The Submission of Sophie

"You mean your BDSM space?" I asked. Definitely direct.

He laughed.

"If that's what you want to call it," he said. "So, she told you about it then?"

"She told me," I confirmed. "We don't keep secrets from each other. She was pretty taken aback. It was the last thing we expected you guys to be into."

"Never judge a book,..." Pete said. "It's not the kind of thing you shout about. Not to anyone and everyone, I mean."

"No," I said. "I can see that."

"Take it as a compliment," Pete said. "I mean, we both thought that, with you and Sophie, our little secret would be safe."

"I wasn't planning to make an announcement in the club," I said.

"So, she was shocked?" Pete asked, still smiling at my comment.

"A bit, I guess," I said.

"And you?" he asked.

"Surprised," I said. "Maybe not shocked. Curious,... I guess. I mean,... like,... what made you decide to...?"

"A place we've been to on holiday in France," he answered. "We kind of liked it,... and thought, maybe, we could create something similar here, discretely, and maybe invite other people, if they wanted,..."

"So,... you thought of us?" I asked.

"More of Sophie," Pete said. "I mean, Deborah thought, maybe,..."

He hesitated. I gave him a questioning look. We were still walking, pulling our golf clubs behind us, but you can look sideways as you walk, and raise an eyebrow.

"Well, let's say, she maybe comes across as potentially compliant," Pete explained.

It was an interesting choice of words. Where he was describing my wife as potentially compliant, I assumed that he really meant that she might be a natural submissive. The one who gets strapped down. The one who gets blindfolded. The one who gets punished. The one who might even get fucked, and not just by her husband. Judging by the way she had compliantly knelt at the end of our bed that night, just four nights ago, and would have accepted my using my belt on her, had I chosen to, I guess that Deborah might just have got it right. Maybe Sophie was indeed naturally submissive, sexually, that is, as well as in her general approach to things. Which was exactly what I had been wondering about since that night.

So, if Deborah and Pete had thought that Sophie might be a natural submissive, I wondered what they thought about me. I can be assertive, when I want to be. Nobody is tying me down or strapping me to anything, or putting a blindfold on me. None of that. That is one thing I know for sure. Not that that makes me some kind of sadistic dominant. I love my wife. I had not wanted to use the belt on her. It was more I had wanted to see how she would react. I had no desire to hurt her. I love her way too much for that. The question I had been asking myself was whether I loved her enough to let her find her natural, instinctive place in this new world that Deborah and Pete had opened up. And I already knew the answer. I loved her more than enough to allow her to explore.

"I can see that," I said to Pete, agreeing that my wife could be compliant.

"So...?" Pete asked, without being too specific as to exactly what he was asking.

Except I knew what he was asking. I knew that he was inviting us to play. Or more specifically, he was asking to play with Sophie. He was asking if I would let them play their BDSM games with her as their submissive. If I would let them tie or bind or secure her in some way, and possibly inflict a little playful pain, mix in some mild sub-dom games, teasingly torment her, test what she could tolerate, sexually stimulate her, maybe even playfully penetrate, explore her boundaries, external and internal, let her be their toy.

I had guessed that the invitation would come sometime but had not expected it quite so soon. Not just four days later. But Pete was asking, so I had to answer. And I was curious, about my wife, as to just what her limits would turn out to be, how far she would be willing to submit, what she would permit. Which is why I answered with an indirect affirmative, but still an affirmative.

"Okay," I said. "But we need to set some ground rules."

We discussed the ground rules. Limits, safe words, for both Sophie and myself, how to go about it first time around, who would call the shots, and things like that. Dinner, at their place, that evening. Sooner than I had thought. But fine. It would be interesting. We had a deal. We even shook hands on it, formally, a gentleman's agreement, between friends. Then we played the rest of our round. I won. Not much in it, but Pete fluffed some strokes on the final holes. Maybe, just maybe, he wanted me to feel good for later on that evening.

*****

There was no question about it. Deborah had been right. My wife was seriously compliant. She had done exactly as Deborah had instructed her and now was mounted on the horse. It was a neat piece of kit, solid and robust. Two wooden A-frames with horizontal cross bars running between them. Three leather covered pads. Sophie was mounted face down on the central, higher, if still just waist-high, leather pad, that was about three inches wide, and maybe a foot long. Long enough to reach from lower belly to clavicle, her breasts pushed out on either side, a three inch strap around her back, velcro fastened, neat, quick and effective.

Naturally, my wife was naked, the whiteness of her body contrasting with the darkness of black leather, and hard, unyielding, black painted timber of the supporting frame. Her body was the only white in the entire room, the focal point, secured and vulnerable. Seriously vulnerable. Her butt especially. Hand, cane, or whatever other form of punishment could all too easily administered. Could be, or more likely would be. Her cunt penetrable, protruding labia parted, moist and ready to be fondled, fucked, or fingered.

Part of the neatness of the horse's design was the two leather pads on either side, adjustable up or down to take account of the rider's leg length. Sophie had first been kneeling on these pads, while Deborah fastened straps around each of her ankles, and two more around her calves, at the bend of her knees. Once my wife's legs had been secured, Deborah had told her to lean forwards, so that her torso was flat on the higher, central pad, and fastened the back strap round her waist. That strap ensured that Sophie stayed like that, while Deborah secured her wrists to low-set, steel rings fixed to the legs of the wooden horse. The knee pads meant that the rider's weight was supported less by their rib-cage, which would be uncomfortable, but more by their lower legs, resting on those pads.

Deborah started by stroking her. The same way that you might stroke a pony, or a Labrador. She flat palmed Sophie's back and flank, neck, shoulders, rib-cage, spine, buttocks, thighs, calves, and even feet. She caressed her butt, thumb teasing her anal opening, and then parting her protruding labia, not just teasing, but penetrating, easing her thumb inside until it was embedded to the hilt. Sophie did not murmur. Then, she could have spoken. She could have asked Deborah not to do what she was doing, or asked to be released, but she was silent. She did not gasp, or moan, or protest in any way. She was motionless, but breathing steadily, her torso rising and falling rhythmically with each intake and exhalation. Calm, steady breathing. Total acceptance of her plight, of the thumb that played inside her cunt, and of what was yet to come.

When she felt she had explored sufficiently the wetness that is my wife's cunt, Deborah removed her hand, walking to the head end of the horse. My wife's head, that is, since the horse itself had neither head nor tail.

"Head up, mouth open," she instructed.

Sophie's head was unsupported. She had relaxed the muscles at the back of her neck and allowed her head to fall, but with Deborah's instruction she raised her head as she had been told to, and opened her mouth. Sophie's hair is black, and long, but before mounting Sophie on the horse, Deborah had used a black hair tie to create a pony tail. It fell from Sophie's slender neck, strategically well away from her face. It would not get in Deborah's way.

"Clean this," Deborah told her, putting her thumb into my wife's open mouth.

Sophie obediently sucked on it. It would have been the first time that my wife had tasted her own cunt, given what Deborah had just been doing with that thumb. It has always tasted good to me, but for Sophie, the experience might have been a little sinful. Deborah waited, giving my wife time to lick and suck her own secretions from her thumb. That, in itself, was a kind of training in submission, just having another person's thumb inside your mouth for all that time. A form of penetration. A power play. Eventually, satisfied that it was clean, Deborah removed her thumb from Sophie's mouth and went to the rear wall of the play-room, where hooks were screwed into the wall beside the closed door, to hold equipment that could be used in play. Toys. Not just toys. More serious stuff as well.

"If you have anything to say," Deborah advised Sophie as she walked back again, "then you should say it now."

Sophie said nothing.

"Open wide," Deborah told her.

Sophie saw what Deborah was holding in her hand, and opened her mouth wide, holding her head up even higher, and Deborah put the black rubber ball of the gag that she had just taken from a hook, into Sophie's mouth, right inside, and slipped the elasticated strap over her head to keep it in place. It was pretty clear that from there on in, Sophie was not going to be saying anything at all.

Deborah went back to the wall beside the door and took something made of leather from one of the hooks, an eye mask. She went back to Sophie.

"Close your eyes," she said.

Sophie closed her eyes. Deborah put the mask in place. It did not just cover Sophie's eyes. It covered her nose and forehead as well. It was shaped, bat-man style, to fit the face, leaving the mouth and chin bare, but the rest of the face masked in black leather. No elasticated strap. The strap was leather, with a buckle at the back of the head. Sophie was not going to be able to see anything. But she could still hear, so that was something.

Deborah stepped away, admiring her willing victim for a moment. I was impressed. My wife was no longer herself, not a dinner guest, but transformed, no longer Sophie, but a living, breathing, flesh and leather plaything. That symbiotic relationship my cock has with my brain came into play again. My cock was getting hard. I made adjustments. Deborah saw, and smiled.

"She looks good, doesn't she," she said.

"She does," I said. No more than that. Deborah stroked Sophie's butt one more time. Then turned to Pete.

"Pete, can you hand me the tawse?" she asked her husband.

All this time, Pete and I had been standing on the other side of the wood and leather horse, watching as Deborah did her thing, each of us as fascinated as the other. We had enjoyed our casual dinner downstairs, a summer salad, nothing heavy, given what would happen later. As if on cue, Deborah had suggested showing me the play-space in the loft that Sophie had already seen. We had all gone upstairs together, and once Pete had closed the door behind us, Deborah's tone had changed, no longer gracious hostess but what in the jargon might be called a dominatrix.

"I think that a little demonstration would be in order," she had said. "I'm sure that Sophie will oblige."

It had taken my wife by surprise. She had not expected anything other than another look around. She had turned to me, possibly for support, still taking in what Deborah had just said.

To be honest, I was still taking in the room. The space was bigger than I had pictured it to be. I guess the footprint of the house was reasonably large, the loft space extending over all the rooms below, and although its size was constrained by the sloping roof, the full height space was more than enough for serious play. It was bigger than the average family lounge. Not that it was fitted out for lounging.

The loft space had been dry wall boarded all around at shoulder height, the sloping ceiling boarded between rafters so that these were still visible, the apex almost five feet above my head. The floor had been covered with what might have been engineered wood. Everything that could be painted was pure black, walls, ceiling, rafters, door. At either gable end, high wall lights imitated old style gas lights, modern electronics creating a flickering effect within black painted metal and clear glass lamp holders. It was far from adequate to read a newspaper, but enough to see around and note the furnishings.

The far gable end had the wooden cross that Sophie had described, fixed to the wall, diagonal timbers, the height of a human with arms stretched towards the sky. Black leather straps hung loose at the centre of the cross and at the top and bottom or each arm. One third of the room's length from the cross hung the swing seat. The thick leather seat was wide enough to lie back on. Black ropes from each corner were fixed to steel hooks set in the exposed rafters above. More leather straps hung ready to secure outstretched ankles and wrists. I wondered who had been secured to it, and what had been done to them while they were strapped there, legs parted. I thought the same about the cross, when, and by whom, had it been used. Perhaps, one day, I would find out. For now, closest to us was what my wife had called the horse, on which she had been mounted.

I had still been taking all this in when Deborah had volunteered my wife as the candidate for the demonstration, and had not responded straight away when Sophie had turned to me for support.

"Don't look at him," Deborah had intervened before I had thought of anything to say. "You look at me when I am talking to you."

Sophie had done as she was told, turning back to Deborah. Then it was as if a switch had flipped, something in her brain flickering into life, or possibly something closing down. Compliance kicking in. Something more than compliance. Something innate, embedded deep within her, drawn from her subconscious by Deborah's tone. Obeisance. Not fearful, but reverential obedience, coming into play, while individuality, autonomy evaporated into the darkness of the space.

"Yes, mistress," my wife had said to Deborah, almost as if she had been rehearsing for this role.

It had been as simple as that. Just as Deborah had transformed from hostess into dominatrix, Sophie had switched from amenable guest to obedient submissive. Deborah told her to take off her dress, a light blue, summer, sleeveless, button-fronted shift, and Sophie had opened the large white buttons one by one and slipped it off her shoulders. It had fallen on the floor behind her, but she had not moved to pick it up, instead standing, semi-naked, in nothing more than bra and kinckers.

Interestingly, Deborah had dressed for the role. She was wearing black leather, figure hugging jeans and a black blouse. They had not seemed out of place as she had served us dinner, but in the play-space they were pitch perfect for the role she had adopted.

"Take those off," she had told Sophie, and Sophie had obeyed. Shoes first. Low heeled slip-ons, slipped off with ease. Reaching behind she unsnapped the fastening of her bra. Shouldered it from her breasts. The nipple stubs were puckered up, aroused. The bra went on the floor. She slipped her thumbs under the sides of her knickers. Eased them down her thighs. Bent over. Breasts pendulous. One foot at a time, raised, drawn out from the knickers. The knickers dropped onto her dress. Standing erect. Hairless mons exposed, labia laid bare.

She had not looked at either of us as she had undressed, neither Pete nor myself. It was the first time that she had been naked in front of anyone other than myself, the first time since we had exchanged our promises to love one another until death did us part.

Deborah had walked to the horse.

"You kneel, here and here," she had said, pointing to the padded rests. Again, Sophie had obeyed.

Now she was fully strapped to it, bent forwards on it, gagged and blindfolded with that face moulded leather mask, and Deborah had just asked her husband for a tawse. The word sounded ominous. Not that I knew exactly what it was, but it sounded as though it could hurt. Would hurt. It turned out to be a bunch of thick, black leather fronds, around a foot long, emerging from a handle. Those could hurt, just as I had thought.

Deborah took the tawse from her husband. She played at first. Played with the tawse. Played with my wife. Nothing painful. Stroking Sophie with the leather fronds. Holding the tawse above my wife's back and drawing the fronds down the length of my wife's spine. Not my wife. Not now. The breathing, white fleshed, unseeing, latest addition to the play-room, the new toy, the bent over, leather tied, sex-doll. Deborah play flicked the tawse at the doll's torso, ridged rib-cage, defined spine and shoulder blades, soft, rounded buttocks, the fronds landing softly, black leather on white flesh. Unyielding cow-hide on delicate, sensitive human skin, but landing lightly, the barest hint of what was yet to come. Then side flicks against Sophie's butt and thighs. Still gentle. No pain. A phrase came to my mind. No pain, no gain.

Then slightly harder flicks. Hard enough that the leather flying through the air made a quiet swish, and then a slight thwack as it landed. Standing behind my wife, Deborah utilised the tawse in a pattern of flicks. Each shoulder blade in turn. The centre of her spine. The upper surface of each buttock. Then the taut curve of each buttock. Back to the shoulder blades. Swish, thwack, swish, thwack, swish, thwack, shoulder, spine, buttock, buttock, swish, thwack, swish, thwack.

All this time Sophie barely moved. Muscles tensed throughout her body, more in anticipation than in pain, because Deborah was still landing only play flicks on her body. Her head was down, either resting her neck, or in submission. There was an erotic tension in the air, the four of us sharing in our clandestine scene, Sophie the centre-piece, Deborah behind her, myself standing at one side, Pete opposite. This was not polite, respectable suburban London at we had come to know it, but another world, in which a woman can be bound and flogged, and an audience can watch in awe at both participants, she who wields the tawse, and she who willingly receives it.

Then a thwack resonated loudly and my wife gave out a muted yelp. With the ball gag still in place she could not cry out, but I knew that that last whipping with the fronds had hurt. That was when I realised that in spite of Pete and I agreeing on the golf course that Sophie would be given a safe word that she could use if things became too much, she had no safe word, and even if she had been given one, the gag would mute its use.

Sophie could, of course, convey with body language, even secured as firmly as she was, that this was more that she could take, or wanted to. She could have raised her head. She could have shaken it from side to side, and grunted her objections to what was happening. She could have squirmed against the leather straps that held her down. She could have groaned out loud, even with the ball gag in her mouth. My wife did none of these. She stayed immobile, head submissive, waiting for the next stroke, knowing that this too, would hurt her just as much, expecting it to come.

Deborah kept her waiting. Kept her uncertain. Kept her in suspense. Made her anticipate the stroke. Feel it before it happened. Ninety percent of this kind of play is in the mind, so Deborah played with Sophie's mind and took her time. While Deborah made my wife wait, Sophie's left butt cheek, where that last stroke of the tawse had landed, slowly reddened. The severity of that stroke had made the blood rise to just beneath the surface of her butt cheek, colouring it.