The Hunt Pt. 01

A kinky couple start experimenting with Islamic veiling as part of their BDSM dynamic. What starts as a sexy game develops into so much more, and, ultimately, consumes them.

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Disclaimers:

• NSFW -- contains graphic sexual language and content some people may find offensive. Read at your own discretion

• This is a work of erotic fiction. Any similarities to real people or events are coincidental and unintended

• Property of TradMaster -- do not alter or distribute without permission

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(Glossary of terms at the end)

A heavy and foreboding silence, thick, like fog, hung over the lazy river. The hum and buzz of birdsong and insects had ceased, leaving the summer air pregnant with a feeling of restrained violence. Above, a menacing wall of clouds swept across the sky, inexorably blotting out the blue. A storm, coiled like a spring, was about to be unleashed.

Disturbing the stillness, the gentle splash of an oar slicing the waters echoed between the parallel palisades of dark pines. Aboard were the only two humans within miles of this desolate wilderness. One of them, sheathed from head to toe in a mass of cascading polyester, fidgeted nervously with the material pooled in her lap.

Trepidation and excitement filled her heart -- a tumultuous emotional roller-coaster that had been gradually swelling since they got on the plane at Stansted. The concrete confines of London felt so distant, yet her yearning for freedom, denied to her by her duty as a woman, only grew as they travelled further into the wild.

She was not, however, permitted to leave the security of her veils just yet - a gunmetal-grey jilbab loosely swaddled her body down to her ankles, hiding her feminine curves. Complemented by a long black niqab that reached below her chest, a stretchy black underscarf and black elbow-length gloves, she believed she satisfied the essential requirements of hijab that were part of her faith. Only her bright, emerald green eyes and a rectangle of porcelain flesh, bisected by the nose string of her niqab, was visible to the outside world.

"We're nearly there."

She assented noiselessly.

The pines had started to thin somewhat, with rolling, glacier-sculpted hills becoming visible beyond the trunks.

Appearing around a bend in the river, in a clearing in the forest, was a quaint wooden cabin and adjoining jetty. Scattered thickets of pines, ferns and wildflowers gave the visage a pleasant, idyllic quality.

Her eyes drifted over the form of her husband and Master. Tensing and untensing within the confines of his t-shirt, his oxen arms pulled them steadily towards their destination. Sweat beaded his brow and the low sun brought out the bright blue of his eyes.

"It looks nice," she said. "Cozy."

"There will be nobody around for miles. That's what matters."

Her Master...

All of a sudden she became acutely conscious of the steel band encircling her throat, hidden beneath her veils. He required her to wear it at all times, even now. It was one of his rules. Idly, as she did sometimes, she pondered how her old self would react to seeing her today. Sickened, perhaps, maybe even frightened.

He skilfully navigated the canoe to the jetty, disembarked and moored the boat to the pier. He clicked his fingers at her, indicating that she should stand. In one sharp movement, he picked her up at the waist and deposited her on the jetty beside him, giving her a kiss on the top of her veiled head.

"Take these, and put them in the cabin," he said, handing her a pair of sleeping bags and a key. "I'll be there in a minute."

"Yes Sir," she said, giving her voice a slutty affectation and batting her eyelashes. She had become skilled at being seductive with only her eyes, and the cheeky smile on his face showed that it had had the intended effect.

The cabin was small, but clean and seemingly furnished with everything one would need to survive in the wilderness. It consisted of three wood-panelled rooms -- a bedroom, with a single double mattress and wardrobe, a kitchen-diner, with a gas-powered stove, table, chairs and fireplace, and a bathroom with a toilet and sink, presumably connected to a septic tank nearby.

She placed the sleeping bags in the room and was joined shortly after by her Master. He had brought in the rest of their belongings -- food, water, clothing and other assorted items which were essential to their stay.

"Master?" she began nervously. "When can I..."

"Now, sweetheart."

She blushed behind her veil.

Tentatively, she withdrew her gloved hands into her jilbab and untied the knot behind her head, underneath her bun, that kept the outergarment flush with her forehead. Then, she pulled it up and over her head, revealing the pink nylon windbreaker and black track pants that she had been wearing underneath. She folded it neatly and put it to one side, before untying the long, black niqab and letting it fall off her face, exposing a lightly-freckled, heart-shaped face underneath, framed by the stretchy black underscarf.

Then, he clicked his fingers and gestured towards the front door. "Outside," he said. She obeyed.

Warm remnants of the diminishing sunshine fell across her naked face. It was a pleasant, if odd, sensation. It reminded her of childhood; of playing in the fields near her parents' farm on a warm summer's day, and of holidays abroad; of sunbathing semi-naked on Greek islands with her friends. The recollections were pleasant, although accompanied by a feeling of profound loss -- that woman was dead; sacrificed, in a sense, for a cause far greater than herself.

It was the right choice. It must be.

A pang of anxiety struck her as she felt that she would somehow be seen uncovered. She fought the urge to retrieve her veil, and tried to dispel any thoughts of shame or guilt -- this was halal.

"Turn around. Head down," Master said curtly. She quickly obeyed, exposing the back of her neck to him. She heard the rattle of keys being pulled out of his pocket. She knew each of them by now - one of them was the key to his apartment, one was the key to his car, and the other was the key to the steel band that hugged her throat.

'Click.'

The collar fell away.

She turned around to look up at Master. "Off," he said, gesturing to the underscarf.

Her emotional turmoil began to reach a crescendo. The simple act of being outside without covering her hair was mortifying, but, obediently, she reached up and pulled the underscarf off her head and freed the long auburn locks from the tight braids that restrained them.

Her heart rate and breathing quickened. Anxiety gave way to excitement.

Gusts of wind tussled and teased her free hair. Closing her eyes, she revelled in the majesty of the world created by God.

When the first raindrop landed on her forehead, one word came to mind. A strange word, from a foreign tongue, whose concept and meaning was once completely alien to her, but now framed her entire purpose in life. She uttered it, under her breath, with a sigh of reverence:

"Alhamdulillah."

******************

Emily woke up from her slumber gradually, becoming dimly aware that she was in an unfamiliar setting with an unknown presence beside her. Bars of sunshine fell against the white wall opposite, and the hum and hustle of London could be heard through the open window. The mechanical buzz of a deskfan filled the room as it struggled valiantly against the midsummer heat.

She glanced at the digital clock on the bedside table: 14:37. Groggily, she wondered why her wrists, tits and arse felt sore, before her sleep-fogged brain pieced together the events of the previous night. She smiled contentedly at the recollection.

James was gently snoring. His frame sprawled over the double bed, leaving her only a foot or so for her own use. She adjusted, and rested her head on his chest. Its rise and fall was comforting.

She thought back to the circumstances of their meeting -- a coke and ket fuelled sesh had turned awry and she had been left in the street alone, abandoned by her girlfriends. The details were never really made clear, but somehow he managed to extract the address of her student halls from her drug-addled brain and left her with one of her housemates.

'Hope you're okay. DM me on Insta when you're feeling better @JamesD_93.'

That was the message left on the back of a business card in her handbag:

James Dwight CEng

Senior FPGA Engineer

Cooper-Oldfield Asset Management plc

Initially she thought the solicitation and white-knight routine a little creepy, especially as it came from a man eight years older than herself. The card went in the bin, but curiosity and gratitude led her to send him a private message on Instagram thanking him for helping her out of a difficult situation. His profile consisted of him adventuring around the world and captaining for his rugby team. He was quite attractive, possessing a lean, athletic physique and a quiet authority that she found magnetic.

Pleasantries turned to flirting, flirting to deep conversations about life, the universe and everything. She gelled with him better than any man she had spoken to before. Eventually, it became evident that he was a sexual Dominant and active in London's BDSM scene -- something which piqued her interest as a curious sub herself. She bombarded him with questions and, after two weeks of sleepless nights of non-stop texting, he finally invited her to The George in Southwark for a few drinks. One thing led to another, and, six orgasms and a sore bum later, here she was - in his bed.

His breathing had changed. He began to stir awake.

"Morning sleepyhead," she purred.

He smiled warmly. The corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled. She thought it was cute.

"What do you want for breakfast?" he asked.

"I want you to have me for breakfast."

She almost couldn't believe she had said that. Never before in her life had she experienced anything like last night before. While she had known she was a submissive since she was a teen, and had even toyed with it on the occasional Tinder date, James had dominated her so comprehensively that it had stirred in her something almost akin to a spiritual awakening. He had melded pain and pleasure together into a single unitary concept -- a sea of sensation that, with every strike of his whip, with every flick of his tongue, had washed over her in waves.

He chuckled, "Fuck, you're insatiable!" He grabbed the back of her neck and pulled her in for a kiss. "I'll make us omelettes."

"Stay with me," she pouted.

His cock was rock hard, bulging against his grey sweats.

"Fuck me."

"Back in a giffy," he said, giving her a long, passionate kiss and a tit-squeeze.

"You're so mean!" she squealed.

"I know," he shouted from the kitchen. Then, after a delay: "Shit we don't have eggs. I'll run to Tesco and grab us coffee as well. Latte okay?"

"Just fuck me!"

"I'll take that as a yes. Back soon babe."

He threw his sleep-hoodie onto the bed, dressed in a white t-shirt, jeans and shades and left the apartment.

Annoyed at the rejection, she pouted and threw herself onto the bed. His apartment was a classic bachelor pad -- spartan, with what décor there was being uncoordinated and ugly. Although clean, boxes of electronics, weights and general tat were scattered about haphazardly. This was a man who desperately needed a woman in his life.

She lay there for a while, idly scrolling through social media, before the thick aroma of sweat, cologne and cum, seeming to radiate from his sleep hoodie, instigated her to spread her legs and lazily play with her clit through her knickers. Idle toying quickly became furious rubbing, and, before too long, a conflagration was sparked.

She picked up his discarded hoodie, threw off her own sleepshirt, and put it on. It was so big on her it almost fell to her knees. The scent was intoxicating and she moaned with delight.

'More,' she thought.

She scanned around the room for the toybox they had used last night. It was half open on his dresser: a pair of steel handcuffs and a ballgag hung limply from the side. She swiped them both and wedged the ballgag into her mouth, tightening it as far as it was comfortable, and then tightening it some more. Then, she slapped the handcuffs on her wrists in front of her and hopped on the bed.

The sensation of restriction was electrifying -- she writhed like a wild animal, with every rattle of the cuffs sending a bolt through her body; every muffled moan a reminder of her bondage.

She spread her legs as wide as they would go and began fucking herself with abandon. She didn't know where the keys to her cuffs were, but, in that moment, she didn't care. He would have to release her when he got back. That thought, that only he could release her - that he had total power over her even though he wasn't there -- was what drove her to climax for the seventh time in 24 hours.

Swaddled inside his enormous hoodie, she lay there, bound and exhausted, panting through her gag. Her horniness had dissipated only marginally, and she felt the urge for another go.

And then the door opened.

"Em? I'm back. Come into the kitchen and I'll make you breakfast."

Silence.

"Em!?" he shouted. The worry in his voice evident as it reverberated around the sparsely furnished apartment. His first thought was that she had left him -- scarpered without even saying goodbye. Just another one-night stand.

And then he opened the bedroom door.

His cock jumped at the sight. Splayed wide across the bed, her toned legs funnelled his vision towards her exposed cunt, pointed directly at him. Juices pooled beneath her crotch as drool trickled down her cheeks. She was still panting from the exertion, but her face, contorted by the tightly buckled ballgag, possessed a look of serene rapture. She raised her cuffed hands above her head, spread her legs yet wider, and looked at him as if to say 'resist me if you can'.

Anger, tempered by relief, flashed through his body. It wasn't so much the act itself that annoyed him - it was the audacity of it: it was that she had used his toys and worn his hoodie and fucked herself in his apartment without even asking permission. He wanted to fuck her senseless there and then, but his Dom instincts kicked into gear, and he knew that this kind of behaviour demanded immediate discipline.

"Oh, so that's how it is, is it cunt? You think its okay to go fucking yourself in other people's apartments without asking them?"

She was visibly shocked.

He went to the toybox, retrieved a spandex hood, a length of chain, a leather collar and what appeared to be another set of cuffs. Then, he grabbed her by her hair, shoved her onto her knees and removed her ballgag.

"Well, cunt. What do you have to say for yourself?"

"I'm sorry Sir. I was just so horny."

"You're a fucking slag, you know that?"

"I..., yes Sir."

"You need to be disciplined, don't you slut?"

"Yes Sir." Even though she had just cum, being forced to look up at him past his hard cock as he admonished her reset a fire in her loins. "I should be spanked, Sir."

"No, cunt. I have something else in mind for you."

He grabbed the spandex hood and pulled it over her face, blinding her, and then stuffed the ballgag into her mouth even deeper than before. He re-cuffed her hands behind her back and wrapped the leather collar around her throat with the o-ring facing backwards. To one end of the length of chain he padlocked the o-ring, and to the other he padlocked her cuffed hands, pulling them into the small of her back.

She writhed and squirmed in her new restriction, moaning softly through her gag.

"Try to touch your cunt now, slut."

She thought the command was rhetorical and didn't move.

He slapped her hard in the face. "Try it bitch!"

She desperately wriggled and struggled to touch her pussy. Hopeless -- the chain was too short.

He slapped the other set of cuffs onto her ankles and stood to admire his handiwork.

"Good. That's how you're going to stay for a while."

A muffled whimper emanated from the hood.

He had learned that boredom and bondage was a simple but effective tool of discipline. It was unpleasant enough to act as negative reinforcement for undesirable behaviour, but titillating enough to keep the sub aroused and in a state of submission. The reality was that she would have enjoyed spanking far too much for it to be a meaningful punishment.

He grabbed a length of rope and tied the o-ring of her collar to his wardrobe's door handle, forcing her to kneel upright.

"I'll be back soon, cunt."

A pathetic, muffled whimper was the response.

He left the room and sat on the couch in the adjoining living room where he could see that she was okay. The sight of her bound and hooded with her chained, sculpted legs jutting out of his hoodie was immensely alluring. He resisted the urge to fuck her, and attempted scrolling through his emails and the daily news on his phone, taking care to be as silent as possible -- he wanted to engender a sense of isolation, so that, after half an hour or so, when he released her, her sense-starved brain would be all the more receptive to his attentions.

Meanwhile, Emily, dazed, horny and starved of stimulus, felt herself gradually dissociating from reality. Time became meaningless -- every minute passing felt like it lasted hours, or perhaps seconds? Her body seemed to rise above the ground as if she was floating -- like she was having an out-of-body experience. She was aware of it happening, but somehow only distantly, as if she were a third person observer. The feeling scared her initially, but it was... nice. Unconsciously, her body relaxed into the restraints as all the tension seeped out of her muscles. She became dead weight, held upright only by the leashed collar around her throat, which now lightly choked her airways. That sensation added to a profound feeling of submission that filled her entire being -- a feeling she never wanted to end.

The 30 minutes passed quickly. James had noticed her slump over, but could see that she was still breathing. He went over to her and pulled the gag and spandex hood off her face and knew immediately what had happened. That glassy, unfocused stare could mean only one thing -- she was in subspace.

Change of plan - he had to be careful -- a sub in subspace would take any amount of pain or abuse willingly and would not say no to anything. If he took her out too quickly it may be a terrible, emotionally traumatic experience which she would never forget. On the other hand, if he got it right, she would experience one of the most incredible feelings of her life. The trick was to gently dominate her and then let her down slowly.

He unleashed the collar, gently picked her up off the floor and took her into the living room where he sat down on the couch with her in his lap. He lightly brushed the hair off her face, removed her gag and started speaking softly to her:

"You're doing really well, you know."

No verbal response, but her eyes widened in such a way as to indicate that she was proud of herself.

"You're a good girl, but now you need to be spanked so that you remember not to touch yourself without asking permission. Understood?"

A barely perceptible nod indicated the affirmative.

He turned her over, arse in the air and began lightly spanking her backside. He grabbed a fistful of her hair and pulled her head back so that he would be able to watch her face in the floor length mirror beside his couch. He studied her intently, keeping an eye out for anything that may indicate she was spiralling into a negative emotional state. Glassy, distant eyes met his gaze, but with every strike of her arse he could see a wave of emotion break across her face. She was loving it.