The Experiment Pt. 02

The appointment is Friday evening. I would've liked to book it on a Saturday, but I was scared that I wouldn't get him, in case he only works during the week. When the day rolls around, I'm so anxious I can hardly sit still. I want to be perfect for him, so I call in sick to work. I spend the day shaving and grooming; prepping and primping. I loosely curl my hair with an ancient curling iron, I apply as much make-up as I did for my date with Eric. I think I'm finished, then I go back in with a little more eyeliner. The black liner gives my brown eyes a leaner, bitchier look. Something to match the judgmental eyes of Mr. Damian.

The bus that transports me to my appointment is moving too slow. The other passengers are being too slow getting on and off, the driver is taking too long at each stop. I want everyone to move faster so I can get there before my heart bursts from my chest with anticipation. My hand is shaking when I ring the doorbell. I squeeze it into a fist, I close my eyes and tell myself to relax. I feel the cool spring wind blowing through my hair, I smell the wet pavement from the rain that fell earlier. I clear my senses so I can drink in the other sensations later on.

The door opens, and he is standing there. I try not to smile too broadly, forcing my lips to pucker in. Damian greets me with his usual serene smile, but I think I see a hint of something else in his eyes. Something else stirring up the calm blue as he holds the door open for me.

"How was your work day?" he asks, strolling beside me. He's wearing a dark blue shirt layered under his vest today, not black. It has the faintest sheen of a pattern on it.

"It wasn't a work day. I called in sick."

I don't know why I admitted that.

He turns to glance at me, surprised. "You were not ill, I take it?"

I shake my head, and feel less ridiculous when I see his amusement.

"I just needed a day off," I mumble.

"I think you are allowed an exception," he says softly, holding open the door to our room.

Our room. I suddenly feel possessive of the space, remembering how he doesn't lock the door. I nearly ask him if he would lock it, except I'm certain there's a policy that says he isn't supposed to. Just like there is probably a policy that says he's not supposed to fraternize with the customer.

The changing room is my last chance to prepare myself. The last chance to reaffirm this absurd plan that I only need to test my response to these devices and techniques. Things I'd read about and researched, sordid websites and scandalous blogs of information. But none of them prepared me for him. They didn't say what would happen when I met someone like Damian. And now I'm stripping down in a room, debating how naked I should be.

Thinking of how he previously had to tug down my bra, I decide to remove it. But then I feel so exposed, so I take my hair out of the ponytail I had just put it in. I fluff out the waves of my hair that are already losing the artificial curls, and let it hang down over my shoulders (it's not long enough to cover my breasts, but I'll pretend). I ultimately decide to leave on the skinny thong of satin, believing it will allow enough access to abuse my buttocks.

When I emerge from the changing room, Damian is waiting patiently by the bench. I took longer this time, but I think it was worth it to see the expression on his face. His jaw flexes, a concerted effort to remain poised even as he takes a breath in. His eyes go over me, a satisfying stare as I saunter over to him.

Only a few steps from him, he stops me. "It would be better to have your hair up and secured for tonight."

"Yes, Mr. Damian." This time it's my words that affect him, I can see him swallow hard even as his face remains still.

I dash back into the changing room. I grab my elastic pony band, and quickly wind my hair up into a topknot. It's a little sloppy without any bobby pins to secure the slippery weight of my hair, but I double wind the elastic band to keep it in place.

I return to find him still patiently waiting, and this time I notice he has a large coil of pale rope in his hands. It might even be two coils of rope.

I kneel beside him, feeling a prickling across my skin. I keep my head lowered as I rest my arms on the bench, trying to show I will be an obedient girl. Like a pet that sits at its master's feet, waiting and hoping for a pat on the head, some doting sign of affection.

Just as he did last time, he lets me sit in complete silence for a while. A test of my patience, a test of my obedience. I stay still, waiting, feeling more content than ever to be at his feet, nearly naked. In fact, he's done nothing to me and I already feel the faint ache between my legs.

"Siena, today you will sit on the bench, facing towards the wall," he states, and I'm getting up when he changes his mind. "Actually- remain seated a moment."

I lower back onto my knees, and he goes to stand behind me. He's inspecting something as I feel the movement behind me.

"Place your hair into a ponytail instead. It will be sufficiently secure like that."

It's an ordinary enough command, although I hear a hint of something forced, or false, at the end of his statement. Maybe he doesn't like my sloppy bun. Or he likes the ponytail better. I think we both know we mutually like it better.

"Yes, Mr. Damian."

I quickly undo the bun, and let my hair fall down. I make a tiny bit of a show of shaking it out and smoothing down my scalp before I secure the elastic band around it. I place the band up higher than normal, just behind the crown of my skull, lifting the ends of my hair off my shoulders.

"Very good. Now you may sit on the bench."

I raise up and sit on the bench, keeping my knees together and my back straight. I lay my hands in my lap and wait. He comes around to the front, still holding the thick coil of rope.

"This will take some time to secure properly, but the end result will be worth it."

I look up to meet his eyes at this statement and see the gleam in his clear blue. I try not to grin, and nod hopefully.

"I have nowhere else to be, Mr. Damian."

He represses his own grin, and begins to uncoil the rope. "Raise your arms up and place them on your head for the moment."

Moving to stand behind me, Damian takes a long length of rope that he's doubled up and circles both strands around to the front of my chest, crossing it just above my breasts. The rope is surprisingly soft, a linen-like texture. He feeds more of the rope forward, making sure the length is even on either side, then tells me to lower my hands. He makes a loop around the back of my neck, creating a halter that connects to the rope around my chest. Repeating the pattern, he surrounds my breasts with another length of rope that goes beneath them, creating a restrictive bra of sorts.

It's not just the sensation of being bound, it's the slow and methodical way he's moving around me. His bare fingers graze my skin, gliding underneath the fold of my breast while he stands just behind me. He's making a knot between my breasts, pulling the rope taut to affix the rope-bra in place while the material of his sleeves brushes up against my nipples.

"Now, fold your arms behind your back with elbows bent. Grasping your arms with your hands."

I put my arms behind my back and fold them against my spine, but I'm not quite sure how he wants my hands. Seeing me fumble, he tucks my right hand down so it rests on my forearm, then wraps my fingers around the bulge of the muscle. We mirror the position with my other hand, and he begins to wind the rope around the junction of my wrists. When that is secure, he loops another rope into the knot between my breasts and pulls it around to my back. He coils it around my arms, pining my biceps to my side, then repeats this a few more times, creating a binding over my arms that is assuredly going to stay in place, but doesn't bite into my skin. The knots he's placed along the way spread out the tension, a clever system of restriction.

I've been thoroughly enjoying the process, enjoying the touch of his fingers, enjoying the momentary pause for him to tug a section into a tighter hold. He's just finished connecting the rope that encircles my chest to the rope that goes around my wrists, a large knot I can feel against my spine. This knot is the tightest, a knot he tugs on and adjusts at least three times. His hands pull away, and then return with a new length of rope. It's being woven through the binding that goes around my upper arms, and then making a few loops around my wrist. It must be a long rope; he keeps looping it up and around, tickling me as the rope dangles down my lower back.

Then, he pauses, loosely holding the loops of rope that glance my tailbone.

"Stand up, Siena. Remain facing the wall."

My body lurches backwards as I raise up, unaccustomed to standing without my arms for balance. Damian gently keeps one hand behind my back, still holding the rope, and another hand steadying my shoulders, assisting me to right myself.

Once I'm steady, he steps back and uses his free hand to move the bench out from between us. He's now right behind me, a sensation of bodily warmth just inches from my skin.

"Stand with your feet apart, a little wider."

I take a step apart, and then another. I'm trying to steady my breathing just when he sees this, and speaks.

"You will need to hold very still, Siena." His voice is quiet, serious.

"Yes, Mr. Damian."

I feel him press against my back, and his left arm wraps around my side then rests on my belly. His right hand takes the long double strand of rope that is dangling down my back and pulls it right down the crack of my butt. His fingers snake it between my legs, pulling the rope right over the material of my thong, going over my clit and between the fleshy folds of my mound. His left hand takes up the rope that's been threaded through my mons pubis and crosses it below my belly button. Then he loops the rope back around my waist, returning it to my backside. At the base of my spine another knot or loop is created, and the rope diverges so that each strand goes down my hips, circled twice around each of my upper thighs- tucked snugly under my ass cheeks- and is finally knotted off.

Seeming finished, he checks his work with random tugs to various ropes. Everything feels tight, but not painful. There's a sense I could struggle if I really wanted to, only to end up with rope burns.

My bound arms feel surprisingly comfortable, fixed into the spine's correct posture, balanced by my crossed arms. However, when he walks around to face me, I can feel the constriction against my chest as I try to take a deep breath. As my chest rises, it pulls on the rope around my arms, which pulls up on the rope going down my back, which in turn pulls on the rope between my legs. Pulling on my clit.

His eyes are going up and down, still checking his work, but I can see the satisfied smirk on his lips. He's proud of his work, proud of his creation of torture, with me trapped inside it. I try to make him meet my eyes, but he's stepping away.

I hear the sounds of items being moved, more implements of punishment that are coming my way. When he returns, my eyes see a gag in his hands and something else black. I can't remember if I selected that option for my appointment, maybe I did in my rush of impulsiveness, but I hadn't the previous times. I'm not sure I want to be robbed of the ability to speak.

"I will give you a choice, Siena. This is a gag, and this is a blindfold. Which item will you wear for me?"

He's holding up the gag, a small, red rubber ball affixed to straps, and in his other hand he holds up the black item that I see is just a silk sash. I really want to see him, but I don't like the ball. I want to be able to speak and moan, and scream, if I need to.

"And to clarify, if you choose the gag, I will devise a gesture to be used in place of your safeword."

I shake my head, "The blindfold. Please, Mr. Damian."

He seems surprised at my choice, a gleam in his eyes. "The blindfold it will be."

Setting the ball gag down on the bench, he comes behind me. The black silk is gently folded over my eyes, and wrapped across my ears. He's carefully tying it behind my head, beneath my ponytail. His fingers graze the nape of my neck, straightening the ends of the sash. I think he's finished, but Damian is still standing behind me. His hands go over my shoulders, a light caress as he leans into my ear.

"You are being very good, Siena. Very patient."

He squeezes my shoulders and steps away. The flutter in my chest wants more from his whispering voice, but I'll try to be the patient girl he thinks I am.

His footsteps walk away, across the room, and come back. He's standing close, I can feel the air move around my legs, but he's waiting. He's making me wait. He's building up, making my skin prickle, making my heart pound in my chest. I take a deep breath, feeling the rope pull against my labia, and wait.

The smack is sharp and finite. Something narrow- a riding crop. I can feel the fold of leather on the tip of it, the softer part of the strike when it hits my ass. He smacks one ass cheek, then the other, and then goes across both. He's striking in short flicks, making it bounce against my flesh. It's not horrible- yet.

There's a pause, footsteps around me. I think he's come around to the front, staring at me. A flick against my breast causes me to gasp, the second flick on the other breast gets muffled when I bite my lip. The tip of the riding crop is dragged over my nipple, then down my belly, then further. He's rubbing it over my mound, teasing me as I gasp for air, only to make the rope pull tighter as my chest moves up and down.

He flicks it between my legs, stinging my labia. Another flick, slightly gentler. Then another. My cry of pain transitions into a startled moan. The aching has started, the squeezing inside my cunt. And I realize I want more, so I purposefully lean back, tightening the rope between my legs.

Damian sees this, walking around me, flicking my thighs with the crop. He returns to my bottom, flicking in shorter strokes. I twist in pain that becomes ecstasy, the ropes squeezing around my chest, squeezing my breasts that are confined within them, rubbing against my bare skin with delicious friction, rubbing against my tender lips, forcing the thong to dig into my opening. Each strike I flex against the ropes, reveling in his handiwork, trying to show my appreciation with my breathy whimpers.

There's a pause, and I hear the sound of fabric rustling. He's removing something, flinging it on the floor with the sound of metal tinkling against the wooden surface. His shirt maybe, no- his vest. My ears are adapting to my blindness, and I realize I can hear the sound of him panting. A deep breath in, he's wiping a hand across a brow or smoothing his sweaty palm on his pants. Apparently my punishment is hard work.

Then he moves, footsteps closer to my body. I feel him behind me, his shirt is brushing against my arms. The buttons are undone, glancing my skin, and my bound hand wishes it could stretch out a finger to touch him. But instead, he touches me. His hand reaches down and grabs my ass, cupping my cheek. Holding the flesh for a second, squeezing, then letting go. Then the wind-up, the air moving. A sharp spank on my bottom. With his bare hand. I cry out.

He repeats it. I cry out again. Another spank, even harder. I cry out louder. Another spank, blistering. My cry is shocked, agonizing ecstasy followed by a pitiful whine. The rope between my legs is shifting and rubbing. The thong has acted as a barrier but is now swamped with my juices, twisting itself into my opening. He switches sides, changing stances to use his other hand. A sharp spank on my other ass cheek. Then another, and another. Hard, forceful, stinging. Merciless. I think he's trying to break me.

My brain scrambles to make a decision. Am I supposed to make him stop? Does he want me to beg for mercy? Or does he want to see how far I will take it. Does he want to see how much I'll take from him. Deep down inside, I know the answer already. I want him to give me everything. I want him to break me down and make me his. I want him to own me. I want him to know that he owns me.

He's paused suddenly. Panting, resting against my back. My arms feel his hot skin through his shirt that brushes against me. His body is relaxing; I immediately fear I've disappointed him somehow. But then he speaks, breathy, hoarse.

"Your time... is up, Siena."

"Nooo..."

My impertinence is blurted out, my voice refusing to be ignored. Maybe that's why I needed the ball gag. He only chuckles, playfully patting my hip.

"Unfortunately, it is."

I feel his hands begin to undo a knot behind my back, the one between the bindings around my arms. Things become slack and I'm surprised at how easily it comes undone. He carefully unwinds my thighs, then unwinds it around my hips, then lets it fall loose, letting gravity pull it free from my mound, except it's still caught in the sweaty tangle of my thong. He ignores this as he moves up to free my wrists and arms. Lastly, he must uncoil the binding around my breasts. I feel him step closer as my arms hang down, my back free of this barrier so that he can lean in and peer over my shoulder. His hands gently unwind the rope, gliding over my dented skin, an almost caress from his fingertips.

The last length of rope is lifted from around my neck, snaking down my chest as it falls to the floor. Freed, I exhale deeply, then feel his hands go up to my blindfold. He slowly unties it, his fingers pressing into my hair. Then his arms extend out, ceremoniously unwrapping my head with each hand holding an end of the sash, then letting it fall slack. He drags the silk off my shoulder, a sensuous movement that tickles. I expect to feel him move away, but he doesn't. He's still standing there, pressed against my back with one hand holding the silk sash. His free hand curls around my hip, holding me.

There's an energy building up in the stillness, something in his grip that knows it should let go but doesn't. I lean into his grip, I turn my head slightly towards his. I can feel his breath coming faster, as my own breath feels shallow and thin. I'm now turning my head as far as it will go because I feel him leaning over my shoulder, the strands of his hair dampened with sweat are brushing across the side of my cheek.

He kisses me with lips that are hot and salty with sweat, trying to take in oxygen as their owner moves in disbelief. When I pucker and repeat the kiss, he presses in firmly, an exhale of relief. My hand is coming up, reaching up to hold his cheek, when my touch startles him.

Suddenly he pulls away, a visceral shake of his head. Staggering back, he won't even look at me.

"Excuse me, Siena. Please excuse me." His voice is hushed and angry, a formal bow before he quickly turns away.

The door opens and closes before I can even say a word.

<><><>

Damian wasn't there after I got dressed, just the discarded black pinstriped vest lay tossed on the floor; that's what he'd removed during our session. He wasn't waiting in the hallway, he didn't say goodbye to me. I felt abandoned, shuffling out of there, everything in my body still humming while my heart crumbled. He's not supposed to do that. He's paid to smack and spank the customer. But not to kiss her or fuck her.

I didn't cry until I was back at my apartment, until I saw my reflection with smeared mascara and disheveled hair. All my ridiculous efforts to seduce that which doesn't want to be seduced. Someone who is probably seduced all the time. By customers and non-customers alike. I'm just another horny girl desperate to feel wanted, desired. Except this girl has never, ever felt that way. Her body doesn't even believe that the owner of said body finds herself attractive. The body that can't feel enough passion to climax with another person, and can barely get off by herself. And my only idea to get spanked into an orgasmic frenzy has backfired spectacularly.