The Experiment Pt. 02

The crying eventually stopped, just as the dents in my skin faded. A day of moping around my apartment, still feeling the little ridges created from the coils of the rope. It's worse when I'm sleeping, less clothing to cover my skin, to remember how he bound me up. To be held in his hands. I tell myself it is his job to be proficient at those skills, to be so good that I think it means something. But a little voice wants to disagree, to counter my pessimism with the valid observation that he still kissed me. I did not drag his face to my lips. I did not force myself upon him. He kissed me.

Work is enough of a distraction that I try to ignore my sorrow. I try not to think of how he said my name when someone else in the lab calls out to me. I try not to think of his smile when someone else is staring at me. I was with him for no more than 3 appointments, and I feel like I will never forget him.

I was riding the bus home, skimming disinterestedly through my phone when I see a new email pop-up. I don't recognize the address, something from a yahoo account. The subject line is a simple "Hello". I'm nervous to click on it, worried it's spam. But I'm too curious, and too hopeful.

By the time I'm done reading it, my eyes are watering and my hands are shaking. I want to write him back immediately but the bus is too wobbly and I'm too unsteady. So, I re-read it and feel my heart reassembling itself into something no longer miserable.

Damian accessed my email address from my appointment bookings. He hoped he did not overstep by doing this. He apologizes for his "cruel and hasty departure". He did not mean to leave me that way. He would like to see me, if I would be willing to meet him. He includes his phone number, I may call or text. Whichever I prefer.

He's so formal it's adorable. But as easily as I am caught up in this giddy joy, rational thought breaks in. This could be him trying to salvage his job. Perhaps he's worried I'd tattle on him to his boss. That I'd complain and leave a bad review online. Hot guy, but leaves you hanging. One star for Damian.

I need to reel back my eagerness. I craft the text in my head, and tell myself to wait until I'm back home, once I've had a chance to think on it. In a surprising moment of restraint, I make myself dinner, then start a load of laundry. I look at my phone and tell myself to wait a little more. It's his turn to wait patiently for my instructions.

I send the text the next day, only after a dream of him reminds me that I can only pretend so long. I'm willing to meet, after my work day. A coffee shop near my bus stop. I almost requested that we meet tomorrow, but another part of me wanted to be a bit demanding. To see if he'd drop everything to meet with me.

His text comes within minutes. He would be happy to meet me wherever it is most convenient. I allow myself a second to gloat. Yeah, you would.

I don't reply until I go on my lunch break: Good, I'll see you then. That's it. No emoji, no exclamation point.

When five o'clock comes, my confidence is starting to waver. This could still be his attempt to handle a situation with an upset client. I didn't rebook, I'm costing them money. But I remind myself of the kiss. The way he kissed me. If he does try to handle me, I'll at least know there was some pain on his part. Something in him wanted that kiss, even if he denies it. And at least this time I can be the one to storm off.

The coffee shop is fairly empty, but extends in an L-shape that allows whoever is sitting in the back to sit unseen by anyone standing at the counter. I order a green tea, and hear my phone chirp.

Sitting in the back of cafe.

I expected a half-ass excuse to stand me up, but it's not. I walk towards the back with my tea in hand, and feel my legs shaking.

It's hard to fix my face into something stoic, but I try. As soon as I see him, it's nearly impossible.

He stands up as I approach, the classic gentlemen. He's dressed in a long sleeved button-up, a casual wrinkled linen in a creamy off-white, untucked and paired with dark jeans. It's jarring to see him outside of his all black outfit. He looks more real, less a figment of my oversexed imagination.

He's smiling hopefully, but I can see the fear in his eyes. The round and startling blue, made even more innocent with his hair that isn't styled and gelled to its usual swept-back coif. It's a wonder how he transforms into the Damian I've fallen for, to know this lies beneath the intimidating Dom.

I give him a cool smile, I sit down across from him. I say nothing, and leave my jacket on.

"Thank you for meeting me," he says, "I wasn't sure if it would be appropriate to email you. My company has a policy-"

"I'm sure they do," I interrupt dryly. I want him to know this excuse will only go so far.

His eyes go down to the table, a deep frown on his lips. The silence lasts while he takes a deep breath, then lifts his eyes back up.

"I want to apologize for my behavior."

The apology feels ominous, and I start to tremble. The anger is easier to manipulate into my voice, but it won't hold if he's giving me the brush off. Not with the look in those eyes. Haunted, sorrowful.

"I should not have kissed you. Or compelled you to engage in such actions with me."

He's waiting for my reply, but I hold it back.

"You were not in any way at fault, you did not-"

I'm barely choking back my gall. I don't want to hear it. I told myself I could handle it, but it's too much.

"Then why'd you do it?" I interrupt angrily. "Why did you kiss me?"

He stutters, surprised by my temper.

"If I didn't... tempt you or whatever, then why'd you run off and disappear? Just to make me feel like you had to go and brush your teeth afterwards?"

I can see him trying to redirect, trying to calm himself down.

"I'm sorry for the way I left you. Once a Dom compromises his sub, he is to immediately separate himself from the client, for the safety of both parties."

"Safety?" I scoff.

"The expectation for all staff is to respect the explicit consent of our patrons. To abuse the intimate privilege of our services would amount to nothing more than a brothel. "

I understand the point he's making, but I also feel he's avoiding the true reason he ran off.

"So it's ok for you to whip me, but if we kiss it's prostitution?"

He twists his mouth in confliction, seeing the point of my argument.

"The purpose of your appointment is for the experience of pleasure obtained from pain. If you were only obtaining pleasure from the interaction you had with me, that is not the same. That is not the point of the dungeon. "

My emotions are reaching a boiling point, and finally, I'm going to tell him everything.

"Do you know why I went there? Why I made my appointment? Because I couldn't get ANY pleasure. Because every time I've been with a man, my body switches off. I tried everything, except this. But when I was with someone else, the spanking didn't work. Nothing I did with that person came close to what I felt when you did it. Because my body knew I didn't really want that person."

I'm blushing and shaking, my eyes are stinging, but I manage to look at him when I finish my diatribe. His face crumbles in confusion. He didn't think that I wanted his kiss. I can see him re-assessing, I can see a chink in his refined armor that is finally coming loose.

"Siena," he begins, struggling, "I felt your reasons for coming were something beyond the standard fetish. Your level of pain tolerance is...surprising. I wish you could have shared this with me sooner, but I am sorry you have endured this for so long. And I'm sorry to have added to this stress."

His sympathy is genuine, his eyes full of disappointed melancholy. But he thinks he made it worse. Now I remember why it's so hard to talk to men.

"You didn't add to my issue. You were the only one who-" my voice lowers as I try to say the unspeakable, "made it better. I've never felt it be so...easy. But it wasn't just about pleasure, or stimulation. It was being with you."

We are both silent as he digests my statement, the latter one feeling heavy in the air.

"When you requested me for your appointment, I assumed you were the most comfortable with me." He's looking down as he speaks, only glancing up now and then.

"You didn't think maybe I selected you for... other reasons?"

I see a tinge of pink in his cheeks, an endearing modesty.

"Every time you returned," he begins with a breath, "I wanted you to. I wanted to be the one that you came to."

My anger is cooling, the angry flush in my face is becoming a flutter in my chest.

"We cannot request a client, only they may specify if they prefer one of us. And selfishly, I would've pulled you from another Dom. I'd have made them."

His accent is coming out more, the rehearsed voice is losing to the staccato of his emotions.

"At the end of my second appointment I almost mentioned it, so I could make sure I'd keep getting you."

We are staring at each other, his eyes no longer looking away. The compulsion is no longer compulsion, it is something much more than that. I think he understands, but I need to make it clear.

"What would you have done if I hadn't come back? If I hadn't scheduled again?"

He smiles slightly, a flash of his blue. "This. I would have contacted you."

"I figured if I contacted you, I would get you in trouble."

"Possibly...," he muses. "Because, yes, we have a policy."

I chuckle quietly. "Did you think I would get you fired?"

He nods his head. "It's happened before. Worse than firing even."

Now I'm curious. "Like what, people putting a hit on someone?"

He tips his head from side to side. "Let us say that a patron who was engaged to a man with means, exacting a punishment worse than a simple beating."

"Like what?" I demand, too curious again for my own good.

"The removal of certain... appendages."

Now I know why he was scared. "Jesus, that's brutal."

"But what I did, how I made you feel was just as unkind," he pauses again, another deep breath, "And inaccurate."

He keeps his eyes locked on me, trying to convey something else finally. He leans forward, a pleading expression.

"Can you forgive me, Siena?"

The flutter is all but hammering in my chest. I love to hear him say my name, I want him to say it over and over. I want to hear my name moaned from his lips. But first, I want to tease him. Just a little.

"If I do, what do I get in return?" I ask lowly, leaning forward. He barely contains his grin, his eyes glittering with happiness.

"Anything you want. Anything your heart desires," he vows in the sultry voice of Mr. Damian.

I have some ideas where he can start.

<><><>

I no longer want my tea, and he's finished with his coffee. We leave together; I offer that I live not far, but it turns out his place is closer. I consider it, but I want my things and I want to be able to tease him some more.

He doesn't have a car either, but he has a motorcycle. I shouldn't ride without a helmet, he doesn't like it and insists I wear his. Fine, I tell him, but we need to get there soon and waiting for a taxi in our busy city at rush hour won't do. I climb on behind him, and clutch his middle for dear life. I'm petrified as he winds through the traffic, cutting through back alleys and passing startled pedestrians. But then I'm giggling and thrilled as he surges the motor up the steep hill to my apartment. I hear him laughing too and I squeeze him affectionately.

We park on the street, an easy fit with his shiny little bike. I'm taking off my helmet and handing it back, still feeling dizzy from our breakneck ride, when he grabs me. He takes the helmet in one hand, and curls his other arm around my waist. He just gazes into my eyes, a happiness apparent.

I was going to wait until we were in my apartment, but I can't wait anymore. I lean in and kiss him, a short but potent pucker. His eyes are on fire, his lips conflicted between kissing me back with more gusto, or walking us up into my apartment where we can do other things with even more gusto.

"You are going to punish me, aren't you?" he asks, seeing my delight with his conflicted face.

"Maybe," I quip with a toss of my hair, pulling away from him. "We'll see if Mr. Damian is up for it."

I can barely walk fast enough, staggering backwards as he threatens to charge after me, giggling as I scramble to get my keys out of my purse. He lets me take the measured paces to get in the outer door of my building and slows down as I show him we must go up the stairs. But once in the seclusion of the stairwell, he tears after me as I run up the steps as fast as I can in my unsexy work clogs.

The door out of the stairwell slows him down slightly, but I'm fumbling with my lock when he catches me. His arm locks around my belly, yanking me into him, his face buried into my neck. I'm giggling and panting, trying to turn my key, trying not to melt as he kisses my throat.

I barely get the door open, or rather, he hears the lock turn and he shoves it open, then slings us through it. He slams the door closed with his arm still clutching me, then whirls me around and playfully throws me up against the door. He leans down, a threatening glare that is betrayed by his grin. The feigned aggression of the chase suddenly halts, and he softens.

He stares deeply into my eyes, a look so profound I feel my throat tighten. He kisses me tenderly, almost apologetically. I'm released from his arm, but he takes my hand, and kisses it.

"Dear Siena, please allow me," he kisses my hand again, "please tell me what I could do, what you would generously and graciously allow me to do with your very beautiful and exquisite body?"

I'm biting my lip so I won't cry and interrupt this man's pleasurable mission. "What I would like... what I really want," I pause not for teasing, but to wrangle my own voice, "is for you to just make love to me."

He smiles from ear to ear, the blue eyes dazzling in their joy. "I would like nothing more than that."

We kiss, a mutually initiated kiss, one where I can put my hands on him. It makes me happy, ridiculously happy, to wrap an arm around his neck while I caress his chin with my other hand. This passionate kiss is building as we tilt our heads, our lips creatively alternating the traditional pucker with open nibbles. I tease him with a flick of my tongue on his top lip, and he pays me back, and then some. He does a long pass with his tongue sliding over my bottom lip, then a quick flick up and a swirl that drills between my lips. He's telling me something with that tongue, and my whole body quivers with that thought.

We separate for air, and I start to undress. I'm yanking my long rain jacket off, while he unzips his well-worn leather cycling jacket. I've started to pull up on my shirt when he stills my hand. He gives me a look, asking something. He slowly takes the hem of my knit sweater, still asking as he holds it with both hands, entreating me with his eyes. I smile and nod; I would love to be undressed by him.

He delicately pulls it up, carefully stretching the collar out to gently get it over my head, then neatly setting it down on the narrow table by my door, the one I typically dump my mail on. A pause for another kiss, a silent thank you with his eyes. His hands go to the button of my slacks, my crisp work slacks that will need to be washed after they've been soaked with my juices. But before he takes anything else off of me, I want to take something off him.

My hands go to his shirt, and start unbuttoning. He glances down, watching my progress, a grin to see how quickly I move. I push it open, baring his smooth and muscled chest. He even stays still when I push it off his shoulders, understanding that I want to do it all. Only when the sleeves have been pushed down to his wrists does he try to assist. When the shirt is tugged free of his left hand, he tosses it on the floor, a look that says clothing won't be necessary for quite some time. As much time as I want him for.

It should be his turn next, but I've already grabbed his belt buckle, I'm already undoing it. He's a little shocked when I unzip his jeans, yanking on the heavy denim placket and feeling the bulge beneath his briefs, ready to reach inside. I want to feel him so bad. I want to touch and squeeze and suck. But now it's his turn.

He unzips my slacks, slowly pushing them over my hips, using both hands to slowly pull them down. He's glancing up at me as he goes lower, descending into a kneeling position at my feet. I fidget a foot to show him we must take off my shoes first, until he patiently lifts up my ankle, showing me he's happy to assist in this practical matter. First one foot, then the other, both freed of the heavy vinyl clogs meant for an industrial lab. And then the pants follow suit; one leg, and then other are pulled free.

I try to pull him back up so I can get my turn to remove his pants, but he remains kneeling. A devilish look in his eyes. He's sliding both hands back up my thighs, fingers fanned out. I can see where he's going, I know what he wants. I want it too, but I'm nervous. My body is unreliable, inconsistent. Even with all that he's done to me before, I'm prepared to be unsatisfied.

Both hands have curled around the hem of my panties, fingers curled in and grazing my thighs as they slowly pull down. He's watching me again, barely looking at the process he's started. He just wants to see my reaction. Breathless, scared, excited.

The panties fall to the floor, and he extracts them from my feet. I expect him to set them on the side table where he placed my sweater and slacks, but he doesn't. Instead, he does something entirely shocking and arousing. He crumples the wad of pink cotton into his palm, and tucks it into the pocket of his jeans. He's making sure I see this, giving me a pointed look with eyes full of dominating intent. They are his now. Something of mine, is now his. Another way to say I am now his.

I'm no longer as worried about my body's reaction when I feel the aching pull just from watching this gesture of his. I'm suppressing the ticklish giggle as his hands skim my legs, going back up my thighs. The hands pause when they get just below my buttocks. They keep hold and squeeze; he's firmly but gently moving my legs apart. Just a slightly wider stance that requires I shuffle my feet in response. I take another step to ease his path. He beams at me. Mr. Damian has trained me without saying a word.

Slowly, he leans in. The ruffled waves of his hair graze my thighs as he noses into me. A gentle lick of his tongue finds my clit, and I giggle. The tongue repeats the short lick, tasting. Testing. The next pass is longer, the tongue running it's entire length across me, all taste buds covered in my flavor. He looks up at me as he repeats the long stroke, flicking his tongue with a flourish. Like a boy with a lollipop.

I gasp when my clit is surrounded by his mouth, sucking. Oh my god. Oh my fucking god. His tongue is waggling up and down, then side to side, then swirling. He cycles through each direction, repeating it with increasing intensity, while his hands are squeezing my ass. He's pushing me into his face, moaning lowly into my flesh.

He's moaning. While he's pleasuring me.

And I'm moaning; whiny, whimpering sounds. Sounds that have never come out of me before, or at least not genuinely. It tickles and it throbs, it's so fucking good I have no idea how it could ever feel so good before. I'm suddenly flexing my ass, all the muscles in my groin and thighs, my pussy, everything tightening, getting so fucking tight...

Fuck me, god fuck me, fuck me, fuck me Damian.

I say his name over and over, grabbing his head, yanking on his hair, all but fucking his face as my legs nearly buckle. He's still suckling, his hot tongue still swirling until he hears my cries turn into breathless delirious mutterings.