The Experiment Pt. 03

I can barely contain my whimper, but I try. He's waiting again, another teasing pause before another sharp spank. I can hardly flex my bottom in this position, my pussy being the one place that puckers involuntarily.

There is another pause, longer this time. My neck is aching from the position, but the aching inside me is worse, the desperate aching to be touched. After a pause of at least 45 seconds, he swats a third time, an underhanded spank that grabs my ass. He keeps hold, another way to tease with this squeeze of my flesh. Except I hear his breathing change, the sway of his body into mine; the teasing may have backfired.

Then I hear rustling fabric, his body moving while stationary. He's getting undressed. I hear him step out of his boots, then his jeans. The sound of this makes the squeezing inside me feel like I'll come the moment he touches me. I want him to fuck me so bad and yet I also want more chastisement. I wonder if he'll keep spanking me but the punishment of waiting is worse. To just simply make me wait for him to touch me.

The floor creaks as he gets down behind me. I feel his thighs brushing up against me as he places himself between my legs, his hands gently holding onto my ankles. He steadies me, letting go of one ankle so he can grab himself. My underwear is tugged down further, the sound of ripping fabric, straining to be circled around my thighs. I feel the head of his cock sliding across my wetness, a few torturous passes before he aims to penetrate. I brace myself, trying to be still for him.

"Miss Siena is being rewarded for her patience," he lauds, just as he starts to push in.

It's a little tight, a little awkward from the position and how much I want this. But the pain is good. A tight pull that spreads me apart for him. My pain is all for him. And then it's so much pleasure I can't believe it. My whimpers transition into needy moans, mutterings of thanks to Mr. Damian as he slowly thrusts. Slow and steady pushes where he pauses with intention. A push into me, then a beat as he holds me there, then the stroke out, the slow tease for me to feel his length sliding out. Then another beat. And then the stroke back in, the feel of his girth slowly filling me up.

I have never felt anything like this. Nothing ever this...precise. It's like a dance. Each move he waits for my reaction, to see where the energy of his movements is absorbed and then redirected. He knows I want more, that I'm ready to be fucked like an animal, to be treated like the piece of ass he's contorted me into. And then I realize I'm muttering this.

"God, fuck me. Please fuck me..."

He leans over and whispers into my ear, the domineering voice growing thin with his own need. "Who exactly do you want to fuck Miss Siena?"

Confusion reigns as synapses are overwhelmed by the ceaseless pitching of his very hard and perfect cock. My pause was too long, garnering another spank that is almost more of a treat than punishment at this point.

"Mr. Damien," I sputter, "Please, Mr. Damian...really fuck me, please."

He's amused, a smile in his voice. "Am I not really fucking Miss Siena?"

I try to turn my head, I want him to see my eyes, but it's too difficult.

"Damian..."

I'm being disobedient. I shouldn't be demanding when I'm his sub. I know this, yet something in me has taken another turn. Another evolving variable in my experiment. I love being this debauched slut, yet I need to say this.

"Please fuck me hard, Mr. Damian."

There's a terrifying pause, until he leans down and curls an arm around my belly. He tightens his grip, pulling me up so all of my back curls into his chest. I can hear his breathing change as he starts to pitch forward with hard thrusts that would lurch me forward if I wasn't held in his grip. The thrusts are so violent there's the sound of his skin smacking up against my ass. He grunts like an animal, while I gasp painfully. It's so good. So deep and harsh and frantic. It's getting faster, his grunts deeper and more guttural. My pussy is tensing and tightening, ready to be ripped apart by his dick if that's what it takes for me to come. But I shouldn't have worried when he starts to growl into my ear, as he demands that I come for him. As if I have control over it.

And I realize that I don't. He does.

My body starts to spasm, my pussy rippling intensely. Without question, my body obeys him. It obeys both Damian and his Dom counterpart. It obeys the man that fucks me like he owns me. Because that is what I want. I want to belong to someone. I want someone to think that I am theirs. If I am theirs, then they must care about me. To be owned is to be valued. We care about our belongings.

This is the logic I scramble for when he bellows out. I feel his cock unloading into me, the decision that he didn't wear a condom because I'm on birth control. Always some risk, a gamble. But I need it, an admission that there is something in the feel of his cum filling me and spilling out of me is another act of dominance. The feel of his essence, warm strands going down my thighs as he groans with blissful relief; it's more than I can take.

When he slows down, his grip relaxes. He's releasing my belly, letting my head sink back into my arms, then he plants a kiss on my shoulder. A nudge of his nose against my skin, then another kiss. I'm trying not to shudder, even as I feel the tears hitting my arms.

"Siena?"

He's gently pulled out, concern in his voice. I'm not answering, just controlling my breathing so I don't go into hysterics. He says my name again, and when I don't answer he kicks into emergency mode.

The leather belts come off my legs in seconds, so fast it's like a magic trick, a technique he's mastered to undo more easily than it went on. My feet are lowered to the ground, then he's tilting my torso back up.

His arms come around my back to support me. His hand goes up to my face, clearing away the strands of my hair so he can look into my eyes. I know he's staring at me in horror, but I can't cover my face since my hands are still bound.

"Siena, look at me," he demands, his voice shaky with urgency.

I finally meet his eyes and they are not what I expect. Not anger, or annoyance.

"Are you hurt?" he gently asks.

I shake my head but he keeps staring at me, scrutinizing me. I'm trying to bring a hand up to his face when he sees he forgot to undo my hands. He mutters in his own language and quickly releases me. Once the belt is off, I take a deep breath.

"You didn't hurt me."

He keeps silent as I'm struggling to explain this rationally or coherently. I tell him that he didn't push me too far, he didn't do anything I didn't want. I'm crying because it felt so good.

Cradling his cheek with my hand, I gaze into his eyes and feel a wave of emotions that I am lost in. There are some things you cannot know the why of. Things that do not have data points and statistics. Things that exist only in some intangible form of proof that is nothing more than the words I speak as soon as I feel them necessary.

His smile returns when he understands. A tender smile of affection that is reciprocated by an ache in my chest. He chuckles as he curls me into him tightly, a kiss on my ear paired with a whisper of something in his language, something sweet sounding. I wrap my arms around him, and my eyes sting again. And then a tinge of fear strikes my heart. Something else has occurred in this lusty exchange. Something far beyond my experiment.

<><><>

I have never slept so deeply in my life. Waking up feels like days later after uncurling from my sheets and stretching my limbs. Feeling a slight tenderness as I roll onto my backside, I remember all my overwrought emotions which brings me back to current time, and mild panic makes me search to see if he's still in my bed. I find Damian already awake. He's propped up against my headboard, gazing down at me while he holds his phone. I think he may have taken a photo of me; the sound of a clicking shutter occurring somewhere in my sleepy memory. He smiles broadly and easily.

"Good morning."

His auburn hair is once again rumpled up in a way that I just want to tangle even further. I think that I smile at him in some giddy, juvenile way, and he grins. Happy that he has this effect on me. I don't know what to say or do, other than try to snuggle in for an embrace, which he easily accepts. He kisses the top of my head, wrapping an arm around me.

"How are you feeling?" He's trying to be lighthearted, but I hear a hint of concern in his voice.

"Good."

It's not all the truth, and I'm sure he knows it. "What times is it?" I ask nodding towards his phone to check the time.

He ignores his phone with a shrug. I go to twist away for my own phone, but he won't let me.

"Today is Saturday," he reminds me as if I've forgotten. "I will make us breakfast. You are free to rest or to assist in the kitchen, but it is not necessary."

His voice is pleasant, but he holds me with a look that says he will do this no matter what I say, no matter what I was supposed to be doing with my Saturday.

"Ok," I relent with a kiss. A kiss I let linger for just a teasing second, just to let him know that if he insists on being in my continued presence then he will be faced with the sexual consequences.

I watch him pull his briefs back on, the snug black pair with a designer brand name. I can tell he's into fashion; all of his shirts fit him perfectly, colors that flatter and match his pants. He dresses better than I do. When he pulls his jeans back on, he glances over his shoulder, the little smirk that knows I was watching him. I bite my lip and tug the sheet to my chest, I try to silently say if he comes back to bed I will make it very worth his while. But he just keeps smirking, and leaves my bedroom.

Sure enough I hear him clanging around in my kitchen, exploring. I lay there content and also not content. My body stirs, already stoked up by nothing more than his bare ass and his simmering eyes. I shift a hand down my thigh, stroking inward. I can't believe how easy he's made this, my clit already throbbing after just a few strokes. I swirl my fingers around, my breath catching...so close and so wet. The debate is short lived as to whether or not I should go get Damian or just finish this myself. I call out for him but he's running the faucet. So I keep stroking, shorter and faster, spreading my legs apart. In fact, the fantasy that he'd catch me doing this has its own sordid appeal, to find me naked and stroking myself after he's driven me to this horny frenzy. I don't think he can hear me but I call out his name again, feeling the corresponding ache in my pussy. Damian... Damian, what have you done to me?

I'm crying out as I come, hoping he'll hear me, but just as satisfied if he doesn't. My eyes close, basking in that soothing rush of dopamine as addictive as a hit of some illegal drug. I can't believe how good it is, the best solo orgasm I've ever had, and I wasn't even in my shower. I lick my finger off and find it tastes a little of him, and part of my brain roars to have him come fuck me right now. But I also sort of smell like sticky snatch and need to take a shower.

I take a peek into the kitchen before I go into the shower. He's standing at my counter, mixing something up, whisking vigorously. And he has no shirt on his toned and muscled chest. The image is at once funny and incredibly arousing. I imagine him completely naked and it's even better, and then I know I must dash off to the shower.

The sensuous spray of water is too convenient to pass up as I run my hands across my body, imagining Damian in there with me. This time I slide a finger inside myself, whining as I pinch my own nipple, leg propped up on the wall as my pussy puckers and flexes under the stream of water. Jesus Christ, this is addicting. I'm so fucking horny I call out for Damian, aching for more than my fingers. I wonder if I could shout loud enough that he'd hear me, but finally calm down when the water begins to grow cold.

Dressed in leggings with a thin and clingy long-sleeved t-shirt, I go into the kitchen. Damian is standing at the stove, still shirtless, holding a frying pan with an intense gaze. He stands still for a quick second before flicking the pan up and expertly flipping over what looks like a pancake. Seeing me walk in, he smiles proudly, knowing I saw his trick.

"Hungry?" he asks with a grin.

I nod, feeling very hungry for many things.

"Please take a seat," he instructs with a nod to the table, already set with two plates and matching utensils.

There is a pile of golden pancakes on a plate in the middle of my table, just beside the vase holding my gifted flowers. A small bowl filled with grapes from my fridge, a tub of butter, and another small bowl filled with powdered sugar that has not seen the outside of my cupboard in ages.

I'm sitting down when he slides one more pancake onto the stack, then returns the pan to the stove, flicking it off. I grab a pancake and decide to try it sans butter or sugar. He's come back to the table, with his shirt on again, but still attractively unbuttoned. I wait to take a bite until he's also served himself a pancake, along with a handful of grapes.

I sink a fork into the soft pancake and take a bite. Compared to anything I've tried at a restaurant, this is far superior. Light, fluffy, buttery.

He raises an eyebrow, a tilt of his head asking what I think of his cooking.

"It's good," I say through a mouthful.

He makes a skeptical face; he wants the truth.

After I swallow the buttery goodness, I elaborate. "It's really good. Like my grandmother's."

He smiles with satisfaction. "You did not have any buttermilk."

"I'm surprised you found enough things to even make pancakes," I admit, following his lead by also taking some grapes.

We eat in silence, chewing politely, or at least I'm trying to be. I feel like he's watching me, trying to glean some other vital information from the way I eat. When he's finished the two pancakes he'd stacked on his plate, he takes a clump of grapes and begins popping them into his mouth. It's hard not to stare when he pops it onto his tongue, closing his lips around it, then pulling his fingers away. I don't think it's intentional, but it's my body that disagrees. I take a breath and push away my plate, and finally catch his eyes. He has the tiniest smirk; he knows I was watching. This man may be the erotic death of me.

When he's finished his grapes, he rests his elbows on the table, gazing at me.

"What does Miss Siena have planned for her Saturday?"

"Planned? Usually nothing. Laundry, chores, going to the gym, maybe a hike, or going for a row."

I can see him tilt his head quizzically at my last statement.

"Rowing, like a boat. I go down to the pier by the university. I used to do it in college."

He's intrigued, but it's unfortunately not really a group activity. And it's something I prefer to do by myself, a way to escape.

"What did you have planned for today?" I ask, taking a sip of my water.

"Work, later this evening. But I would like to spend as much of my day with you."

I'm disappointed he has to work, but just as easily buoyed by his other statement. All I can reply with is a simple ok. Because if I elaborate on what I would really like to do, we won't leave my apartment.

He goes to clean up and I bring my plate to the sink but he quickly tries to shoo me out of the kitchen. I insist on helping him clean up, and he relents to let me load the dishwasher and wipe down my table. I need to rinse off my dish rag but must wait as he's cleaning off the frying pan. When he's plopped the pan down into my little bamboo drying rack, he steps aside to let me get to the sink. I get my rag under the water, and suddenly he comes behind me, extending his arms around me so that he can also wash his hands. Meaning he's wrapped himself around me. I exhale at this inconvenience, pretending he's not distracting me. He leans his face down, brushing his lips against my neck, testing my reserve. I take a breath, focus on squeezing my rag, then hang it over my faucet to dry. He curls an arm around my waist, dangling his dripping fingers aloft, creating damp spots on my shirt.

"You're getting me wet," I reply, knowing full well what I'm actually saying.

"Am I?" he teases into my ear.

I turn the water off and pause, waiting for his next move. He continues to hold me, a tempestuous act only one move away, but just as I am waiting, he releases me. I dry my hands off on my towel, then hand it to him. Damian smiles diabolically, slowly rubbing the towel across his hands, all while staring at me. It's only my dignity that decides I should keep my clothes on.

For some reason, he suggests going for a walk because it's not raining for a change. There's a park not far from my apartment, albeit located up the steep hill. I put on the sporty nylon jacket I use for running, while he tosses on his cycling jacket and boots. I don't think they look comfortable to walk in, but he simply shrugs when I state this.

Together we head out, immediately greeted by a sunny sky that comes and goes with passing clouds, pushed along by a crisp breeze. I charge along at my usual pace, giggling when he makes an exaggerated jog to keep up with me. The hill climbs up at a grade that becomes steep enough that forces him to really lift up his feet, something I can see that is not as easy in heavy boots. I slow down and he smiles at me gratefully.

We're walking at an easy enough pace where one would normally start chatting with the other person. But I keep silent, trying to enjoy being with him instead of percolating anxiety. And then I remember this is what I suck at: talking.

"How long have you lived here?" he asks.

"Not quite five years. I moved for college."

"Where did you move from?"

"Bellingham. It's about two hours north."

I know what I would like to ask him, but hesitate to be the cliché person who asks a foreigner where they are from. I glance at him, and he's still looking at me, waiting for me to elaborate.

"Did you not intend to move back after finishing university?"

"Not really. There are more jobs here for what I went to school for."

"What made you want to work in a laboratory?" he asks after a short span of silence. He says laboratory the way you'd hear in an old movie. But I feel self-conscious answering this question. I think he can tell when he humorously adds on, "Assuming that you want to work at your job?

"I do, it's just that I don't get to do anything very exciting right now since I've only just finished school," I explain.

"So what made you want to do such things even when they are not exciting?"

He's much better at conversation than me, so curious.

"Uh, it's alot of little things. I want to know how something works, how something grows, or dies. And not just being happy with the answer of 'because it does.' When I was a kid, I hated it when some adult would just give us the dumbed down version of why a plant needs the sun. Or rain."

We've come to the entrance of the park, and I'm grateful to have a distraction to talk about instead of me. I point out the blooming tulips, and think of the bouquet he gave me. He smiles when he sees me smiling at this, a type of happiness to see someone else happy. And I again feel something that wants to be content with this despite my unease. I feel like the kid at the birthday party who's been given too many presents, something she doesn't deserve.

We walk through a small rose garden hemmed in by a square of trellis-topped fencing, then emerge onto an open lawn. The cropped green lawn ends at a tidy row of waist-high laurel hedges, a barrier to keep you from going over the steep drop-off at the edge of the park. We are faced with a spectacular view to the city, able to see all the way out to the dark grey waters of the ocean.