by Tasha Fawkes
"They had been drinking. Oh, what they did for their scene wasn't unusual. He bound her wrists and then, using another rope, bound her to a large hook screwed into the ceiling."
I imagine that, a woman, naked, arms raised over her head, totally at the mercy of her partner. "What happened?"
"They indulged, but because he was drunk, he more than likely missed the cues that she gave him." He looks out the window. "Remember the safeword I told you about?"
I nod.
"No one really knows for sure what happened. Even the guy couldn't completely recall the course of events. Anyway, the autopsy determined that she had been bound too long. She was inebriated, too. Rule number one: You don't do scenes when you're drunk."
He looks at me again, pointedly, and I nod. I feel like a bobble head.
"Her position decreased oxygen intake, and she had difficulty breathing. She didn't use her safeword, and if she did, she didn't say it loud enough or he wasn't listening. The strain on her lungs also placed a strain on her heart. She died."
How awful! How could something like that happen? Why didn't the guy follow the rules—
"They'd been married for ten years. They had two kids. CPS took the kids, and he's in jail for manslaughter."
I swallow a hardened lump in my throat. How horrible—
"I'm telling you this because the rules have to be followed. If they're not, bad things can happen." He sighs. "Most of the people in this world that I know are businessmen and women; they have careers, families, and children. You wouldn't know what they do behind closed doors just by looking at them."
I understand what he’s trying to say. I watch him for several moments, contemplating his somber expression. He isn't looking at me anymore, but into his memories. I pull my gaze away from him, allowing him this moment of… of grieving? I glance back at the box. Okay, so ropes are out for now, especially ropes suspended from ceilings.
I see a metal contraption. It looks like a bar, maybe a foot long and an inch round. Holes are drilled into each end of the bar. An S hook feeds through those holes and connects to a couple of large leather cuffs, padded on the inside with sheepskin-like material.
"What's that?" He glances down to what I point out and smiles as he lifts the bar from the box. Watching me. As if to gauge my reaction.
"This is a spreader bar. They're usually two or three feet long, although of course, size and construction varies. It's intended to separate extremities." His grin broadens. "For example, I could place the cuffs around your wrists, or around your ankles, keeping your legs spread. Easy access."
The heat of a flush travels all the way from my chest upward into my face. Stop that! I imagine myself lying on the bed in the other room, naked, my ankles cuffed, the bar spreading my legs while he—
"Want to give some of this a try?"
An equal surge of heat builds in my groin, causing internal contractions and a surge of wetness. After only a few seconds of thought, I nod. This is what I want, isn't it? An adventure? A teacher?
"But not here," he says.
I’m confused. Why did he bring me up here again? Were we going to have another round of what I consider vanilla sex? He sees my consternation and chuckles.
"We can't use most of that stuff in here. I brought you up here, Ashley, so that you could look at some of the tools used in bondage without being overwhelmed or…"
"Chickening out?" I glance down at the gadgets in the box. He chuckles once more, sending a jolt of anticipation through my body.
"If you're ready, we'll go to a home I own, not far from here. It's private and secluded."
I lift an eyebrow. "You have a house, here in the city, in addition to your penthouse apartment?" I grimace. I just committed a faux pas. I’m not supposed to know that my boss has a penthouse apartment, am I? Any more than he should care where I live.
He merely grins. "Yes, in addition to my penthouse apartment, and equipped with a basement that I've converted into what I call my playground."
He studies every nuance of my expression. I get it. He can't be seen taking women into his penthouse apartment, risk anybody hearing them—
"Your playground," I murmur. What other gadgets does he have in this playground of his? I can only imagine—no, not imagine. Experience. He’s inviting me to his playroom.
I don't know if he’s daring me or expecting me to back out or what, but I accept his challenge.
"Lead the way," I say, hoping that my voice expresses more bravado that I feel at that moment. I can't back out now. I want to learn. I want to know everything there is to know about this world that Daniel seems to enjoy so much.
Eleven
Daniel
She’s game. I have to give her that. Despite the content of her manuscript, which only skims the surface of the bondage world and is riddled with a number of errors that only a true Dom or sub would recognize, I also know that she has zero experience with the real thing. Not really. But reading about something and doing it are two different things. Night and day. The look on her face when she gazed down into my little box of tricks was unmistakable. She might've seen pictures of some of that stuff online, but there’s no way she has ever seen any of it for real.
She doesn't strike me as the kind of person who would go to an adult store and buy things like this. I seriously doubt it if she’s ever ordered anything online. No, she’s too innocent. Not naïve, but innocent. There’s a big difference. I like that about her. She’s eager. She wants to know. She wants to learn. Whether she’s truly curious and wants to get involved in my world or she’s doing this to become a better writer, I’m not sure. It doesn't really matter. And who better to teach her? I’m not thinking that in a bad way. I’m not taking advantage. She's been given plenty of opportunities to back out, and I will continue to give her those outs. I won’t force her into this. She has to choose.
I look forward to being her mentor and her teacher. At the same time, way in the back of my mind, I’m a bit concerned about how this will change our relationship; not just our professional one, but privately.
I’m to be her Dom, she my sub. Before we get started, I will reiterate the rules. Not just the rules of the games, but my relationship rules. Our playtime will be nothing more than that. I have no expectations of her beyond my playroom, nor will she have any expectations of me. The characters in her manuscript are more than Dom and sub. They’re partners. They’re lovers in the truest sense of the word. I don't need that. I don't want it. I already have my hands full as it is.
We’re in my gray Porsche 911 Carrera S Cabriolet, driving toward the house I own in a quiet little neighborhood on Long Island. Ashley is quiet, admiring the interior of my car, glancing out the passenger side window, looking everywhere but at me. I get that. She has lots to think about. I see the pulse throbbing in her neck. She’s nervous. Understandable.
The house on Long Island is my secret place, my literal hideaway. No one other than the few subs I take there on a regular basis know about the place, and I’ve sworn them to silence. They have no doubt that I would come down hard, really hard, if they betrayed my secret. I don't have to threaten or intimidate. The people involved in my secret world also want to keep their secret. Those not in this world wouldn't be apt to understand that you can wear a business suit during the day and a leather hood at night…
My mother doesn't know about it. Karen doesn't know about it. The deed is in the name of one of my holding companies used for shipping to and from Manilla. Buried deep in my business affairs. I want to keep it that way. This home on Long Island is my haven, my sanctuary, the place where I can be myself.
Sure, I indulge with Crystal in my office on occasion, and a few others a time or two; one of the reasons I had the entire space sound-proofed one weekend, paying extra for the workmen to work around the clock to get it done.
Once in a while, I indulge in hotel rooms, to an extent. But my playroom? That is one of my favorite places. I designed it carefully, ordered particular
pieces one at a time. Of course, I don't have the accoutrements of my hobby shipped directly to my house, that wouldn't do. That holding company I hide deep in my business life also owns a warehouse down by the docks. Stuff I order arrives there and then I either hire a rental truck myself, or I pay someone to bring the stuff over, after making sure, of course, that no labels or markings on the box in any way hint at its contents. No sense broadcasting my bedroom proclivities to the community where I purchased the two-story brick home, with a basement of course, dating back to the 1920s.
On the outside, my home is classy, the yard and landscaping always well-groomed thanks to wonderful gardeners; the house set back a short distance from the street, bordered by a tall hedge. It’s perfect.
By the time I pull into the driveway, I feel my dick coming to life. At the same time, I’m more than aware that I have to ease Ashley into my world. No way can I fuck her the way I fucked Crystal on top of my desk in my office. I don't want to.
I don't want to fuck Ashley. The term seems too crass for her, but I don't want to make love to her either. Our playtime isn't about romance. But first, I have to wait and see how she reacts to my playroom. If she seems at all hesitant, I told myself that I won't be disappointed, that I will casually offer to drive her back to the hotel, the office, or to her apartment, whichever she chooses, without a word. But oh, do I want her to stay. I want more of her; more of what I’ve gotten from her in a hotel room, sensing that she needs to drop that oh-so-proper veneer of hers; that she will bloom under my tutelage.
Shutting the engine off, I turn to look at her.
I can tell by the look on her face, those wide eyes taking in everything, that she’s trying not to look astonished or impressed. Still, I watch her gaze sweep over the landscaping, the brick façade of the house. She wants to take in everything from the front steps to the top of the dormer windows on the second floor. Is she more surprised to think that this sedate, innocent looking twenties-era house has a basement filled with bondage play toys or is she impressed by my wealth?
It doesn't matter. I’m not here to impress her, and she isn't here to get all googly-eyed over my property. I decide to nip that in the bud.
"Why are you doing this, Ashley?"
She turns to me, eyes widened with surprise. "Because you said you had a basement—"
"No, that's not what I mean." I turn to gaze at the house and then back at her. She appears confused. "Before we get started, you need to know a few things about me. One, I'm private. This house is private. No one at work is to know about this house. Do you understand?"
She nods.
"What goes on here is not to be discussed with anyone, not even your BFF, Tory, nor your boyfriend, Stewart, nor written about in any personal papers, such as a diary. Understood?"
She nods again and opens her mouth as if to speak, but I hold up my hand. "Let me finish." She nods. "Finally, you should know that you're not the first, and you're not going to be the last woman that I bring here to play with. I'm telling you now that I don't want any indications of jealousy on your part. Understood?"
I know I’m being a little harsh, but these things need to be said. Clarification is important. I made that mistake once, several years ago, and I’m not about to make it again. No strings. No attachments. No obligations.
"I understand," she says quietly. "And I'm doing this for two reasons. One is professional, the other more personal."
"Explain."
"You said that some scenes in my book are wrong, or least not accurate and detailed enough. I want to improve that. I want to hone my skills as a writer. If I'm going to write in that niche, I have to know what I'm talking about."
I nod and gesture for her to continue.
"The other reason, the personal reason, is because I feel… well, I've felt that there's been something missing from my… sexual growth. I can't think of any other way to put it. With Stewart, things are rather…"
"Boring?" She has no idea. Sex with Karen is so typical, so bland, so… routine. Nothing special, nothing passionate, nothing to get overly excited about. Perhaps that's why I indulge myself as frequently as possible in this world. I need some kind of excitement to make me feel alive. To make me feel… like Ashley, I’m not quite sure how to put it. It isn’t just about sex. It’s so much more than that.
"Yes, boring." She glances out the window at the house. "And don't worry, I'm not looking for any attachments." She looks back at me. "I've got enough going on in my life right now without anyone making more expectations on me. I'm here to learn, Daniel. To experience. To explore this world and see whether it's something I can embrace."
"You're not sure?"
She frowns slightly. "Of course, I'm not sure. I've never done this before. How can I be sure of something I've never tried?"
I hold back my smile. I'm glad that she has the confidence to respond honestly. "Okay then. From the moment we go downstairs to the basement, you are my sub. You will do as I say, when I tell you to, and how I tell you to do it. Understood?"
She nods. Satisfied, I turn and open my door, looking forward to the next couple of hours in my playroom.
"In order to gradually introduce you into this world, you have to learn about the authority of the Dom. The Master. Me. In your book, you have a scene where your characters are literally playing on equal ground. In many scenes, it's not that way." She opens her mouth and I hold up my hand. "You will only speak when I give you permission to speak."
She frowns. She will learn, given time. "As you can see, I have a number of tools and objects in here."
She gazes around my basement, carefully decorated and painted to convey an aura of a dark underground shelter. A different world from the brightness and traditional ambience upstairs.
She eyes the table in the middle of the room with a combination of curiosity and wariness. She stares at the two 4x4 posts bolted onto the floor about four feet apart and the bank of mirrors in front of it, taking up much of the long wall. A few hooks and gadgets hang from the ceiling, but we aren't going to go there this afternoon. Not yet. Hooks on the other two walls hold a number of other tools and toys ranging from leather whips to a number of belts, a couple of the spreader bars as I showed her in the hotel room, and even a couple of riding crops. I have paddles of all shapes and sizes. Her eyes widen noticeably when she looks at the hoods, the face masks, and ball gags also hanging from hooks on the wall.
I imagine what she’s thinking when she eyes the gags. I want to soothe her worries, but the moment we entered the basement, I became the Dom and she my sub. "When a gag is used, I'll give you something that you hold onto. See those rubber balls and those small jingle-like bells over there?" I point to a small table in the corner, draped by a black cloth, fitting in to the dark décor of the room. The table holds an assortment of bells and balls of all shapes and sizes, some solid, some not. She nods.
"If a gag is used, I typically offer my sub a ball or a bell. You hold onto that. If a safeword can't be used, dropping the ball or ringing the bell will signal that you're having some type of problem and trigger a time out."
She nods, appearing relieved. I frown. "Those are not to be used lightly. You wanted to be introduced into this world. There is some pain involved, but I don't dole out pain without also rewarding with pleasure. The safeword and the safe tools are only to be used if you experience some trouble like difficulty breathing, or you can't deal with the pain."
She remains silent, eyeing all the items in the room with curiosity. I continue to speak, purposely keeping my tone soft but firm. There will be times when I’ll be rougher, firmer, and more in control, but scaring her off at this point will serve neither of our purposes.
"Whether you're with me or someone else, you need to always be aware of what is acceptable and what is not. A Dom should never strike you in the face." I extend my hand, palm up. "I will deliver soft to moderate open-handed slaps on other parts of your body, but never your face."
She nods, looki
ng up at me, her features calm though the pulse thudding faster now in her throat belies her expression.
"I will never break your skin deliberately. Sometimes, you will experience some chafing, maybe a scratch or some bruising depending on the tools we use, but we'll take care of those after the session or the punishment. Do you understand?"
Again, she nods.
"One more thing. I will never leave you alone if you are bound in any way. Before you indulge in any kind of this activity with anybody else, you better trust them. You better trust them not to do that to you. Is that understood?"
Another nod.
"I know we covered some of these things before, but I want you to understand, and I mean seriously understand, that while the entire purpose of this is bondage and my dominance over you, it's not torture. It's not supposed to be about torture." She looks up at me. "Speak."
"I understand, Daniel."
"I'm not sure you do, at least not yet," I murmur. "Like I said, I noticed a number of errors in your book in regard to types of punishment and domination that you described. Let's just say we'll look at each one and experience each one in turn."
I can tell she wants to ask something. "Speak."
"How many types of punishment are there?"
"This world is more than physical domination. Of course, you're aware that bondage implies restriction. Some Dom's use humiliation on the sub." Her eyebrows lift in question. I hold in my grin. She wants to ask questions. Lots of questions. I decide to indulge her curiosity without giving her another chance to speak. If she can't handle that, she won't be able to handle many other things I consider doing to her. With her.
"I know some Doms subject their subs to several types of humiliation. Some make them eat from a dog dish on the floor. I've known others who urinated or defecated on the sub." She blinks, but other than that I don't see any reaction. "Personally, I find that type of punishment repugnant, and I've never treated my subs to that type of humiliation. But to each his own."