Dominated (Romance, erotica, alpha male, BDSM, Slave Erotica)
Page 3
A text to tell me I have email.
And what an email it is. Before I even open it, the title of it -- "Detailed instructions for Sunday" -- just that title has one hell of an effect on me. I have to take a few deep breaths to get up the courage to open the email, all the while feeling the rising arousal in the pit of my stomach.
I open it and I read.
"Slut,
Here are the details for our encounter on Sunday. Compliance is mandatory and punishment will result if they are not met to my satisfaction
Your cunt will be smooth....very smooth. Your hair will be freshly washed and sweet-smelling. Your toys will be laid out neatly and conveniently.
White wine will be chilled and waiting and iced so that it remains chilled; clean glasses will be to hand.
Parking will be available for me on the drive, the front door will be unlocked but capable of being locked by me once I am inside, the hall will be dimly lit....all other house lights will be turned off
You will be in your bedroom which will be lit by candles, you will be seated on a dining chair with your back to the bedroom door, you will be dressed only in black knickers, your nipple decorations and a blindfold
You WILL NOT look round when you hear me arrive; you will sit still and will not squirm. You may not be entirely certain that it's me....you may not be entirely certain that I'm alone....but since you trust me 100% then that is not an issue....but perhaps may add an extra edge to your emotions and imagination.
Should any of the above not be carried out to my satisfaction then you will be punished in a manner of my choice
You will respond in a submissive and cooperative manner to all verbal requests and physical prompts that you receive. Should this not be carried out to my satisfaction then you will be punished in a manner of my choice
If you please me you will be rewarded in a manner of my choice
Be ready by 6.30pm. Final instructions and timings will be sent on Sunday.
I will not stop if you say "No". I will not stop if you say "Stop". I will stop immediately and at any point if you use the safe word which is HELICOPTER
If you are not clear on any of these points do not dare to seek clarification, use your initiative."
I re-read this email a good half-dozen times in a row. My heart is beating fast and I'm breathing quite shallowly. I don't know whether I'm intensely scared or intensely aroused. The reality is that I'm both.
I find my eyes -- and my mind -- return to, and linger over, certain parts of his email.
He refers to me simply as "Slut". How very far we have come in only eight days. Until last week he always treated me with implicit respect, with gentle affection, and with a gentle, teasing humour. Now I'm just "Slut". Not a person. Just a role.
It half-amuses me that he refers to the toys as mine. I always think of them as belonging to him, as he's the one who uses them. On me.
His instruction that I must not turn round or squirm when I hear him come into the room… that's going to be a hard one. I am bound to be in a very nervy, edgy state at that point… how on earth will I manage to stay still? Manage not to squirm?
Manage not to flinch?
Why does he say I may not be entirely sure that it's him or that he's alone? Yes, I do, as he says, trust him 100%... but yet again there are, at the same time, levels on which I've no idea whether can trust him or not. He knows me well enough to know that, in the right circumstances, I'd be open to a threesome or to sleeping with a man he chose for me. Yes. IN THE RIGHT CIRCUMSTANCES. And these would not be the right circumstances. My courage, my risk-acceptance, even my nerves, are all stretched to the limit already. All I can do is hope that, when I hear those footsteps, they will be his, and they will be his alone. This is something that's going to play on my mind. A lot.
The safe word is HELICOPTER. The safe word is HELICOPTER. The safe word is HELICOPTER.
What if I forget the safe word? I'm human -- I am most likely to forget the safe word when I'm most stretched mentally and physically and emotionally: I am most likely to forget the safe word at the precise moment when I need it. And then what?
The safe word is HELICOPTER. The safe word is HELICOPTER. The safe word is HELICOPTER.
I have to text him. "I lost my nipple decorations a few weeks ago". An instant reply. Two words. "Your problem".
Okay. My problem. There's not a hint of Paul in all this now. Paul has gone. From now on I'm dealing only with the Dom. A thought flashes across my mind. Maybe it's not too late to call a stop to all this, to send the Dom away and ask Paul to come back. But of course it IS too late. Or, rather, I owe it to myself not to back out now. I just need to find the courage, the nerve, to see this through.
The safe word is HELICOPTER.
All through Friday, the email preys on my mind. Just as it was supposed to. The mix of feelings just gets stronger and more consuming -- and more contradictory. I feel fear with impatience, a cold trepidation with hot arousal…. trust with utter, lost, vulnerability. He knows exactly how to fuck with my mind. He knows exactly what he's doing to me.
And then a weird day. Saturday. My first date with Simon. I meet him for lunch. We get on really well, and love talking with each other. We talk and talk and all of a sudden nine hours have passed and it's time for his last train home. At the station he suddenly pulls me over against the wall and kisses me. He takes me by surprise. And his kiss makes my knees go weak. And of course a week's worth of pent-up arousal and a hundred other responses drive me to kiss him back. I think we both feel a little dazed and restless as he gets on his train.
I'm in my taxi home when I receive a text from Simon. He refers to me as a 'very sensual woman'. Yeah, no shit. No wonder. What woman wouldn't be, after the week I've had?
Later, it is very, VERY difficult for me to resist touching my cunt in bed. To be mouth-kissed by a passionate man when already in a high state of expectation and arousal from a week's build-up… if the Dom could see me now, I know he'd be proud of my restraint and self-control… I hope he would be.
The safe word is HELICOPTER. The safe word is HELICOPTER.
One more night and then he will be here. The safe word is HELICOPTER.
I wake to the alarm clock, from a dream. In my dream, I am stuck in the middle of The Strand in London, surrounded by cars, and by motorbikes -- couriers - weaving in and out. I need to get to the pavement. I feel scared. I don't know how I got into this position and I don't know how to get out of it but I am confused and scared and it's noisy and I realise I can't see the pavement any more -- not on either side…all there is now is smelly, hot, noisy, honking traffic, inches from me on all sides. And then more noise. Worse noise. And I look up and it's a helicopter, dropping down a rope ladder to me.
The safe word is HELICOPTER. My mind has been working on this more than I knew. Taking me back to when I worked in central London, and I used to see the air ambulance from my office window, speeding around.
Two things occur to me as I wake up. One: I am probably not now going to forget the safe word (thank god -- one less thing to worry about, maybe). Two: TODAY IS THE DAY.
I spend the day distractedly. Constantly aroused. Tense. Wishing I could pleasure myself, bring myself to orgasm, if only for the stress-relief that that would bring.
I meet a friend for lunch. My mind is only half with my friend as we chat. When I get home I realise I need to park around the corner to allow room for him to park on my drive. Ousted from my own property and denied the convenience of parking near my door. How appropriate.
I keep myself sane by going for a very long, brisk walk. I re-read his email. Check the instructions. I don't want to get anything wrong. I take my laptop into the bedroom and make the initial preparations.
I clear the top of my dressing table. Empty the contents of his toy box onto the bed. I have to sit down for a while and take a few deep breaths as I look at it all. I simply have no idea how I feel at the moment. A mix. The only thing I recognise for sure in
that mix is fear.
Carefully, slowly, I set out the contents of the box on my dressing table. I feel like a window-dresser in some kind of obscene department store. One, two, three, four, five… six lengths of red rope, each carefully wound into a neatly-secured loop and laid together on the table. The nipple clamps. No ordinary nipple clamps. Heavy-duty vices with thumb screws, linked by a heavy chain. The black rubber flogger… a hundred thin rubber strands… he's used this on me before. It's capable of a deliciously fluid, cool, teasing caress. And it's capable of a stinging, but superficial, punishment. Is it capable of more? I guess I'll find out later. Next item. The vibrating butt plug. I know he likes to fuck my cunt while that thing is buzzing away deep in my ass. Will he use it tonight? Well, he'll do whatever the fuck he wants to do tonight, won't he? That's the whole point of tonight. And that's exactly where my fear is coming from. Deep breath. Next item. The new glass dildo, glistening in the dim light. That thing is capable of a lot, in the right hands… But what about the wrong hands?
I sit down again. Collect myself -- as much as I can, anyway. I look across at the dressing table. There they all are. All laid out. I hope I've done it neatly enough for him.
There's one more item in the box. The blindfold. I leave that on the bed. I'll be wearing it as I sit waiting for him.
Next I get the candles and put them around the room. Some near the bed, some to light up the toys. One on the chest of drawers, where I will put the wine and the glasses.
The scene is half-set. If only I were anywhere near half-ready in my mind.
Another long walk. It does help. Fresh air and some brisk exercise. And something strikes me. For the first time in over a week, I am not feeling aroused. Not at all, in fact. My cunt is dry.
Oh shit. Is this my body telling me to back out? To cancel the whole thing?
My mind is too bound up in this whole thing though. For good or for bad. My mind is NOT going to let my body back out of this, however much fear there is now. I'll see this thing through. I will. I doubt I even have a choice in the matter at this late stage, anyhow.
5. 30 p.m. An hour to go.
I check the fridge. Chilled white wine, and ice in the freezer. I get down my champagne bucket and fill it with ice. Set it on the kitchen counter and go back upstairs.
I get into the shower and I use my Chanel shower gel all over. I wash my hair with it -- twice; his instructions were clear -- my hair must be sweet-smelling or I will be punished. A thought crosses my mind… what if my hair ends up smelling of fear rather than of Chanel No. 5? Well, worrying about that won't help. Quite the opposite.
I blow-dry my hair, spritz myself with perfume. Put on some silk-and-lace black knickers. Check my watch. 5.55 p.m. It's all starting to feel unreal now. It's as if I'm an observer, watching myself going through these preparations. An odd dissociative thing. No doubt a mechanism for coping with the fear. There's still no arousal. Will the arousal come later? Will I be in trouble if it doesn't?
I put on my big, fluffy, comforting dressing gown and pad downstairs to make the final preparations.
Beep beep.
"Your punishment for vetoing the cold shower is to drink a pint of water at 6 p.m. You may not now piss without my permission. Understood?". I reply. "Understood". This is way, way, WAY beyond any kind of situation I ever thought I'd find myself in. I try not to think too hard about the implications. I measure out a pint of water and drink it quickly. It doesn't stop my mouth from being dry with nerves and fear.
And now another text from him. "You will be sitting waiting as instructed at 6.30 p.m.. You will then wait for me."
Not long now. I put the front door on the latch so he can turn the handle and let himself in. I get the wine from the fridge and put it in the champagne bucket, with the now-slick ice-cubes. Carry it upstairs and return to grab two crystal wine glasses. I place them next to the wine, on top of the chest of drawers.
I take the straight-backed chair and place it, facing the chest of drawers, with its back to the door. I place it carefully in the middle of the space. Plenty of room for him to walk around it on all sides. I sit on it. Partly to gather some composure -- or at least try to -- and partly to see what I can see from the chair in the cheval mirror. What I can see is the bed. Somehow that seems appropriate.
I check my watch. Five minutes to go. I go back downstairs. Check that the front door is on the latch. Turn off all the lights except the little dimmed lamp on the hallway table. Pad slowly upstairs. Feel the urge to go for a piss. Tell myself he won't know if I do. Then realise that I'LL know if I do. And I need to be able to look him in the eye (if I ever have the blindfold taken off) and tell him the truth. I don't go for a piss.
I close the bedroom door behind me. Remove my dressing gown. Stand in front of the mirror. Take in the sight of me in only the silk-and-lace knickers. The lace is at the lower part -- it's no use in disguising my totally bare cunt. I'm aware that my cunt is still dry. Not one ounce of arousal.
6.28 p.m.
I sit down on the chair. Put on the blindfold.
And I wait.
And I wait.
As I wait, I realise how noisy my house is. The heating is noisy. Joists creaking as they expand and contract. The water in the radiators making a strange ticking noise. The click of the thermostat as it trips on and off repeatedly. Every noise makes the breath catch in my throat. My back is poker-straight with tension. I try to loosen my neck and shoulders but they don't want to be loosened. I'm too short for this chair, really, The edge of the seat is cutting into the back of my legs.
Maybe I could remove the blindfold and get up and walk around the room a bit, to loosen things and get the circulation flowing again. Check the time, even. I have no idea how long I've been sitting there.
But of course I don't move, and I don't remove the blindfold. What if, in amongst all the noises that are making me jump… what if I didn't recognise the sound of him coming into the house? What if he's just outside the bedroom door, listening and waiting for me to break the rules and move?
Jesus, I need a piss already.
I sit there. And I sit there. Jumping at every creak, every pop, every little natural noise that my house makes.
It feels like an hour has passed. Maybe an hour HAS passed. I hear a car idling outside the house. Then a car door shutting, and the car driving off. My body slumps slightly in the chair, with the relief.
Another ten minutes, or maybe it's another half hour… my body is stiff and tense and tired and I don't think I've ever felt so jumpy. Still no arousal. The only thing growing is my desire for a piss.
And then the sound of a car again. And this time I'm sure I hear it moving slowly on the gravel on my driveway. And then the engine gets cut and a few seconds later a car door opens and then shuts.
And then, unmistakably, the sound of my front door opening and then closing again, with a slam.
In my head I hear the words, screamed. "FUCK. FUCK. THIS IS IT. FUCK".
My heart is beating incredibly loudly. Thumping. Getting faster. I can barely breathe. The safe word is HELICOPTER.
Part Three
For some reason I have been expecting to be made to wait for a while once the front door shuts. Wait at his leisure.
And so it is with rapidly rising panic and what can only be described as terror that I hear the steps coming VERY quickly up the stairs. And -- oh CHRIST -- I can hear a metal clanking noise moving up the stairs too. And far too soon, far too forcefully, the bedroom door opens behind me.
There is a frozen moment. Looking back, it feels like a whole minute. In reality it must have been no more than a second. And, in that frozen moment, every last fibre of my mental and physical concentration goes into forcing myself NOT to move. NOT to cringe. NOT to flinch.