tagBDSMThe Story of A - Ch. 01: Firsts

The Story of A - Ch. 01: Firsts


These are my very first submissions, and they are true accounts of recent experiences that made a profound impact on me. I hope that you enjoy reading them. Feedback and comments are most welcome. - A

One - The Orientation

I stand at His front door, nervousness radiating from me. I contemplate turning around and going home. In some as-yet undefined way, I fear that I won't be enough, or that this won't live up to my fantasies, that it will turn crude in its actualization. But I have wished for this for years and years. I know, too, that I have been dying to meet this man since we first spoke three months prior, whose messages and texts and writings have been in the back of my mind since then.

I mentally check that I have followed all instructions regarding dress and timing. I am so thankful for His last directive - to come prepared to follow instructions and answer questions only. I knock, likely too timidly, and no one comes to the door. Internally, I panic, but I text him, and after an eternity passes, He opens the door and invites me in.

He is handsome, but that does little to be abate my nerves. I follow him inside, secretly marveling at my bravery, and he offers me something to drink. I decline, but he checks again and I decide to accept. If nothing else, it will give my hands something with which to fidget. I am only vaguely aware of my surroundings - absently noting that the house is clean and nice, slightly bemused at a pack of cigarettes on a table. My best lovers always seem to be smokers.

I can barely look at him as I lean on the counter, drinking from the glass. I don't know how one crosses the abyss in this situation. I yearn to wrap myself around Him, kiss Him, to cut this tension inside me. This is what I would do normally. But I don't, and instead focus on trying to meet his gaze. He looks me up and down, and says something to the effect of:

"Well, aren't you pretty."

I smile, squirm, and feel a blush heat my face, pleased that He seems to like what He sees. He goes on:

"So, this is the first time that you've ever done anything like this?"

I nod in the affirmative, wanting Him to understand the enormity of this for me, grateful again that I've been instructed just to speak when spoken to.

"Are you nervous?" This must be a rhetorical question, because I've progressed from making circles on the glass, to twirling my hair, to nibbling on my pinky. I nod again.

"You don't have to be nervous. I promised I'll take it easy on you."

I think I say "Okay", maybe smile and mumble something else - but what I want to say is 'I'm not scared of You, but of the unknown... and I didn't come for easy'. But I think better of it, and keep quiet.

I put my glass down, and He picks it up, looks at me, and drinks from it. This seems incredibly familiar - we've just met! - and I am flooded with the knowledge that very soon it will be the least intimate thing that transpires between us. Does He know the thoughts He is running through my head?

He orders me upstairs. For the life of me, I can't remember the exact words, this first command I hear in person. But His voice gets quieter, yet impossibly strong.. He doesn't move until I do, and I'm conscious of His eyes on me as I walk up the stairs. I get halfway up... and I get my first glimpse. I'm shocked - in a glance I take in some type of low body-sized table, drawers, and a strategically placed mirror. I think it makes me stop in my tracks.

"Oh my god," I gasp.

"'Oh my god?' What?" He is amused. "...you mentioned something about a couch... I don't think you planned on My spanking bench."

No, I didn't. I stop at the top of the stairs, frozen and so fucking excited and in disbelief that I am actually going to go through with this. He tells me to lay down. I throw myself on the bench, not the least bit sure my body is positioned the right way, hoping I guessed correctly. I lose total control of my breathing; I'm gasping for air already, I'm so incredibly turned on - and He has yet to touch me.

He touches my foot with His own and says something. It takes me a moment to interpret His words over the sound of my breathing and the buzz of my mind:


I can't get it together fast enough, and he repeats his command and the pressure on my foot. Finally, I must have spread my legs enough to satisfy Him. I bury my face in the bench, and he walks around me, slowly, my hair tumbling everywhere, my dress still on, my legs spread wide, for Him.

He runs His hand up my legs, over my ass; just the thin fabric of the dress separating us, and I am amazed at how hot this is. The wetness between my legs increases as He continues to run His hand over me with impunity as I lay there. I idly wonder if I've ever been this turned on before. I've wanted to do this my whole life and it's actually happening. He lifts the hem of my dress, exposing my legs and my underwear to Him. He continues his lazy exploring, but this time I can feel the heat of His hand, and I feel myself become wetter.

He kneels down next to my arm, and through the curtain of my hair I see a restraint that He places around my wrist and connects to the bench with quick, practiced movements. He moves to the other side and restrains the other wrist. I've never been restrained by anything other than a scarf or a belt, and I tug on the chains to determine just how securely I am caught. He starts to rain little spanks down on me, His teasing fingers seemingly everywhere, playing with my panties, pulling them tight between cheeks, torturing me. How does He know what to do to make me weak?

He leaves, telling me to 'hold on', and I want to cheekily assure Him that I'm not going anywhere, although I don't. I smile, and for a long moment am left alone, exposed and tied down on this bench. He comes back, pulls my panties again, and cuts them. Now useless, they remain bunched around my waist. Wryly, I inform Him that I liked those. He chuckles, and replies:

"Oh, you did? You'll just have to take them home and keep them, then. You'll keep them, won't you?"

I moan, and nod my head affirmatively. He starts to warm my ass up with His hand, smacking me, traveling from cheek to thighs, back up, over, and down the other side. For a moment, I am disappointed - I can take much more than this. I contemplate saying this, but, thankfully, hold my tongue - and am relieved yet again that I chose reticence when he increases the pressure, rapidly spanking me all over, interspersed with more teasing, rubbing, touching. It feels AMAZING. My body betrays me - lifting towards Him, spreading and standing on tiptoes, trying but failing to get more as He keeps His fingers feather-light, teasing and caressing. I'm on fire, lewdly gyrating, and I don't care.

Eventually He states that it's time to get started. My mind flies for a moment - we haven't started? I almost blurt this out, but instead, happily hug this knowledge into myself - we haven't even begun! - and wait, all of my other senses heightened because my eyes are pressed against the padding of the bench. I hear the sounds of a drawer being opened, and of Him walking behind me. He stops, and reminds me that I'm getting birthday spankings, thirty in all, and I'm to count each one aloud. Nodding is not sufficient - he wants to hear my "Yes, Sir".

He spanks me, and every synapse in my brain fires at once. Firstly, I take in that that was not His hand, it was some sort of paddle. He is taking my fantasy and elevating it, giving me a new experience, though I am not sure if He knows this. Secondly, it hurt, more than I thought. Thirdly, it was incredible. My mind begins to soar while my world narrows, encompassing only my bare ass, the wetness between my legs, the yearning of my clit, and Him.

"One." I remember.

He caresses my ass, both soothing and distracting me so I can't quite anticipate the next strike. As soon as he removes His hand, however, I clench as much as I can with my legs spread like this.

Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. He continues this way, alternating spanking me with his caresses, and alternating His attentions - smacking each cheek, the crease where my legs meet, the bottom of my ass, keeping me off-guard. My skin is starting to catch fire, the pain not fully ceasing before the next strike of the paddle.

"What's your safeword?" He asks.

I fight the urge to say that I don't know, that I can't possibly be expected to think, that it's ludicrous to even ask. I know He won't like that, and, new as I am, I know that this is important. I try to focus.


He moves over my left side, and brushes my hair away from my face. I peer at him, blankly, I'm sure. This IS important to Him. He explains the difference between red, yellow, and green, and makes me repeat it back to Him. I've got it, and I am flooded with gratitude that I've chosen my first partner well, chosen a man who is careful and trustworthy. I wouldn't have played had I not suspected this, but it is a relief to be right.

Part of me is also relieved to give my skin a short reprieve. Eight. I grasp the chains that bind my wrists and pull each time he strikes me, narrowing my mind to the next number; already, it's getting harder to keep track. Each stroke erases my mind completely, explodes it into little pieces, and I desperately try to hold onto the count.


"Do you want to see yourself?" He moves to my head, moves my hair aside, and tugs a little. I look up to the mirror. I look in vain to see my ass, but I can't at this angle, and I don't like to see myself when I'm not poised, and so after a moment, I look back down and re-shrink my world to what's happening behind me.


That means eleven is next... I just need to focus on eleven... I am so focused on this number that I relax my cheeks completely, so the next time He paddles me, I don't clench and I feel the full strength of His strike on my left cheek. Everything behind my eyelids turns red, and I know that I've erred - this pain will never go away.


"Twelve?" He asks, chuckling. "Are you sure?"

Damn, but I'm not sure. In fact - I have no idea. Did I say 'eleven', or merely think it? While I am trying to put my mind back together, He caresses my ass, further clouding my mind.

"Eleven?" I offer. But he is not satisfied - I don't sound sure and he wants me to decide. When I do, He chuckles and tells me that indeed, we are only on my eleventh stroke, that I need to focus.

Twelve. Thirteen. Somehow, during the last stroke of His paddle, I pulled myself free from where my restraint meets the bench. For a second, I contemplate not telling Him - but, I like being restrained. I turn my wrist up, showing Him the restraint dangling in the air. Quickly, He secures me again, marveling at my escape artist tendencies. If only I could claim credit.

Fourteen. The heat is intensifying, and thirty seems impossibly far away. I toy with saying the word that I know will slow him down. But I want to take what He wants to give.

He reaches between my legs and decides to walk around my body, casually wiping His fingers along my arm as he moves past. My skin feels wet and cool from the moisture, my moisture that is covering His hand. I'm simultaneously impressed at His attention to detail, turned on, and ashamed of my gratuitous arousal. I hear the sounds of the drawer being opened, and He leans down again, to show me the new paddle that He is going to use on me. It's hot, being shown the instrument of my delicious torture. He speaks to the differences between the two, but honestly, it's lost on me. They both sting like crazy as they connect with my flesh.

Fifteen. Sixteen. The pain is starting to overwhelm the pleasure. Seventeen.

"Yellow... I think?" I offer.

"You think?" He teases me... then smacks me again, hard.

"Yellow! I'm sure... Eighteen."

He strikes me again, moderately hard but I can handle this. I'm glad, and I don't feel that I've disappointed Him. Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two.

"Twenty-two?" He stops for a moment. And I scramble again to try to remember if I said twenty-one aloud or in my hand. He uses this time to fondle me with abandon. I offer up twenty-one instead, but it's a complete guess and He knows it. I confess that I don't know. He's blown my mind into bits, until it no longer functions, until it can no longer manage the task of counting to thirty. He's still not satisfied, and I settle on twenty-two. He continues, and I can't tell if I guessed right or He is allowing me to be wrong.

Twenty-three. Twenty-four. Twenty-five. Twenty-six. My ass feels like it's on fire. Twenty-seven.

"So, you said earlier that you wanted extra spankings..." He trails off, amused.

I shake my head no, emphatically. How foolish I was to be so cheeky when we were two time zones removed. Twenty-eight. The last paddlings are hard, but I love that I'm being pushed and that I can take it. Twenty-nine. He stops, and asks me if I want one really hard spank. I shake my head, no. My skin has felt plenty this afternoon. But then, He comes over and bends down to look into my eyes, moving my hair away from my eyes, cajoling me, piquing my curiosity. "It's just one," He says. I acquiesce: "If it pleases You." But strangely, He's not satisfied.

"But, will it please you?" He asks. I nod my head affirmatively - what's one more? I want to do this for Him. He begins to caress my ass - first one cheek, and then the other, letting me choose where the final stroke will land. He first rubs my left cheek, but I beg Him to please strike the right. He chuckles at my earnestness, and questions my decision, remarking that the right side seems redder. But I insist - my left cheek is still smarting from when I let my guard down earlier.

"I might make you cry." Confused by this, I brace myself for this last strike from the paddle.

Red-hot pain sears through me, and my whole body seems to be pushed forward from the strength of the blow. I can't help but scream, it hurts so badly. I want to cry, but I don't. I understand his warning now; you can't anticipate pain, not really, until it is happening to you. But then, it was over, and I remember:


"So you know... I was only hitting you about half as hard as I could."

I am a bit cowed by that, but thrilled that I made it through the first proper spanking of my life.

He releases the chains of my restraints from the bench and directs me into one of the adjacent bedrooms. I lean down to remove my shoes, but I am reprimanded - He has not asked me to do so. As I turn to face Him, He instructs me to lay on the bed, correcting me until I am where He wants me. While I am focused on understanding his directions through the fog in my brain, He walks around the bed, above my head. He instructs me to lift my wrists overhead, and in an instant He connects my restraints to the bed. I wasn't expecting this, but before I can acclimate, He has walked back around the bed to stand in front of me, and grabbing me by my ass, pulls my body down to the end of the bed, thrilling me. This draws my arms taut. He tells me to pick my knees up and spread them wide. My dress falls around my hips, and I am exposed before Him. He assesses me for a moment, then pulls the top of my dress down, exposing me more, before He takes some of the fabric and smushes it in between my lips, grinning.

He rubs my clit, and it is my fantasy come to life - it is the only place where I am connected to Him and it feels so, so good. Yet again, He takes my thoughts and twists them... and takes out a vibrator. He lays it on the apex of my thighs for a moment before turning it on. I have never felt anything as strong as this, and He reminds me that I have to ask permission. I am worried that He will deny me; I don't know if I could stop. I am ready so soon.

"Please, Sir, may I come?"

"Come for me." He grants me permission and I do, silently screaming until He tells me that He wants to hear. I am writhing through this ecstasy, hands clasping the chains of my restraints during my first orgasm. My body collapses, clearly spent, but He does not remove the vibrator from my body. Oh, I am so sensitive...

He smiles wickedly at me and pushes my body through a second orgasm. Then, a third. A fourth. A fifth; I lose count so quickly - numbers don't seem to be a strength of mine today. He asks me how many, but I don't know. I just know that it is more than I thought my body was capable of. My legs keep dropping with exhaustion after I come, but He chastens me to keep them in position. My screams of pleasure start to alternate with desperate supplications for Him to stop, and rushed pleas for more permission. I come, over and over again, twisting on the bed until I am ragged, crying, begging Him to stop. The most mercy He shows me is to move the head of the wand lower between my legs for a few moments after an orgasm. Ever in control, He reminds me that imploring Him to stop is not "yellow". I simply continue my pleas, hoping that He understands that even though I simply keep sobbing for Him to stop, the last thing I want to do is safeword.

I can't wait any longer - I have to know:

"Are You going to fuck me?"

"Do you want me to?"

I nod my head affirmatively.

"Beg me."

The words come tumbling out as I search for the phrase that will get me what I want.

"Please, oh, please Sir, please fuck me, please..." I mumble on, practically incoherent; I want Him inside me so badly.

"I think I'll make you come again first," He teases, placing the vibrator back on me, making me scream. Mission accomplished, He prepares Himself. I hope that He will put a condom on, as my speech capabilities are so severely hampered currently that I can't ask Him. He does, and I am thankful that we discussed it beforehand, and even more so that He stuck to His word - and surprised that I am so incapacitated. I feel drunk.

Finally, He is inside me. and He feels so thick, and hot, and He is stretching me - it feels so incredible that tears come to my eyes, and I start to thank Him, over and over again. I think this amuses Him. He remarks on my tightness, and asks me about the recency of my last sexual encounter. I still can't remember if it was the end of April or beginning of May - somewhere right before finals. He asks me if I was fucked well, and I have to just shake my head. Not like this.

He fucks me as I lay there, unable to touch Him, unable to move my arms, unable to help. It's glorious. He spreads my legs wide, moves them to change His angle of entry, until one of my feet is braced against the wall, while the other is up by my hip. I think my flexibility pleases Him. I need to come, and I ask permission again. He grants it, and in the midst of all this, He bends over and kisses me - the very first kiss that we share, even after all that which He has done to me. His kiss is so soft, so unhurried, so in control, so sexy, that it takes me completely by surprise and takes me a moment to restrain my eagerness to return the kiss. Then, He pulls back, way too soon, and I ache to have the use of my arms, to be able to run my hands up His body as He fucks me. Just to torture me, He pulls out of me. He wrenches another orgasm or two out of my spent body with the vibrator, ignoring my protestations, before He returns.

I have completely lost control of my body and of my mind. I can no longer be coy, or try to be alluring, or be anything other than an unraveling, restrained, screaming mess of a girl who is forever begging to orgasm. His touch has reduced my capabilities to this. The miniscule part of my brain that still functions is mortified; but it is drowned out by the sensations, the pleasure, the pain, the hedonistic high of everything.

"Please, Sir, may I come? Oh, please, please Sir may I come?" I sob.

Report Story

byStrawberryPeach© 6 comments/ 9401 views/ 13 favorites

Share the love

Report a Bug

2 Pages:12

Forgot your password?

Please wait

Change picture

Your current user avatar, all sizes:

Default size User Picture  Medium size User Picture  Small size User Picture  Tiny size User Picture

You have a new user avatar waiting for moderation.

Select new user avatar: