Dom/sub

by B. D. Dark

  “What are you getting at?” I was annoyed. “I don’t do anything Kim doesn’t want me to do. We have a safe word, and we agree to the limits of a scene before we get into it.” I didn’t add that the limits for us seemed to be no limits at all.

  “Yeah, but sometimes the lines can get blurry, especially with a pain slut like Kim encouraging you to do whatever you want and make it hurt more. It’s up to you to control yourself and not allow your slave any serious harm. To keep things from going too far.”

  “Thanks for the advice,” I snapped.

  We left the party shortly after and didn’t see our friends again for a long while.

  * * * * *

  Kim and I still enjoyed a few outdoor activities, but as weeks passed everything outside of our sex life seemed faded and dull. Only when we crossed the threshold into our home did life brighten to Technicolor. We spent more and more time downstairs in our dungeon.

  I subjected her body to everything I’d seen or read about and whatever my imagination could devise. She especially enjoyed it when I kept her hooded, her hearing cut off by earplugs. Devoid of sight or sound, she said it magnified the effect of each stimulus on her body, from the light tickle of feathers to the searing heat of flame.

  I pierced the tender skin of her breasts with needles, burnt it with candles, electrified it with minor shocks, pinched, pressed and clamped her nipples until they were purple. When I decided her tits needed a reprieve, I gave special attention to flogging her back and buttocks raw or tying her into awkward positions that strained her muscles. Leaving her bound and helpless for increasing lengths of time was a huge turn-on for us both.

  She said she could enter an altered state of being almost at will now, as she spent long stretches of time bound and hooded. “It’s meditative, suspended beyond time and space with nothing to do but focus inward.” She smiled at me. “You don’t know what you’re missing by being in constant movement all the time. Sometime you should have me tie you up.”

  Outside the house, I sent her to work with a butt plug, a chastity belt, or clamps and weights on her pussy torturing her all day long as she went about her work. She took periodic breaks from the devices by removing them in the women’s restroom to prevent damage from loss of blood flow. But there wasn’t a day she went out of the house without some device attached to her genitals or tits. I’d bought special nipple clamps that elongated her nipples then held them tight. She wore them almost every day now. I wanted to know if her nipples would maintain the extra length from being stretched in the little devices. They were my personal bonsai project. A cardigan sweater over her blouse hid the very pointed evidence of the experiment.

  The idea of Kim obediently wearing whatever I’d chosen for her stimulation each day percolated in the back of my mind as I went through the motions of interacting with people in my office. It was amazing I kept up any productivity at all, but I was able to carry on my work while constantly thinking about her.

  Kim began to miss days of work when I occasionally kept her tied for hours at a time. She’d call in sick, so she could stay bound to the cross or in intricate positions that pulled her arms up behind her back and stretched her legs wide, leaving her pussy exposed and yawning. The knowledge of her discomfort and helplessness thrilled me as I maintained my daily routine. I loved to come home and find her patiently waiting, begging for a fuck, juices glistening on her pussy and inner thighs.

  When I finally removed the restraints, she always thanked me and asked what she could do for me. She offered to cook me dinner before even requesting a drink of water. How could I resist such humble adoration?

  * * * * *

  Our relationship grew darker and deeper, until I didn’t know where my needs left off and hers began. Whenever we discussed it in our saner moments, Kim always swore she thrived on the pleasure/pain, as she called it. I convinced myself I’d be denying her what she craved if I backed off even a little.

  And so I finally reached the night where I stood, knife in hand, at the foot of Kim’s cross, prepared to slice into her tit and wondering how I’d reached this level of sadism. I gazed at the twin bloody tracks on her pale skin from breasts to groin and at the glint of the knife blade poised at her areole.

  Our sex games had begun with an innocent sense of fun and experimentation, but now had taken on a deadly significance and no longer seemed light or playful. Would I actually cut her? Would she let me do it? I yearned to find out, to take the next step.

  But there would always be another step beyond it. Where did I draw the line?

  Kim’s face was pale and thin, her eyes lit by an almost feverish light. When was the last time I’d heard her laugh, that carefree, deep chuckle that had drawn me to her? She moaned, gasped, howled, begged, sobbed, then sighed in satisfaction at the end of one of our sessions, but she rarely giggled anymore.

  Her body was striped with fading red marks and bruised purple in many places. The maxim, First, do no harm, came to mind, and I realized I’d crossed a line. I’d ignored inner promptings to back off on the tortures and allowed myself to go as far as Kim permitted me ‑‑which was way too far.

  Who was controlling whom? She was the submissive, subject to my control. I was the one who was supposed to be responsible for us both.

  I released her distended nipple from between my thumb and forefinger and her breast flopped down, pulled by gravity. Stepping away from the cross, I set the knife on the nearby table, covered with various punishing implements.

  “Kim, that’s enough. No knife play.” I climbed up on the small stool beside the cross and removed her gag. “Whips and paddles and clamps, sure. Maybe a light whipping now and then, but cutting is a step too far.”

  “Whatever you say.” Her lips curved in a smile. “You know me. I’m up for anything, anytime, anywhere.”

  “Then I guess I need to tell you when you’ve had enough.” I unfastened the restraints on her hands and feet and helped her down from the cross. “Enough playing for tonight. Let’s make popcorn and watch a movie, and afterward we’ll go to bed, kiss and cuddle and have plain old missionary-style, vanilla sex for a change. No tying, pinching, gouging, slapping, twisting, poking, clamping, cutting, or props of any kind. That should be wild.”

  She rubbed her wrists and laughed. “Sounds crazy. You’re so inventive. I never would’ve thought of that.” She wrapped her arms around my neck and leaned up on her toes to kiss me. “Whatever you want. You know I’m at your disposal.”

  I returned her kiss, and then held her close, burying my face in her sweet-smelling hair, breathing her in deeply. I loved Kim’s complexity, both the bright and dark aspects of her personality. I loved everything about her. She was mine to protect and care for, a responsibility I wouldn’t take lightly again. The mantle of being a Dom settled firmly on my shoulders, and I accepted the gravity it entailed.

  “The vessel receives whatever is poured in it. It doesn’t complain that the contents are too hot or too cold, but accepts what is given without question. The vessel then holds the liquid until the provider chooses to empty it again. It is up to the provider to judge when the vessel is full and to stop before it overflows, spilling and wasting the precious essence of life.”

  ~ * ~

  B. D. Dark

  Sometimes a girl just wants to get really, really naughty.

  Under my pen name of Bonnie Dee I write some really hot erotic romances with a strong emphasis on passion and intimacy. The heat level in Bonnie Dee books ranges from sweet to extremely steamy, but occasionally I wanted to go a step farther. So as not to surprise my regular readers I decided it would be best to put all BDSM titles under a new name.

  B.D. Dark pushes past barriers. Nothing is sacred or too taboo to explore. Join my alter-ego on a journey into the darker side of sexuality. To contact B.D. Dark/Bonnie Dee, email me at bondav40@yahoo.com

  * * * * *

  SUBMISSIVE

  Roxy Harte

  Chapter One

  Alone. I
was fine in my misery, but then I woke up the other day and realized that I’m out of time… m not as young and cute as I was when I was eighteen. My God…what have I been doing with my time ‑‑ other than not finding a man?

  How did it come to this? I’m an attractive girl; at least I think I’m reasonably attractive. My nose isn’t too big, I’m not fat, even though my boobs might be considered on the too big side, and maybe I'm a little short, but cute. I definitely used to be called cute back in the day…not that I’m old. Twenty-nine is not old, damn it! I still have time to find someone before I’m too old to enjoy sex! Right? God, I hope so.

  I really don’t want to spend the rest of my life alone, and I’m not complaining, because I did have ten wonderful years with Master. Damn you for leaving me, Master! Damn you for DYING on me!

  Paused at a red light, I lose myself in the rhythm of my windshield wipers. Rain that is not quite rain…a mist, then, except that every now and then a big wet splat that is almost frozen into a snowflake, but not quite. I close my eyes, willing myself to not cry. I’ve cried enough already. Two years, three months, and eighteen days of crying is definitely enough. No one had to tell me how badly it was going to hurt to lose him when we were told that he was dying. Been there, done that, losing my mother taught me all I ever wanted to know about dying. How does one really survive the gaping, aching hole left in your chest where your heart used to be? And now, empty ache times two. How am I supposed to live? That was why I lived each moment I had with him to the fullest, even after his illness was too unbearable to watch. I knew I would have to live on without him and if it were solely my mind, I could live the rest of my life alone, but it isn’t just my mind…it is my flesh that has turned traitor, leaving me thinking about nothing else. So, tonight, I will not ruin my mascara. Tonight, I will get laid.

  It was my New Year’s resolution, after all, that I get laid at least once this year, and I’m running out of time. Only nineteen dick shopping days until the New Year and by God, I will get laid!

  I will!

  Tonight!

  A honking horn wakes me from my thoughts and propels me forward. Jet black bangs fall into my face, covering both eyes, and with a wild swipe of my hand, I push them back for what seems like the hundredth time, sighing with frustration when they immediately fall forward again…the growing out stage ‑‑ yuck. My mother would tell me it serves me right for shaving my head in the first place. If she were still alive, I would tell her that she's absolutely, positively right, especially after having survived the weeks I looked like a fresh army recruit, and worse, the eighties punk rocker stage; but I’m through the worst of it now.

  Glancing in my rearview mirror confirms, not a punk rocker, more likely at this stage an anorexic Goth…at best ‑‑ maybe.

  “God, I need some sun,” I mutter to myself, pushing the mirror back into its functioning position, trying to escape the paleness and dark-smudged eyes, adding as an afterthought, “And sleep. I look like a damn vampire wanna be.”

  Inhaling deeply, I focus on the whoosh of the windshield wipers, swishing back and forth, and tighten my grip on the steering wheel…with both hands…to keep myself from purposely ramming into the nearest thick trunk tree. It would be so easy just to end it. The temptation’s there and I’ve thought it through more than once. Hit a hundred, fly off the road, hit a tree, or a telephone pole, or a concrete barrier, and just die ‑‑ but not tonight.

  Slide. Rain turning to ice on the roads is not good.

  “Damn it! I did not sign on for icy roads! I am not going to die until after I have sex, and not just mediocre sex ‑‑ I will have mind-blowing, multiorgasmic sex, damn it!”

  Trudging across town to another BDSM Single's Support Group meeting, I question my sanity; but knowing this is the last official meeting before the holiday increases my need to be there. Where else do I have a chance of meeting someone who will indulge in a little playtime with me? Realistically, if anyone does show up despite this storm, it will only prove that they are masochistic, and I do not need a Dom with masochistic tendencies…but I have to remember, I am not looking for a Dom, I am not looking for a relationship, I am looking for sex…even if it’s the old-fashioned vanilla variety.

  I know that if I could ever move beyond Master’s death, I couldn’t go back to the vanilla world even though I’ve mastered myself. I’m not as needy as I was…just after his death. I’ve relearned to do all that I hadn’t had to do, although there are times it is a struggle. I can do my own banking, shop for groceries, and pick out videos for lonely Friday nights; however, picking out an outfit to wear across town still takes hours. Deciding on coffee or tea for breakfast is such a chore that most often I opt for no breakfast at all. Lunch is worse; healthy salad at home or quick veggie burger through the drive-through. Easier to just skip it and wait for dinner. Dinner is easy, falling into two choices: Ramen noodles or plain rice, light garlic smothered in cheddar ‑‑ Jasper's favorites, now my comfort food. Who would have thought that being a sex slave would affect one's life most in the trivial, mundane details? Not I.

  I would have laughed at anyone suggesting such a thing while Master still lived. I was so independent ‑‑ young, carefree, successful. It was my CHOICE to belong to Master Jasper. As a slave, I was the one with the POWER in the relationship. Or, so I preached every time he was called upon to perform a lecture and I would inevitably conduct a discussion for the submissives’ group.

  Perhaps because I am now alone is why I have become so powerless, so unable to make the simplest choices. Yet tonight's choice to attend the local BDSM chapter's meeting was so simple and yes, because I am desperate.

  Desperate to be BOUND...

  Desperate to be spanked…flogged…CANED!

  FUCKED.

  God, I need to fuck; I can't even manage an orgasmic self-grope on a good day. Masturbation sucks. I want skin on skin…heat…sweat…THE EXCHANGING OF GODDAMN BODY FLUIDS!

  Oh, yeah, I need to taste another's saliva mingled with mine, feel the sting from the salt of someone else's sweat dripping into my eyes, and I long for the sweetness of their jism shooting over my tongue.

  I’m tired of being alone despite how much it hurts thinking of being with another. “Damn you, Master Jasper! Damn you for dying on me!”

  Odds of having sex tonight decline by the minute. Already running late for the meeting because I took too long deciding on what to wear; then, rushed, I left no time for food…not that I was hungry; nervous, yes, but after an hour in the bathroom, shitting my brains out because of nerves.

  Trying to remember my last actual sit-down meal takes more energy than I want to expend, but it suddenly seems very important that I remember and decide it was a fruit and granola breakfast bar and OJ at the gym four days ago and then only because they were offering free samples to introduce their new café, and I sat on a stool next to a really buff guy, all pumped up and pulsing with pheromones, because the goal is, after all, to get laid, but then his boyfriend showed up and ruined any chance I had because they headed off to the men’s room. I almost followed them, hoping that at least one of them would be bi and up to a pity fuck. Almost. Because I am almost that frantic but not hopeless enough to face their rejection, and I’m sorry, but I just couldn’t compete with muscle-bound blond behind stall door number one.

  I still have a little self-respect, and doing it in the health club men’s room would definitely ruin my self-respect…unless Master Jasper had asked me to do it for him ‑‑ then I wouldn’t have been able to get into the men’s room fast enough. I would have done anything for that man. Anything.

  Funny, though, even after ten years as Master Jasper’s slave, I still feel like a nice girl, and nice girls don’t pick up random men and have sex with them in men’s rooms. Nice girls go out on dates and after sufficient “get to know you time,” then and only then, progress from kissing to foreplay to real, “lay down in bed” sex. Okay, I don’t have time to do it the nice girl way…not tonight. A
date is for another night.

  Do I even remember dating?

  Oh yeah, dating…sweet guys, missionary position, sixty-nine if I got a really live one –thanks, but no thanks; just tie me up and make me feel like we did something worth getting naked for. My thighs grow damper as I drive on, praying tonight I will meet someone.

  Dreaming, I would love to find someone worthy of my servitude.

  Despairing, I sometimes ask myself if I would settle for the first guy willing to go back to my place for sex because honestly, after four months of bi-weekly meetings my hopes of finding a Dom aren’t so high. At first I smiled and made polite chit-chat. I just haven’t been able to progress past the chit-chat, not even getting to the exchanging phone numbers part. Mostly I sit alone, watching with bored acceptance as scenes are staged and players are mockingly matched up to take the stage and I am not chosen to come forward. As a submissive, I wait, although honestly, I’d expect no chemistry to develop even if called onto stage. Over the last year, not a single Dom has raised my eyebrow, let alone my blood pressure. Am I being too particular? There has to be a Dom worthy somewhere, because I cannot go back to vanilla, no matter what, and Master taught me to respect myself enough to settle for no less than what I deserve…and with my training and skills, not to be arrogant, but ‑‑ I deserve the best, and sex for the sake of sex just isn’t worth it. I don’t think I would remember how to be vanilla if I had to.

  De-da, de-da… De-da, de-da.