Swallowtail Ch. 11byktmccoll©
Swallowtail is a novel that traces the narrator's gradual acceptance of submission.
Previously: The narrator has given Dex blanket consent and is prepared to explore what submission to her might mean. As the narrator becomes more comfortable with submission, his dom continues to test his limits.
Dex has asked me to clear my schedule for the upcoming long weekend. She says that she has something special planned for me. A challenge. She says that I'm ready for it.
"It won't be easy," she says.
"You'll hate me at times."
"I can't imagine that."
"Then you don't really have a good imagination."
I pick her up on Thursday afternoon at the tattoo studio where she works as a piercer. She throws a large black duffel bag into the back seat and then slides in beside me. She kisses me on the cheek and squeezes my thigh.
"North," she says.
Dex is quiet for the first half hour of the drive. I sense an uncharacteristic uneasiness about her.
"What's wrong?" I ask.
It takes her a while to answer. "Plans are always abstract until it's time to realize them. Now I'm not sure about them."
I feel a tingle of anticipation and apprehension. "Your plans usually work out well."
"Usually. I don't want to make any mistakes."
"You usually don't. If it looks like you are, I'll let you know."
Dex and I both know that I've never invoked my safeword. I've been close several times but I've never uttered it. I used to think that taking whatever Dex dished out was a matter of pride, but the truth is that Dex has always stepped back from the precipice before taking that last disastrous step. She has developed an uncanny sense of my limits.
"You have my consent for whatever it is you have planned. Unreservedly. I trust you. You know that."
We finally leave the city and the suburbs that ring it like an ever-growing blight. We're moving more quickly now, using the back roads that Dex knows. The sun touches the horizon and the shadows of the trees and hydro poles stretch across the road like a UPC code.
I know that Dex has committed to whatever she has planned when she reaches into her bag a few minutes later and withdraws a leather collar.
"Put this on."
I glance at it but don't touch it. I'm surprised and a little unnerved. Although we're in the middle of nowhere and alone and it's unlikely we'll meet anyone, this is the first time I've worn anything like this outside of the safety of my four walls. I hesitate for a moment longer and then drop down to the speed limit. Being stopped for speeding by some bored cop is the last thing I want. I hold the steering wheel with my knees and fasten the collar around my neck. To the ring at my throat she snaps on a leather lead that she allows to rest across her lap.
"Now these," she says, laying a pair of wrist cuffs on my thigh.
With Dex's help I manage to kit myself out without crashing and breathe a little easier. A little. In the back of my mind I hear my mother. Her voice is unexpected and unwelcome. I remember that she had this thing about clean underwear, in case I was in an accident. The logic eluded me. Certainly if the accident were bad enough, thought my kid brain at the time, it was conceivable that I'd crap myself anyway. Perhaps a drop or two of pee. Would my rescuers check my underwear? Think less of me if my Fruit of the Looms were less than pristine? I doubted it. Regardless, I can hear my mother now: See, this is what comes of ignoring my advice. See, there's a slippery slope—ignore the underwear and this is what happens. No self-respect. My mother, I'm sure, is rolling over in her grave now. Chastity device, collar, and cuffs. What if there were an accident?
Somewhere in heaven, an angel is cringing.
Somewhere beside me is a different story.
I sense Dex watching me from the shadows of the passenger seat.
"What did you have planned again?" I ask.
"A challenge. A test."
"I haven't studied."
"I'm sure you'll do fine."
We've been driving for a couple of hours now, more or less north. There are farms that I can discern in the failing light. Fences around scrub and rocks and woodlots. I don't know whether the fences are designed to keep the scrub in or scrub bandits out. There's the occasional lake too, black as ink, and then more of the same—scrub, rocks, lakes. Darkness slowly claims the land and occasionally a car passes us, going the other way. Radio reception has gotten worse and after scanning what little is available, I turn the radio off entirely. The old Mercedes doesn't have a CD player.
"Much farther?" I ask.
"An hour. Maybe less. We're making good time."
Dex reclines her seat and she takes my hand from the stick shift and places it on her upper thigh, pushing up her skirt in the process. She strokes my fingers for a few minutes, and then there's an unmistakable nudge, an unspoken command. I ease my hand up a little. I caress the smoothness of the now-familiar terrain. She spreads her legs a little more and I take a chance and explore her. There it is—the wetness, the warmth, the promise of things to come.
I play my fingers over the yielding geography of her sex for a few kilometers.
"Beats the hell out of 'I spy'," I say.
"It's too dark, but I think so too."
I glance over to her. There's something arresting about the paleness of her moonlit legs that emerge from her hiked-up skirt, splayed against the black leather of the seat. Her eyes are closed and her lower lip is clenched between her teeth. One hand loosely holds the lead and the other rests against a thigh.
There's no hurry. She has voiced no expectations of me and so I explore her aimlessly. I divide my attention between the road and the flesh beneath my fingers. The car reels in the distance.
She gives a little whimper, almost lost beneath the hum of the tires on the pavement. My fingers have grown slick and I'm tempted to focus my efforts. I don't. Her slow burn is my reward. I might get nothing in return. Not immediately anyway. It doesn't matter. It's enough to elicit this response, to know that I can.
Besides, this might be my only chance this weekend to have her pleasure in my hands, to subject her to some of the torment that she may have planned for me.
She's smiling now. She knows what I am doing and I have no doubt that she'll exact her revenge. After a few desultory strokes I decide to bring her up again.
"Bastard," she whispers.
Another hum of pleasure. Her hand alights briefly on mine and then retreats. She's leaving this to me.
I see that her hands have found her breasts and are kneading them.
I pinch her clitoris between my thumb and forefinger and roll it. There's an intake of breath which is held for several seconds. Then there's a whistling moan. That's it. Quiet as always.
She lifts my hand takes my fingers into her mouth.
"Oh," she says after she has licked my fingers clean, "take the next right."
I know that we're getting closer now. There's a question that's been preying on me for some time. It has been on my tongue before but I've never asked it. It might be the time, now that Dex is satisfied and before she exercises her authority over me. Casually, I say, "You've said that you were a sub before. You never told me exactly what happened."
Dex doesn't answer immediately. "Does it matter?"
"I want to know."
There's another long moment of silence. Then she says, "You're right. I was a sub before." Dex takes a deep breath and I'm afraid that she'll go no further. She's talking to the window, looking out on the gloom. "We had a no-sharing agreement. I drew the line at having him share me around. I wasn't ready for that. Not with him. I didn't trust him, which should have been my first warning. He had problems with restrictions. One day he made the mistake of thinking that his authority over me was absolute. Maybe he confused my submission with weakness. He said my refusal to please him by pleasing his friends showed an unforgiveable lack of commitment on my part. Whatever. One night I was bound and gagged when he asked me again if I'd be willing. He knew how I felt and I didn't expect him to ignore my wishes. I couldn't talk and I couldn't signal. He thought it was funny. He kept asking for the signal, even when his asshole buddies went at it with me."
"God. That's rape."
Dex shrugs. "I waited for a week. I was submissive. I made him think that I'd been broken. He thought that the dust had settled, that I'd been taught an important lesson about submission, but I had a plan." She takes a deep breath. "He liked it when I tied him up. So one night he asked me to do it—tie him up and please him. So I did. I wrapped him in Saran Wrap. This was a new one and I could tell that he thought it interesting and was wondering where I would go with it. I stuffed his underwear in his mouth. He didn't like that as much though. It was then that I asked him for his safeword. Of course he couldn't speak. There could be no signal either. Then I got a pair of scissors. I'm sure he thought I was going to cut it off."
Dex shakes her head and pauses for a moment. Her voice has become almost a whisper. "I cut a hole in the wrap and pulled his cock out of it." She takes a deep breath. "I had been piercing for a year or so by then so I gave him some. Most of the ones in my portfolio, in fact."
I shudder, picturing the scene. I'm speechless.
"I suppose he could have called the cops or come after me or something. He never did. We were finished. You must think I'm a psycho."
"No." Actually, that is exactly what I'm thinking.
She smiles weakly. "And that's why I can't be a sub any more. And that's why I promised myself to be a better dom than he was. And that's the same promise I'm making to you."
Dex directs me off the highway and onto increasingly small and obscure roads. It was dark before but now it's completely black and our world is reduced to what little the headlights choose to reveal.
"Slow down," says Dex.
We're crunching along a gravel road.
"Turn left, here."
Here is little more than a gap between trees, obscuring over what I now see is a rutted and largely overgrown path, barely wide enough for the car. We proceed through a tunnel of dense undergrowth until we finally emerge into a clearing. A large house occupies one side of the space and a garage the other. The headlights sweep over a dock that stretches into watery darkness.
I park the car close to the house and the motion sensing lights go on, bathing us in light.
"What is this place?" I ask.
"Looks like a cottage."
Ask a stupid question...
"Who does it belong to?"
Dex doesn't answer. "Do you still want to go through with this? Knowing what you do?"
I've convinced myself that the guy had deserved it. Still, the violence of Dex's act has given me a chill. Under similar circumstances, I might have done the same. But still, it`s difficult to reconcile the woman sitting next to me in the car with the person who had responded to violence in kind.
"Yes," I say finally. "Let`s do it."
Dex looks relieved. "Okay. Good." She exits the car and stretches. "I keep forgetting how far it is."
I join her outside. The air is crisp and clean. It's invigorating. It's quiet and the heavens are splashed with more stars than are visible from the city. I take a deep breath and relax.
She walks around the car and faces me. "From now on," she says, "you have to obey me without question. Until I say differently, the only words I want to hear from you are yes, mistress or no, mistress. Failure to do so will result in discipline. Do you understand?"
Dex scowls at me.
Christ, am I ever stupid. "Yes, mistress."
"Do you have any questions for me before we begin?"
She pulls on the lead and brings my face to hers. She kisses me. "Good. Bring the bags in, will you?"
Dex sits me on the edge of the bed and I watch as she undresses. She does it slowly, teasingly. I stare raptly as she emerges from her clothing.
She places her hands on her hips. I take her in. I swell with pride and other things. She's mine—as much as a dom can be. "Do you like what you see?"
"Do you want to fuck me?"
I thrill at the prospect. "Yes."
"More than anything?"
The questions are driving me nuts. I am filled with memories of when she has offered me her mouth, her pussy, her ass. I remember the pain and pleasure she has subjected me to. There's the promise of all this and more. Whatever it is that she has planned, it promises to be more intense than anything I've experienced with anyone else. I realize that I'm spoiled now for anyone but her. There can be no one else and I'm okay with that. "Yes, mistress."
Dex's fingers brush the piercing that adorns her clitoral hood.
"Then make me want you more than I already do. Now be a good sub and run the shower."
Standing is painful. I'm already engorged and my cock fills the confines of my chastity device.
The shower is one of those modern affairs with jets spraying all over the place. There's room enough for two in it. Steam fills the bathroom when she enters through the mist. She places a hand on my shoulder and she enters the shower enclosure. I watch as she immerses herself under the jets, head tipped back. Rivulets of water channel between and around her breasts and then down her torso. I am transfixed.
"Coming?" she asks.
I strip and enter the enclosure. Dex stands with her back to me. I step close and wrap my arms around her, one hand snaking up her torso to her breasts and the other finding the cleft between her legs. I hope that the chastity device is as uncomfortable against her ass as it is around my cock and balls. I lather my hands and wash her, paying special attention to her breasts before gliding down her abdomen, wishing the whole time that I could take her now, bend her over and bury myself within her and relieve the pressure that has been building in me since we left the city.
I kneel down and wash her feet and legs, which have spread to accommodate me. I work my way up to the apex of her legs and run soapy fingers through the neat strip of hair that crowns her pussy, the pierced folds of her labia, and then up and around between the full halves of her ass.
She turns under the hot cascade of water and raises a foot onto one of the shelves on the side of the enclosure. The invitation is clear and I touch my tongue to glistening folds of her sex.
She has washed away the sharp edges of her makeup and emerges from the shower looking younger and more innocent than when she entered. She looks almost wholesome, like someone you might imagine as an alto in a church choir, hands clenched at her bosom as the calming energy of spiritual benevolence infuses her. She'd be one of the pretty ones, the source of impure thoughts among some of the male parishioners. She'd be unaware of the roiling sexual tension that she unleashes, particularly when she opens her mouth wide because that's how the choirmaster taught her to sing.
"You've exhausted me," says Dex.
I'm daydreaming. I look over and see that she's wearing a silk baby doll. It's red and the fabric shimmers over her curves.
I can sense where this is going and my heart sinks. "That's too bad," I say.
Dex nods earnestly. "I've had two," she says. "Multiples. You have a knack. You know me too well now. Another one like the last one and I might get a hernia or something."
"That would be tragic."
"So I'm afraid you'll have to wait. Can you do that?"
"Do I have a choice?"
Sleep doesn't come easily. For one, I'm tied to the bed. My restraints are loose and the ropes that attach my wrists to the headboard have some slack, but not enough for me to assume anything resembling a comfortable position. And then there's Dex, curled up beside me. I can feel the warmth emanating from her. The scent of the soap that I used to wash her wafts over me. I'm acutely aware of the pleasure that rests a few inches away. That fact alone causes me to swell uncomfortably in my cage again.
Her breathing tells me that she is asleep. No wonder. I've exhausted her. Her indifference to my need, particularly after having attended to hers, fills me with profound disappointment. Nothing is so enticing as that which is denied, she once said. I'm immensely frustrated and the first cold tendrils of anger steal over me. I take a deep breath and try to relax. I wonder if she's simply being cruel or is exercising her control over me to make a point. More likely the latter, I concede. I remind myself that I have voluntarily subjected myself to her will and have placed my pleasure in her hands. There's no advantage to anger. If this is a test, then it is something I have to pass. I will have my reward when it pleases her. I just have to be strong. I suppress my frustration and think instead on the pleasures that she has given me. In that, at least, is some measure of reward. I've known her profoundly. It's a pale substitute for the immediacy of physical pleasure, but for tonight it will have to be enough.
I wake to sunlight streaming into the bedroom. My shoulders ache from having slept with my arms bound over my head. I look over and see that Dex's side of the bed has been abandoned. I can hear her in the kitchen.
Our first night is behind us. I don't doubt that Dex has the day planned. There will be new challenges and possibly new frustrations. The dark thoughts that assailed me last night have receded and I look forward to whatever Dex chooses to throw at me.
Dex returns to the bedroom and leans against the door jamb. She's holding a bowl of grapes. She pops one in her mouth and I hear it crunch between her teeth. I can see that she's wearing a corset and her breasts swell out of the top. The horn of plenty. Overflowing. There are worse sights to wake up to.
"Did you have a good sleep?" asks Dex.
I shake my head.
Dex looks genuinely contrite. "I'll make it up to you. Promise."
I shrug as much as I can.
"Hungry?" she asks.
I hadn't thought of it until now. "Yes, mistress."
She approaches the bed and places a grape between her even, white teeth. She lowers it to my mouth. I bite it and take half. Dex takes the other.
"Is it good?"
We do several grapes in this way. I take sustenance from her kiss.
She places a grape in the generous cleft between her breasts and straddles me on the bed. She bends over my face, burying it in her feminine softness. There's a hint of perfume. I've always wanted to be fed grapes in bed by a beautiful woman. I hadn't considered the various methods of delivery. As I burrow my face into Dex's breasts, I have to admit that my fantasies have been pale and feeble in comparison to those of my mistress. My tongue finds the grape and plucks it out and into my mouth.
"Very good," says Dex.
We repeat the process a half dozen times. By the end of it, my face and Dex's breasts are slick with my saliva and sticky with the juice of the grapes.
"Do you want more?"
"Yes, mistress," I say.
Dex picks another grape from the bowl and raises her leg. I watch as the grape is pushed within the delicate folds of her pussy. Dex then moves forward until she is positioned directly above me.
I extend my tongue into that most delicate of flesh. Dex's taste floods me. I take my time, exploring her from her perineum, her labia and clitoris before finally extending my tongue within her to touch the smooth surface of the grape. Extracting it is difficult, buried as it is. I feel her muscles working against my tongue, clenching and unclenching. The grape finally drops out of her and into my mouth.
Maybe if I please her, maybe if I'm gentle and attentive and take my time extracting grapes from her, then she might favor me with more.