a C depending on what time of the month it is. Maybe he's going to take it off, and I sort of want him to, but simultaneously don't. My pulse rate ticks up as I debate this, waiting.

His eyes are definitely staring at my boobs, and suddenly his hands come up. Firmly, but carefully, he tugs down the demi-cup, and tucks it under my breast. First one side, and then the other. The starchy lace stretches to accommodate this maneuver, but I can feel the weight of my breasts straining the cotton material. It also digs into my skin as he makes sure it won't unfold itself and cover me back up, but the slight tilt of my body leaning forward helps to keep it down. He's so efficient at this, I barely have time to react, and only when he's done I realize he hasn't touched my bare skin, because he's wearing black gloves. A very thin leather, like a driving glove.

With my breasts securely exposed, then the tinkling sound returns. I see the glint of metal and watch as his hand brings the item up to my nipple. I'm not sure how much it will hurt when he closes the jaws around my rigid nipple, but even with the tips coated in a sort of black rubber, it hurts. I wince when he places the second clamp on, almost too scared to see how it looks. It's a firm squeeze, a pinching that goes right through the nipple and into my breasts. It hurts a fair amount, but not as bad with both nipples affected, the pain balancing out. My body is adapting to this new normal.

It's not till he steps back that I see the chain in his hand. A short chain runs between the clamps, which in turn is tethered to a long chain. Like a leash. And Damian is holding this leash, in his hands. He's simply holding it aloft, clutching it, but I can see the tiniest smirk on his face. He's going to pull on it. Why wouldn't he? A chain connected to my very sensitive nipples, made even more sensitive with the pain pulsing through them. And as soon as he yanks on it, I'm ecstatic.

Just a quick tug. Nothing brutal. But enough to hurt. He repeats the tug, then waits. He's watching to see me gasping, the little smirk growing as he lowers the chain, angling downwards and then yanks again. He lifts his arms up, then yanks upwards. That hurts more, to pull in the opposite direction of gravity and against the chain going to my feet. I gasp more loudly, and he yanks again. Harder. Fuck that hurts. And I like it so fucking much.

He gives me a break as I whimper, feeling the ache between my legs. Each yank has ricocheted through my core, down between my legs, into my cunt. I can hardly flex or bend without it pulling the chains in the wrong and painful direction. But that yank of pain is delivering more pleasure than I've gotten in years.

I close my eyes, breathing deeply and he quickly notices.

"Am I boring you, Siena?" he asks.

My eyes snap open. "No, Mr. Damian!"

"Then why are you falling asleep?" he teases.

I shake my head. "I'm not falling asleep, Mr. Damian."

"Can you not keep your eyes open?"

"Almost, Mr. Damian," I admit with a painful exhale.

His face switches to concern. "Are you able to continue?"

"Yes!" I blurt in a panic. "Please don't stop, Mr. Damian."

He watches me carefully, and I keep his gaze, struggling to phrase my desire in a non-mortifying way.

"I'm ok. I just...it was...overwhelming."

His concern fades as he takes a step closer, still holding the chain leashed to my breasts. "Do I overwhelm you?"

His voice is teasing me, but his eyes hold a curiosity.

"Mr. Damian-" I pause for a breath, "whatever gave you that idea?"

I'm attempting to tease him, but I can feel my cheeks turning pink. Except he smiles back, an attractive dimpling of his cheeks, the boyish look that conflicts with his mature seductiveness and professional demeanor. He takes another step in, now inches from me, and I know it's coming. Another yank, eliciting a reflexive cry out. A cry that conceals the aching inside me. God, I want to come. He's so close I can smell the leather gloves, I can smell the scent of some aftershave or cologne, something tobacco-like with a sweet licorice scent mixed in. I can see the quick pass of his tongue across his bottom lip, the consideration of his next move of torture. The ache is now a tight pull up from my ass that is spread apart, and the pull is now combined with a moist feeling.

He's so close, the dangling chain from my wrists is grazing his pants; he's leaning in, his eyes gleaming with sadistic delight, yanking slowly towards him. Pulling me into him. I'm moaning, a breathy, guttural sound, a sound he's pulling out of me. The tugging pain on my nipples, tugging out my pleasure, pulling it out of a hidden place that wanted this so bad. Keep pulling, please keep pulling... I'm almost there...

But he stops. A sudden relaxing of all his muscles, slackening the chain. Damian steps back, and takes his own deep breath.

"Your time is up, Siena."

He deftly removes the clamps, first one breast, and then the other. I'm still gasping when he undoes the chain going from my wrists to my feet. The ankle cuffs are next, I stagger a bit when the chain between my feet is undone. Still on his knees, he places a hand up, steadying me by supporting my suspended wrists. When he stands back up, he's still holding my hands, both of mine in just one of his. I feel like time is slowing down as he unlocks the cuff from one wrist, the sensation of his fingers releasing the leather cuff, pulling my wrist free. I wish it was his bare hands, but the smooth leather gloves are warm, and they are still him. I feel him pause when he's released my other hand, the last restraint now gone.

Reflexively I say thank you. The way you would thank a man who'd held a door open for you, except it suddenly feels different. I could hear it my voice. A little eek of need that was trying to voice itself.

He gives me a subtle smile, then takes a step back. Regretfully, I go back into the changing room.

The room is empty when I leave, and I'm a little disappointed. Except, as soon as I walk into the hallway, Damian is leaning against the wall, fiddling with the gold chain that dangles from his pants pocket. The gold chain is attached to an object that he's flipping between his fingers; I realize it's a small watch. An old-fashioned pocket watch.

He says nothing, but gives me his placid smile and escorts me to the front door. When he places his hand on the doorknob, slowly turning it, I feel the need to say something, but I have no idea what I would say, how to make small talk to the man that is leaving this hold on me. Something invisible, but I can feel it in my body.

"Later on, you may need a cold compress. There will be swelling," he states, holding the black front door open for me.

I must look dazed, floating in the meanderings of my over-stimulated brain. He gives me a pointed nod down towards my breasts. Oh, that.

"Got it," I reply and take a step out into the cool night air. "Thanks."

"Have a good evening, Siena."

Another flutter when he speaks my name, and I try to ignore it.

"Good night, Mr. Damian."

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All too quickly, it's Saturday and I must prepare for my date with Eric. I restrained myself last night, and didn't try to climax when I got home from my appointment. Instead I thought if I saved the burgeoning ache inside myself, that perhaps it would emerge later on when I was having actual sex. An optimistic thought when paired with my dissatisfied history with Eric.

The delayed sensation of the swelling is torturous. Not because of the pain, which was annoying enough that it hurts just wearing a bra, but torturous because it made me think of Damian. I took a shower and felt the squeezing ache as soon as the water hit my brutalized nipples. Just feeling the throbbing in my breasts, I tried to massage the soreness away, but my own hands kept being tempted to do more. The memories of Damian's eyes, the way he smirked at my gasps of agony, the wetness seeping out of my pussy...I think I could climax in less than five minutes. But I told myself to wait, just wait till later to see if I can get off with Eric.

When I get to the bar, the unimaginative sports bar that Eric has repetitively chosen, I see him sitting at a high table, a beer already in hand. He smiles brightly when he sees me. I've taken the time to blow dry my coarse strands into a straight curtain of shiny chestnut, I've put on more make-up than usual. Mascara and eyeliner, glossy lipstick. And lastly, I put on a snug V-neck shirt that plunges a bit deeper to give a modest reveal of cleavage.

He asks me about my job, and I ask him about his. He remembers that I used to do rowing with a club in college, but forgets that my dog died a few months back. The aging pet from my childhood was finally put down, a devastating phone call I received from my forlorn parents who are two hours away. Eric apologizes for bringing it up; I tell him it's ok. He doesn't remember because we last saw each other almost three weeks ago.

I feel like he's trying a little harder this time to make conversation, but it still feels awkward. And I feel like a bitch because he's not unattractive; he's funny and self-deprecating. He's intelligent. But something in him is holding back, like he's scared of me. I feel like the long absences are him steeling up his nerve, or maybe he's seeing someone else and when she backs out that's when he calls me. I'm the back-up. Whatever it is, I know tonight is going to be the last time I suffer through this.

We go back to my place, which I feel is another relational tell since he doesn't want to go to his place. There are kisses and groping, but not alot. He's undressing and my body is languishing in idle. I wince when I take my bra off and he licks my nipple. I tell him I bruised it at the gym, he chuckles and says he'll try to make it feel better.

His hands caress me, but not enough. He doesn't attempt to go down on me or finger me, he just holds me and kisses me. He does tell me I'm beautiful, and I think he means it. But soon enough he's angling between my legs and asking if I want a condom, which I do.

There's barely any sensation other than being a receptacle for his penis. When he fondles my breast, I feel some faint stirrings, but I have to show him I want him to squeeze harder. He balks; he thought it hurt. Yes, but in a good way. When I show him what I want, he grins and gets into it, but then it's too much. It doesn't feel good. It doesn't feel the way it does with Damian. And now I feel all kinds of fucked up.

I kiss Eric so he can't see my face, he can't see the devastation of this realization. My moans are as fake as my movements, brief sensations that are pleasant, but not stimulating. I want Eric to finish, I want to be rid of his pawing hands and thudding penis. So I ride him harder, and feel even worse. I'm so uncomfortable, I can hardly keep it together when he finally shouts into my ear. His climax seems pretty good, and all I did was sit on top of him.

I say nothing when I practically jump off of him. Eric has enough emotional IQ to see I'm upset, but I won't let him comfort me. He cleans off in the bathroom, then goes to find me; I'm hiding in my kitchen. I think it's the nicest he's ever been to me, and I start to cry even harder. He genuinely apologizes, he tells me he knew something was wrong between us, but he doesn't know how to fix it. He tells me how sweet and pretty I am, that I'm smart and funny. But I can't reach you. I don't know what you want. I don't think you know either. I'm furious that he's right. I tell him to please leave my fucking apartment and delete my number from his phone.

The next day is awful. My anger is waning and turning into sorrow. Eric was never going to know who I was when he hardly saw me, but I didn't call him either. It's not the 1800's, I don't have to wait for my gentlemen caller. I didn't contact him because I didn't really like him. Not the way I felt I should. Months of sporadic dates didn't build up an attraction, it only proved the absence of one.

And now, I sit on my bed, my head aching from crying, my heart broken, and my body crying out for release. I know who I want but I'm terrified to admit it. How do I explain it, how is this sane? Can you really meet someone and know from that very first moment you lay eyes on them, they are the one? They are the one who would make you happiest, they make you feel something you've never felt before.