Bernard’s house breathes class. Decorated in cream and tan that contrast with dark woodwork, there are expensive paintings everywhere you turn, and I find just moving from one room to the next besieges my eyes with such beauty I’m tempted more than once to stop and stare. For just an instant, my desiring body seems less important than what my eyes can see. I breathe in this atmosphere knowing that it is supremely Bernard—all of him seems to appear on the walls: the dignity, the charm and elegance, his delicate affections and his severe side. From the forbidding black and white photographs of bound women, to the tender pastel landscapes and the vividly colored abstracts that ricochet off the eye.
In contrast, the chamber is a straightforward punishment room—unadorned to the extreme. The walls are of white tile, trimmed with the same dark crown molding that appears throughout the house. On the floor, covering the oak hardwood is a simple jute mat. It’s a terror to the knees of a submissive in a lowly repose—I remember that from personal experience. Makes me cringe even now. The centerpiece of the chamber’s furnishings is a white enamel table that can be used in a variety of ways, quite eloquently as a rack on which to stretch a submissive on their back, or in various positions bent over and tied. It is fully fitted with leather straps and heavy buckles, ringbolts and a variety of extensions that are used for appropriate positioning. There are rings and chains hanging above that can work in tandem with the table to put a victim in the most arduous kind of bondage. Also in the room are an antique pedestal sink and a metal pillory in one corner consisting of a hefty metal post with a cross bar at shoulder height, and a second bar to hold the wrists and neck of a slave in place. I haven’t had the pleasure of being so posed, and look fondly at the table rather hoping that some punishment associated with that is what Bernard has in mind. There’s a long cabinet in one corner—its contents unknown to me, and one wall is filled with every kind of punishment device one could imagine: canes, paddles, straps, clamps, ropes, chains, bridles and various pieces of leather. It would take some time to decipher how all of these things are used. Just a glance at them and my body turns a degree higher in anticipation and impatience—though I give Makaila no hint of how stressed this exile from my true reality has made me.
“He wants you naked,” she says.
“Of course.”
I stare at her for some seconds before I act, feeling curiously nervous in a setting that should be easy for me. I realize now that I’m alone in this. There is no Heinrich to whisper orders or command with a booming baritone—or nudge me forward when I balk at some other dom’s command. Was he some comfort when he was with me? I’d have never guessed, but it appears I’m suddenly a little lost without him. And yet, Makaila’s gentle smile is enough to put me at ease and I begin to disrobe. Shoes, skirt, blouse, black bra and panties. Even the garter belt and stockings I so carefully chose for this scene end up in a pile at my feet. I scoop them all into my hands, and looking around for a place to put them, Makaila relieves me of the task and takes them herself.
“I’ll put these in the closet just outside the door.”
Returning, she motions me to stand on a bar at the base of the table, just six inches above the floor. The table hits me at the crook of my thighs, and with a gentle shove from Bernard’s favorite pet, I’m guided to bend over and rest my belly on the table’s cold flat surface. She pushes my legs firmly against the front of the table, and forces me to part them so I’m barely standing on tiptoe. With wide leather straps high on my thighs, she buckles each leg in place, while I lean on my elbows patiently allowing her to put me in bondage. Securing my ankles with metal cuffs and my waist with another wide strap, I am immobile from the waist down, prepared for her to make my upper body similarly fixed.
Makaila moves with ease. I’m sure this is not a new task for her as she’s been with Bernard for some years, knowing well from personal experience the tricks and permutations of torture he employs with the submissives that offer themselves for punishment and pleasure. He masters many, but handpicks his victims. I should be grateful he’s taking me, but all I care about now is diving into the pool of physical misery from which I’ll emerge reborn. It seems like eons, not just a few months since I was last made this small. She takes my hands in her soft ones, and with a gentle but determined tug, pulls me down, my breasts spilling off the table, my shoulders, head and arms stretched downward to the floor. Both hands are tightly cuffed with metal, and chained to a ringbolt at the base of the table. There is a metal collar around my neck, fitting so I feel each breath as it moves through me.
The comfort I feel in such a rude position nurtures me beyond belief. I smile to myself for the satisfaction I gain from being this selfless. Everything else in my life floats away, like the leaves of fall float from the branches downward. I’m moving downward, more content still to feel Makaila’s hands at my ass. They move with a grace I treasure, even as I realize what they intend to do. She creams my anus with a thick cold substance that smells of pungent salve. I feel it sting just slightly as it penetrates my skin. As she presses it inside my ass, the membranes warm, then become more heated until my entire ass seems ablaze from the inside out. I feel my pores expanding, the sensation in each something brilliant. For some, this might sting like the devil; to me it is bliss.
She inserts a slim rod deep into my ass with something icy on the surface. This augments the stimulation, the heat just short of painful. Once the rod’s withdrawn, she begins to work her greased fingers in the hole, first one, then several breach the tight barrier. After the fingers, she begins with larger rods. As each settle inside, she works it until I’m thoroughly accustomed to the penetration. With the last rod withdrawn, the emptiness that remains lasts only a few seconds before she plunges another, larger rod into that darkness. The first several, I manage easily. Though, the anticipation of the next leaves me with a little dread. For all the times I’ve endured such tests, I am still apprehensive. She applies more cold/hot salve and I’m soothed and burned in the same instant. Then with a jarring breach that leaves me gasping, she inserts a thick plug in my anal hole.
“Pump it hard, Makaila,” I hear Bernard’s voice. Believing it was just this lovely woman and me alone, I’m strangely wracked with embarrassment to know that the master has been watching my preparations. I open my eyes to see him standing near the far wall to my side, arms crossed, the classic expression of a determined master written in every feature of his dark face. I am naked, in bondage and impaled slavishly before him.
In response to his order, I realize this is no mere anal dildo inside me, but an expansion plug, attached to a small hose and rubber pump. She squeezes the bulb and the plug inflates. Each time the fullness in me increases, my anus widens and my insides seem to grow, conforming to the shape that molds me to its growing size. I think I can take no more and gasp aloud, “Please, I am full!” I may sound pitiful, and gain Makaila’s sympathy. Though I can’t see her face, I imagine her staring at her observant master waiting for some clue to continue. I gaze toward him myself and see him unmoved.
“She’s faking,” he says as he strides to her side. Without seeing it, I picture how his black hand holds the bulb, how his firm, large fingers squeeze down not once but several times in quick succession.
“Oh, my lord no!”
“Get used to it, Anna!” he snaps at me. Right into my guts. His words cut like daggers or the shot of a rifle, while this plug balloons enormously—at least that is what the pain tells me.
He pumps the bulb again, and what measures my body took to ease into the sensations disappear. This is too much. I’m sure I can’t take more. I moan, hoping he’ll hear my distress. Perhaps he does, since he abruptly drops the bulb and moves away.
This pressure plug has two sides. An inner and an outer. I’ve only held one of these once, and that was for a deep anal cleanse Heinrich administered nearly a year ago. There is a bulb outside my ass nearly as large as the one within. It fits as snugly at the rear door and prevents me from
any attempt to expel this before I’m given permission. It’s like holy hell bearing the sensation, but I know I’ll have no mercy from Bernard. Isn’t this what I asked for?
He’s about to leave the room and me alone when he turns at the door. I can see him again from the corner of my eye. “I’ll let that settle in you a while, and then we’ll get on with things. I hope you made your excuses with Ian for tonight. I doubt you’ll be going home.”
Jolted back to reality, I remember that Ian has no idea where I am. He’ll expect me home by ten o’clock, and be in a panic if I don’t call soon.
Good lord, the bastard’s set me up!
Though I’m struggling for some solution to this predicament, the agony of my ass soon supplants my worry over Ian. The pain is rich, but the feeling grows on me with each second that moves slowly by. The pressure in my bottom ceases to attack me. I can even wiggle, just slightly and then feel the sexual pulsing in my groin as I connect with my wild erotic urge. My cunt throbs again, like it did before all this began, when it was just fantasy pushing me and a promise that has never failed me. Though the muscles in my thighs and shoulders begin to ache, I can’t complain. Yes, this is what I asked for. How appropriate that Bernard is like every dom that’s taken me—Heinrich and the few others my husband allowed to have me—those who thrive on giving a submissive a bit more than they counted on—and a good deal more than they expected in discomfort and pain. This gives them their dominion, and a reminder to a submissive of who’s in control.
When Bernard returns, he feels like a breath of winter entering the cold white room. It’s as bright as a new snow—sterile as an Arctic day inside these walls. But when he dims the lamps the tile glows like a pale gold sun, and the mood begins to change.
He moves around the table so I can stare at him.
He’s been my friend, my dear dear friend, and a kind face at the worst time of my life, a firm but honest representative of my former husband. Now he masters me. The scene suddenly feels terribly intimate in ways we’ve never managed between us. The eroticism that arises in the midst of this amazes me. He squats beside my bent torso so he can look me in the eye.
“Got yourself in quite a predicament here, haven’t you?”
“I have, sir.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t call me, sir, Anna. I’m not your master.”
This disheartens me.
“You’re here because you need this, because you’re a miserably selfish woman that needs to be punished. I am angry with you beyond words. And I should dismiss you altogether, but our past precludes that. You will, however, take what I give you in the deep measure I believe you need. And you will report this to your lover, just as I instructed you before.” His eyebrows narrow. “I’ll do it myself if I suspect you’re lying to him. You’re not going to skirt this, Anna. You’ll be strapped and caned tonight and perhaps again in the morning. After that, I’ll determine when you’ll next visit, if there will be another one.”
He moves quickly out of my sight behind him. I hear him at the wall of implements, but I can’t see what he pulls down. I’m imagining the strap he mentioned.
Waiting is grueling punishment. My heart flutters, my tummy tosses about the crackers I ate before I came. They were supposed to calm the butterflies, though now they settle sourly in my stomach. For one brief moment, I panic and struggle to move out of these impossible bonds. But then, the air stirs behind me.
Thwack!
“Yeeeawwwww!”
The leather connects to my rear so astoundingly; I’m dizzy from the sound and pain. Again and again, the strap connects with my ass cheeks. Each strike stirs the dildo in my ass, making it feel as though Bernard’s pumping the bulb again and the plug is expanding once more.
This must be a short strap he uses, for it doesn’t rap my ass wildly, but with precise strokes, those to my left cheek and those to my right. The pain brightens in each. I imagine the skin flushed and turning scarlet. He goes on and on in one fluid motion after another, naturally pausing for several seconds for us both to take a breath. Yet, before I can gain any measure of relaxation he starts again, the agony repeating itself over and over, until something in me lets go. I drift on this crazy high, like I’m floating on drugs, way out somewhere I can’t explain… pictures, colors, faces, pain nothing more than sensation. I drift and then return, drift more… then there is nothing for several seconds, everything in me clenches and falls away, and I realize that Bernard has stopped the barrage and is now removing the plug.
In its place, he inserts another that is nearly as big, but this one won’t expand, it’s firmly fixed, and inflexible as the master that plunges it inside me. It stays inside, bound with a strap that attaches to my waist belt.
Finishing, he holds a cane in his hand and comes to my side so I can see it. The slim bamboo will cut the skin if he’s not careful. Since he’s never mastered me before, I’m not sure what kind of behavioral lapses warrant that kind of extreme. But it won’t really matter if he cuts the skin or simply mars it. The effect will be the same. He’ll leave marks that will not quit for several days, and make certain that I explain myself to Ian.
“Twelve, Anna,” is all he says.
Once more behind me, Bernard stands for some seconds with eyes so strong I feel them boring into my hot skin.
The bamboo sizzles. It strikes its mark. I gasp for air, and another lands.
Twelve times, he wages battle on my ass. Twelve times, he wins.
There’s no drifting out of consciousness here, no spasming gut, or orgasmic satisfaction.
This is all in the mind, a psychological riddle I cannot explain. But thereafter I am washed clean.
Bernard leaves me bound and alone. I wonder where Makaila is. I haven’t seen her since before he began with the strap. The emptiness of the dim room gathers around me, so it gnaws at my insides—as if whispering the truth about my current predicament—husbandless, masterless, living lies with the man I say I love. Bernard’s schemes have their purpose, and having drilled his message into me, I begin to cry.
Makaila appears out the dark shadows. I don’t know whether she entered the room or was here all along—I heard no door open and close. Then too, she’s a quiet and mysterious woman, who might even walk through the doors without them opening at all.
With the deft movement of genteel fingers she opens buckles, releases straps and unlocks the cuffs that bind me. As I begin to stretch the life back into my limbs, she toys with the bulbous prick in my ass—the one I’ve almost forgotten. Once my ass is finally empty, she pushes me through the chamber door into Bernard’s private den.
He waits for me there, with three other men—all lighting cigars. I almost choke as I breathe too deeply the thick smoke that moves languidly my way. I stand before him, my nakedness appraised by them all. The three take their time inspecting my punished ass. I have little idea what they see, but I can assume it’s well striped from the cutting cane.
“For your lover’s sake, I’m letting you go tonight,” Bernard tells me.
Hearing this, I don’t know whether I’m relieved or disappointed.
“You’ll go home and tell him the truth about you. I suppose showing your ass should be enough.”
“I can’t do that. What if he thinks you’ve abused me?”
“I have. And you will show him how much.”
“What if he thinks…”
“Don’t think, Anna. You think too much. It had been my plan to give you to these three men tonight. And they’ll be disappointed to learn they’ll need to satisfy their libidos elsewhere. I think, perhaps, your present reality is more important than immediate passions. Take care of it.”
I’m thinking calmly, everything in me wiped out but the clarity of an empty mind. There is no emotion. What little is left is just the raw stuff of sexual passion, and that is not some turgid roar as it’s been for countless weeks. It settles in me sweetly.
“I can go then?”
“You can go.”
I think it would be fitting to turn about and stalk off, but here I stand naked before the three, suddenly quite embarrassed. My clothes are on a chair nearby, so there’s nothing to do but dress before the leering eyes that stare my way. Bernard busies himself with other things, but the cigar smoking three enjoy each move I make to get dressed. They’ll manage to glimpse every feature they’ll miss tonight, including my cunt. I could make a grand show of getting dressed, but I really want to leave while this feeling of peace is still intact. It gets more difficult as my anxiety about Ian increases.
Finally dressed, I turn to Bernard. He’s pouring brandy for his friends, but seeing me finished, he leads me out the door into the foyer.
I turn to him imploringly as I’m about to leave, “Why is it so important to you that I disclose the truth to Ian?”
He eyes me as sternly as he has all evening, “your poor ethics cost you your marriage to Heinrich. I think it’s wise to consider the price you pay for dishonesty.”
“But it was much more than my affair with Ian that spelled the end of my marriage.”
“It spelled the end, trust me. You wouldn’t be in the position you are now if he hadn’t caught you fucking your lover. You would never have had the courage to end it otherwise.”
He’s not going to change his opinion no matter how much I plead my case. “No, I suppose you’re right. Perhaps it was divine intervention that brought Heinrich home that night.”
“Perhaps,” Bernard says with a nod of his head, an inscrutable barrier closing our conversation.
I leave Bernard’s house with that thought in mind wondering exactly how I managed to have my husband discover me with Ian. In one respect, I was perfectly happy with the situation—a husband to master me and a lover to love me.
When I reach Ian’s apartment, it’s nearly eleven. I can’t believe so much time has passed, but then, I wandered for a bit before going home, afraid of what I’d find there. It’s surprising that in all the time we’ve been lovers Ian’s only glimpsed a few small remnants of a scene with Heinrich. No cuts, no great welts, none of the deep bruises I’ve suffered. I take great pains to prevent his knowledge of my darker side. Oh, yes, I thought I was being causal, waiting for him to ask me about certain mars in my complexion. But there have been many times I begged off seeing him, waiting for the worst to clear, and even then, hiding myself in the dark afraid of what he might say. He’s the kind of man to be shocked by these extremes and have no idea why any woman would put herself through such mistreatment. This will shock him.
Infidelity Page 6