H is for...: BDSM Checklist

by L. DuBois

  Her body clenched down around him, and she groaned in pleasure. He withdrew his finger and tugged on her nipples again.

  She made a quiet noise of distress, then seemed to brace herself and started forward again.

  Liam bent, pressed his shoulder to her hips and scooped her up. She gasped, then relaxed. She’d been willing to obey, to keep going despite how difficult it was. If he wanted to paint himself as the gallant, he could say that he’d decided to carry her to their borrowed playroom because he didn’t want to make her hobble anymore. If he wanted to pretend he was hard and unfeeling, he would say it was because he was impatient to abuse and fuck her in new and interesting ways.

  The truth was somewhere in between.

  With his hooded and hobbled submissive over his shoulder, Liam walked out of the dining room.

  Nine

  The world spun dizzyingly, which hardly seemed fair. With her eyes covered by the hood she should have been less dizzy, yet with each step the Dom took, her world seemed to tilt wildly.

  Maybe there was more to it than that. Maybe the near vertigo was due more to an internal lack of balance than the physical sensations.

  Her shoulders were hot and aching from her arms being pulled back, and her fingers were starting to tingle. The balls of her feet had gone almost numb from bearing her full weight, but now that she was off her feet they were throbbing.

  Her clamped nipples smacked against his hard back and bolts of sweet pain shot throught her. She wondered if anyone had studied the anatomy of arousal—was there a nerve that directly connected nipples to clit?

  Another hard step and her chest smacked against him again. Her pussy spasmed with pleasure. There had to be some sort of connection. Or maybe it was just her perversion that linked pain to pleasure, causing her pussy to clench and throb.

  Her neck and cheeks were sweaty, her hair plastered against her skull and sticking to her where the hood flattened it. The thick, stretchy material muffled sound, but didn’t actually stop her from hearing. Sounds floated to her only to disappear as they kept moving—the crack of a crop, the almost inaudible sound of conversation. She felt his footsteps in the rhythmic shifting of his shoulder under her rather than hearing them.

  He had one arm wrapped around her calves. He was wearing long sleeves—she could feel the fabric, instead of skin.

  The cool night air felt good against her hot and aching body. They passed through warm air—probably the heat lamps that allowed members of the club to play outdoors, naked, all night long.

  They stopped, then a different sort of cool air passed over her. The quality of the sound changed and, combined with the feeling of the air, she was sure they’d gone indoors.

  The faint thunk of a heavy door closing confirmed that.

  She was lowered to a standing position and the balls of her feet screamed as she was forced to put her weight on them. Maybe if she’d been one of those women who wore heels regularly she would have been able to stand in these absolutely ridiculous shoes without her feet and calves burning, but she was a video game geek for god’s sake. She wore tennis shoes most of the time, and when she did wear heels—she liked getting dressed up and going out, though she hadn’t done it much in the past five years—she made sure they had those gel pads in them.

  Her calves tightened and, for a horrible moment, she thought she’d get a cramp, but it passed, and she centered herself enough to straighten and stop leaning against his hands.

  She felt rather than heard him circle around behind her, and then the strap at her elbows came undone. The relief was immediate and sweet. Then the straps on her forearms and finally her wrists were released.

  She let her arms fall, swaying slightly. Flexing her fingers, she waited until she was balanced before crossing her arms and massaging each shoulder with the opposite hand. As she did, her arms bumped the nipple clamps and she sucked in air.

  The Dom grabbed her wrists—firmly, but not, she thought, angrily. She froze, then relaxed her muscles so he could push her arms down to her sides. Then his hands settled on her shoulders and began massaging. She licked her lips and sighed in pleasure. It wasn’t a particularly skilled massage. When he dug the tips of his fingers into her muscles she whimpered. He lightened his touch and started working his way down her arms, kneading all the way down to her hands.

  He laid his palms over the backs of her hands and laced his fingers between hers. Hands linked, he guided her arms until he pressed her palms over her clamped nipples. She cupped and held her breasts, her captive nipples throbbing.

  The straps on her legs were removed. She wanted to step wide, to give herself a wider base to balance on, but she forced herself to stay still.

  She wasn’t precisely comfortable—she’d been put in a stress position, and that meant she wasn’t focused on pleasure. If he’d started stroking her clit right now she would enjoy it, but she wasn’t on edge the way she would have been if all this attention had been more purely sexual in nature.

  But she was aroused.

  Maybe that wasn’t the right word for it, but it was the only word she had for it. She wasn’t on the edge of pleasure, yet she was acutely aware of her nakedness, of her own sexuality. She didn’t make a move to ease her physical discomfort, because he’d made it clear, without words, that if she were going to have relief he would provide it. She’d tried to ease the ache in her shoulders and he’d stopped her. Therefore, she would be obedient even if that meant being uncomfortable.

  Instead of frustrating her, or taking her out of the scene, she slid deeper under his control.

  Sub space.

  This was sub space.

  She gasped at that realization. Before she could more fully explore that thought, he was there, hands sliding down the outside of her legs. The straps around her ankles fell away and he lifted her right foot out of the torturous shoe.

  She teetered, reaching out to brace herself on him. Her hand slid along his hair, brushed his bearded cheek, then settled on his shoulder.

  He did have a beard. She’d been right about that.

  Her stomach knotted.

  Her other foot was lifted out of its shoe and she was finally flat-footed on the cool stone or cement of whatever room they were in. She put her weight on her heels, and took a few steadying breaths.

  He pulled her remaining hand away from her chest. His fingers brushed her breasts as he did something to the clamps. She thought maybe they got a tad bit looser.

  Then there was a sharp yank. Pain flared in her nipples—bright and hot. The pain hit before the understanding of what had just happened. He’d yanked the clamps off.

  She hunched her shoulders, arms coming up to cup and protect her abused nipples. He touched the inside of her wrists, shoving them down and away.

  He wouldn’t let her lessen the pain. He wanted her like this, breath just this side of ragged, unseen tears wicked away by the hood.

  He was in control. If she hurt, it wasn’t because he hadn’t thought it through, or hadn’t realized. Any pauses in the scene weren’t because he either hadn’t planned it out, or had overplayed it.

  This wasn’t like her scenes with Liam, whom she’d always had to guide and encourage.

  And yet…

  Hands cupped and lifted her breasts, thumbs rubbing and pressing her nipples. The pain from the clamps mutated to a warm pleasure. She arched her back, offering him her breasts. But that wasn’t enough. She wanted to give him more. Wanted him to know that she was his to hurt and pleasure and fuck and play with.

  Sub space. She was in sub space.

  She raised her arms and laced her fingers together behind her neck, pressing her elbows back and opening her chest.

  She was rewarded for her obedience when his mouth closed around her nipple, lips and tongue gentle as he sucked and licked. Her other nipple received the same treatment and when he drew back, the air on the wet peaks cooled them.

  Hands stroked her stomach and hips, then patted her pussy, not quite ha
rd enough to be called a spank. She spread her legs, offering herself to him. He swiped a single finger through her pussy, then that same finger was against her lips. She could smell the musk of her arousal and, when she parted her lips, she tasted herself. He kept his finger in her mouth long after she’d licked him clean.

  Then he did something unexpected, curling his finger so the tip of his finger was against her cheek, almost like a fish hook. Then he tugged.

  She took a step forward.

  This is what she was, what she’d become, this obedient creature being led around by a finger in her mouth.

  And she reveled in it.

  They’d taken no more than five steps when he stopped, sliding his finger out of her mouth and painted her chest and shoulders with her own saliva. Then he turned her and backed her up against something that hit her mid-ass.

  He once more gave her orders without words, his hands on her hips urging her up. She wiggled her ass up onto the flat stool, keeping her arms behind her head.

  It wasn’t a stool. It was a table. That much became clear when he helped her to lie back, and then lifted and swung her legs into place. When he was done, she lay flat on what felt like wood, her arms lifted and bent at the elbow. Her hands were curled around what felt like metal bars that stuck up perpendicularly out of the table just above each shoulder. Her knees were bent, heels nearly touching her ass. Heavy, cool cuffs came around her ankles, and she heard the clatter of chain on wood. They must have been connected to the table under her in some way, though she obediently stayed where she was and didn’t try to test the slack. Her hands, in contrast, were bound to the supports with more Velcro straps thatwrapped around her wrists, then twisted and overlapped to cover her fingers, forcing her to hold the bars.

  She wished the hood was off, wished she could see him, and herself. What did she look like, with her knees wide, pussy visible and vulnerable? Were her nipples red from having the clamps yanked off?

  He moved away from her and the sound of her own breathing was loud enough that she couldn’t make out more than the occasional sound. She tried to relax, and had almost managed it when she clearly heard the door open and close.

  He’d left her.

  No. Anything but that.

  Rosa clenched her teeth. How many times had Liam walked away in the middle of a scene to get something he’d forgotten, or gone to fetch something he thought she’d want, not realizing that walking away killed it for her? Her jaw muscle started to ache and she shoved her tongue against the roof of her mouth, trying to force herself to relax.

  This was different. It wouldn’t be like that.

  This Dom wouldn’t come back twenty minutes later holding three bottles and asking which one could be used with an anal plug, because he’d decided halfway through the scene that maybe she’d like some anal, and he hadn’t bothered to check to see if they had lube, so instead had raided her stash of lotion.

  This Dom wouldn’t stop halfway through spanking her to ask if she was okay, or panic about the marks he’d left on her. He wouldn’t stop when she yelped in pain.

  This Dom wouldn’t walk away and leave her because of the darkness of her desires. He wouldn’t think she was disgusting or perverse.

  Yes, he will. Nothing has changed.

  She clenched her teeth again, nearly biting the tip of her tongue. She was about to dissolve into full fledged panic when she heard the door open once more.

  She lifted her head, turning towards the sound. “Please,” she said. “Please…Sir.”

  Then his hands were on her, at first soothing, then rough. He grabbed her knees and forced them open, slapping the insides of her thighs a few times. He slapped her breasts, making them bounce. Then he grasped her firmly by the neck, thumb and finger digging into the spots behind the corners of her jawbones. He tipped her head back, until she would have been looking at the far wall if not for the hood. As he held her head there with one hand, he plucked her nipples roughly with the other.

  The anxiety, fueled by memories of unsuccessful past scenes, fled. She relaxed, letting her legs fall open even further, breathing deeply, even though with each inhale her aching nipples rose closer to his cruel fingers.

  He released her, and she kept her head tilted back, her neck stretched. He rubbed her lower lip with his thumb and she tentatively relaxed.

  His hands stroked and kneaded her, tender and demanding. When he came close to her pussy she arched up, lifting her ass and trying to entice him to touch her throbbing sex. He never did, though occasionally he swatted her, and that was enough sensation to make it worth it.

  Then his hands were gone, but not for long.

  The next thing she felt was one finger very precisely touching her left knee. Up until now she’d mostly understood his non-verbals, but this one she couldn’t interpret.

  “Sir?”

  He tapped her knee again.

  Then burning heat hit the spot he’d touched. She screamed in surprised pain. Chain rattled as she tried to jerk her leg away from the heat, which didn’t dissipate.

  “What, what is that?” she gasped.

  His response was to apply the same heat to her other knee. She screamed and twisted, turning her body as much as she could. Now the splotches of heat started to flare everywhere—along the side of her thigh, her waist. When she twisted the other way, more pain flared on that leg and hip.

  “Stop, stop, it hurts!”

  There was a pause, a long pause. Then another burning spot on her right knee.

  She whimpered, her breathing reduced to uneven gasps.

  His fingers danced over the spot where he’d first burned her, peeling away the now only warm-heat.

  Wait.

  She went still and took a deep breath, this time through her nose.

  Wax. She smelled candle wax. He wasn’t burning her, he was dripping wax onto her skin.

  “Wax?”

  The reply was a finger tapping the soft skin on the inside of her thigh. She sucked in air and held still. Another tap.

  Rosa blew out a breath and shifted her hips, so she was turned to one side, and lay the thigh he’d tapped on the table, leaving her inner leg flat and vulnerable.

  This time she smelled the wax a moment before the heat registered. Now that she knew what it was, and wasn’t so afraid, she accepted the brief pain and sweet heat as just another sensation. It was far less painful than having the nipple clamps pulled off had been.

  The wax fell, sometimes in a stream that splashed and spread, sometimes as a single drop. The single drops seemed to hurt more, and each one made her jump.

  He touched her other thigh and she adjusted her position, willingly making it easier for him to abuse her.

  Sub space.

  This time the wax kept moving north, towards her bare and naked pussy. The calm she’d lulled herself into fractured and cracked like a too-hot glass pan placed in a freezer.

  “Please no,” she begged. “Please, it will hurt.”

  He grabbed her knees, some of the wax cracking free of her skin as he did, and jerked her into position so she was flat on her back once more. He shoved her legs open, wide enough that her labia parted, exposing her inner flesh to the cool air and possibly the hot wax.

  “Please, Sir. No, no. It will hurt.”

  He slowly and firmly tapped her vulva.

  “No,” she begged. “No, it will hurt. Don’t put wax on my pussy.”

  There was no response, and she braced herself for the heat and pain.

  Braced herself, and held her breath in delicious anticipation.

  Oh, she was begging him not to do it, but that was all part of the pleasure. She’d beg him not to, and he’d do it anyway, because he was the Dom.

  Her Dom. Her Master.

  She forced her thoughts away and back to the anticipation of hot wax dripping on her pussy.

  He tapped her pussy again. What was he waiting for?

  “Don’t hurt me, Sir. I’ll be good. I’ll be your good slut.”
Slut? She hated that word, but it felt right. “Don’t drip the hot wax on my poor pussy. Don’t, please.” She accompanied the words by lifting her ass off the table, lifting her pussy to him in offering even as she begged him not to. Her words were in direct opposition to her body language.

  Hot wax poured over her mound, gravity causing it to slide towards her belly button which was lower than her pussy, at least until the shock of the pain made her ass thump down onto the table. He poured more wax, adding to what was already coating her, but this time gravity had it sliding down, between the parted lips of her sex. Hot wax hit her clit and she screamed, arching off the table once more.

  He made a noise, something between a growl and a groan. He put the heel of his hand on her wax-covered mound and forced her ass down onto the table. Then he spread her open with his fingers. She could feel the edges of his nails on the inside of her labia, and cold air against some part of her clit. The part not covered in wax.

  “No, no, Master, please,” she stammered.

  Nothing happened. Another pause. Another chance for her to use her safe word. She thought very seriously about doing exactly that. How much would it hurt to have hot wax dripped directly onto her clit?

  She licked her lips. They were the only cool part of her head—the hood was making her sweat, her hair felt damp and itchy where it was plastered to her head and neck.

  She wasn’t sure how long the moment stretched, or in that moment how many times she changed her mind. How many times she swallowed her safe word.

  This had been so different than any scene she’d ever had before. She’d found sub space, real sub space for the first time. She wasn’t ready to give up, even if it meant pain—real, untempered pain. She wanted to live in his fantasy a little longer.

  “Please, Master. My master. Liam.”

  The instant the last word left her lips, wax poured into her pussy. She screamed in sweet agony as liquid heat coated her clit, and glided down her inner labia. She was ridiculously wet, and that provided some insulation, but still it burned, and tears sprang to her eyes.

  And then…

  And then she came. It was the strangest thing, she was shuddering from pain at having the wax coat her clit, but when the first flush of pain was over she kept shuddering. The warmth and pressure of the wax on her clit drove her toward an orgasm she hadn’t expected and hadn’t felt coming.